Mehndi Nights
"Sana runs the most sought-after mehndi business in East London. When she's hired for billionaire Tariq's sister's wedding, she never expects the groom's brother to be her ex-fiancé—or for old flames to reignite."
Mehndi Nights
Sana's hands never shook.
In twelve years of doing mehndi—from small dholkis in cramped flats to celebrity weddings in five-star hotels—her hands had remained steady, precise, creating intricate patterns that made brides weep with joy.
Until today.
Until she walked into the Ritz ballroom and saw him.
Tariq Sheikh. Her ex-fiancé. The man who'd shattered her heart seven years ago when he'd chosen his family's expectations over her.
And now he was staring at her like he'd seen a ghost.
"Sana?"
She gripped her mehndi cones tighter. "Tariq. I didn't realize you were the groom's brother."
"I didn't realize you were—" He gestured vaguely at her setup. "You're the famous Mehndi by Sana?"
"Surprised I made something of myself without you?" The words came out sharper than intended.
His jaw tightened. "Nahin. I always knew you would."
The bride, Fatima, was oblivious to the tension crackling between her future brother-in-law and her mehndi artist. She chattered happily as Sana worked on her hands, creating elaborate paisleys and flowers.
"Tariq bhai isn't married yet, you know," Fatima said casually. "His mother keeps trying to arrange matches but he refuses everyone. She's given up, honestly."
Sana's hand didn't falter, but her heart did. "Is that so?"
"Between us?" Fatima leaned closer. "I think he's still hung up on someone. He gets this look sometimes, you know? Like he's somewhere else entirely."
Before Sana could respond, the door opened.
"The dholak players are here—" Tariq stopped mid-sentence, his eyes finding Sana's.
"Perfect!" Fatima jumped up, careful of her wet mehndi. "Sana, take a break! We'll start the singing in twenty minutes."
She practically skipped out, leaving them alone.
"We should talk," Tariq said.
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Seven years of nothing to talk about?" He moved closer, and Sana hated how her body still responded to his presence. "I made a mistake, Sana."
"You chose them over me."
"I was young and stupid and terrified of losing my family." His voice cracked. "I lost you instead. I've regretted it every single day."
"Pretty words." She stood, gathering her supplies. "I have work to do."
"Suno." He caught her arm, gentle but firm. "Please. Just listen."
Against her better judgment, she did.
"I tried to find you," he said. "For years. You'd changed your number, moved away, deleted all your social media. And I deserved that. But then six months ago, I saw your work at a friend's wedding, and I... I hired you for Fatima's wedding specifically. So I could see you again. So I could tell you—"
"Tell me what?"
His free hand cupped her face, and she trembled.
"That I never stopped loving you, Sana. Kabhi nahin. Not for one moment."
She should have walked away.
Instead, she let him pull her into an empty suite upstairs, let him kiss her like the world was ending, let him back her against the door with a desperation that matched her own.
"Mujhe maaf kar do," he breathed against her lips. "Forgive me. Let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
"Tariq—"
"I don't care about my family's approval anymore. I don't care about anything except you." He dropped to his knees, looking up at her. "Tumse pyar karta hoon. I love you. I've only ever loved you."
Sana's tears fell as she pulled him up, kissing him again.
"I love you too," she admitted. "I tried not to. Allah kasam, I tried. But I never stopped."
His groan was primal as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist. They made it to the bed in a tangle of silk and skin, years of longing finally finding release.
Tariq worshipped every inch of her—hands, lips, tongue mapping territory he'd once known by heart. When he finally slid inside her, Sana cried out, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion.
"Meri jaan," he chanted, moving within her. "Meri zindagi. Mera sab kuch."
My life. My everything.
She shattered in his arms, and he followed, her name a prayer on his lips.
"People will talk," Sana said later, wrapped in Ritz sheets. "The Sheikh family's eldest son and the mehndi girl."
"Let them." Tariq kissed her forehead. "I already told my mother I'm marrying you. Tonight."
"Kya?!" She sat up. "Tariq!"
"She cried." He grinned. "Apparently she always liked you. Said my father was wrong to object all those years ago."
"And your father?"
"Doesn't get a say anymore. But for what it's worth, he's changed too." Tariq pulled her back down. "Besides, after the mehndi you're doing for Fatima, you'll be famous. The Sheikh family should be honoured to have you."
Sana laughed despite herself. "You're insufferable."
"And you love me."
"Allah jaane kyun." God knows why.
He kissed her deeply. "I'm going to marry you, Sana. Properly. Soon. I wasted seven years—I'm not wasting another day."
The wedding announcement in the Pakistani society pages caused a sensation. But those who attended said they'd never seen a more devoted groom—or more beautiful mehndi. Sana had designed it herself, hiding Tariq's name in the intricate patterns, a tradition as old as time.
And the groom found it in record time.