Areeba’s sari was the colour of dried blood.
She wore it to her husband’s funeral, ignoring the whispers of the other mourners. The colour was inappropriate, they murmured. Too bold. Too defiant.
But Areeba didn’t care.
Her husband, Adil, had died in a car accident. A tragic crash on the motorway. The police ruled it an accident. The family accepted it. But Areeba knew the truth.
Adil had been murdered.
She’d found the evidence in his hidden safe. Photographs, letters, financial records — all pointing to a conspiracy. His business partners had wanted him dead. His own brother had signed the death warrant.
And Areeba had been the one who’d found the body.
She’d been waiting for him that night. Waiting in their bedroom, wearing the red sari he’d bought her on their tenth anniversary. She’d wanted to surprise him. To rekindle the fire that had dimmed in their marriage.
Instead, she’d received a call from the hospital.
Now she stood at his grave, the red sari flapping in the wind, her mind churning with plans.
“Nice dress,” a voice said beside her.
She turned. It was Adil’s brother, Sikandar. His face was a mask of grief, but his eyes were cold. Calculating.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice flat. “Your brother loved this colour.”
Sikandar’s smile faltered. “We need to talk. About the business. About the inheritance.”
“Another time,” Areeba said, walking away.
That night, Sikandar came to her house. He stood in her living room, pretending to comfort her, his hands lingering on her shoulders.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “It’s such a waste, you being alone.”
Areeba stepped back. “What do you want?”
Sikandar’s mask dropped. “I know you found the safe. I know you have the documents. Give them to me, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Refuse, and I’ll make sure you disappear.”
Areeba smiled. “I’ve already made copies. If anything happens to me, they go to the police. Your name, your partners, your little conspiracy. All of it.”
Sikandar lunged.
Areeba grabbed the lamp from the side table, swinging it at his head. He collapsed, unconscious.
She stood over him, breathing heavily. Then she pulled out her phone and called the police.
“Hello? I’d like to report a break-in. And I’d like to confess to something else.”
Areeba looked down at her sari. The red was darker now, soaked with Sikandar’s blood.
She had become the widow.
But she would also become the victor.
