I adjusted my red deep-neck chiffon saree that rustled with the wind, the window to my room was wide open making me shiver the sleeves of my dress were thin almost see-through, and the blouse barely covered my belly button. The red contrasted with my pale skin, and I applied dark red lipstick to enhance the effect. My auburn colour hair which was tied in a braid reached my waist. I gazed at my reflection trying to perfect it, looking from the mirror to the clock.

My father had been invited to the party to celebrate the successful peace treaty with China, in Lahore, the second-largest city in Pakistan. My father was a simple man, he had never tried his hands at politics. All the city's elite, politicians were attending the party. I tied the lace of my blouse and picked up the diamond earrings my mother had lent to me for this occasion. Since this was the party of the rich, my father could bring along just one partner. This October I had turned sixteen, became a few inches taller than I was before and lost the acne on my skin. Puberty had snatched away my confidence but now as I looked into the mirror, I was thankful because now I was a woman. Not a girl anymore.

At the party, I watched my father softly talking to the elites, his voice and his mannerisms suited the party. He was pleasing them, making an impression, as the rich families assessed him. I was awkward to be a part of so many beautiful people, the drink that the waiter had handed me was my only companion among such an alien crowd. There was glamour in the party, the men flirted with the beautiful single woman in front of their wives, and the wives discussed their kids but their eyes lingered on the food. The men were served first, the women acted as if the delicious smell of the international cuisine didn't make their mouths water. But this was the system, the men were always served first, be it an elite party or a poor peasant's dinner.

My father called me, as I walked towards the long table I realised he had strategically chosen to sit at the centre. So he was visible, a young gentleman sat in front of him, wearing a Rolex. His expensive suit and bored eyes gave away the wealth he had. As our eyes met, I saw a shine in his, his back straightened as directed his gaze to my father like a thief. But my father had caught him, and he joyfully asked me to tell him about our business after they had dinner.

I nodded with a smile, tucking in the free tendril behind my ear, his eyes lingered on my neck longer than necessary. And my father cracked the deal. My stomach growled as I walked with him, trying to match his pace and I maintained a neutral expression. The man now had his shirt's top free button wide open, he had done that so subtly, his coat was gone and I could see his veins.

He was tall, but I sensed the nervousness in his footsteps the longer we walked and when we reached the shade of the tree he pulled me into his embrace, and whispered in a demanding tone.

"Sweet doll, talk to me".

I could smell the expensive ittar that was sprayed onto his clothes, his chest was waxed, and his face was well groomed. I talked about my father's business, his assets and past accomplishments. My father was a Pashtun, belonging to the subtribe of Durrani called MohammadZai. He was in West Pakistan's army for about ten years as the captain and had great relations with the governor at the time. With his help, my father started a diamond merchandise business and took a back seat in politics after marrying my mother. As the politicians emerged slowly with campaigns, the bright light shifted and now they were like celebrities. Status was more important than money in the society I grew up in, my father like a businessman chased the limelight.

"Naam?" I asked my lips curving into a smile, his directed to my eyes and he gazed at them, lost for words.

"Azhar", he said now matching my smile, the game of seduction was a tough one, but I have done this since I was thirteen. Smiling at men, taking their name and they would crumble. 

"Azzharr", his eyes widened as if I had whispered a sweet poetry in his ear. 

"You're a flirt", he laughed as he brought my hand in his and pressed a kiss onto it while maintaining eye contact. 

The man pressed his lips and whispered in my ear, "Let me love you. And your father will get anything he wants".

"A position in the national assembly", I had said and he sealed the deal with a kiss. 

His tongue pierced my mouth, he was an experienced kisser, and he took the lead. And I stood there, like a sweet doll. My eyes were closed, imagining the food that the women might be devouring right now at the party. Because of my father's haste, I had left without having a bite and now empty stomach I stood, feeling lightheaded I placed my hand on my shirt. He was breathing loudly, gazing at me.

"What do you want Sweet doll?" He asked me, I looked into his eyes and wondered what did I want. As a sixteen-year-old I had only craved my father's attention, his love and care but all he cared about was his status. I sighed as the man's hand went lower and shook my head, he removed his arms from my body and left. 

The Banyan tree I stood under gave me some time to collect myself, arranging my hair and my clothes.

I knew what this elite man wanted, but that wasn't part of the deal. My father could use every means, but my virginity was for the man I was engaged to. The man whom had I never met, and I didn't blame him. My infamous and bad reputation must have turned him away. I wouldn't lie, as a kid, I often dreamt of meeting this man whose name was attached to mine.

Khan was an authoritative, conservative and powerful man, I had never seen his face nor ever been in contact with him, but my ears stood up whenever people discussed him. The way he was described, I could say I was infatuated by the image he created, because of the lack of my father's love I had always craved for a strong man. He was born into a feudal family, the feudal system is a carry-over from the time when the British ruled the whole of south-central Asia. 

Democracy took hold in India and the feudal system collapsed. But in Pakistan, feudal lords remained in control. It was they who decided who would sit in the National Assembly and who would reside in the prime minister's house. My father had tried to come in contact with the powerful man, but Khan never paid attention to him. 

What do you want sweet doll?

The question lingered and I realised what I wanted was for my father to accept me and love me. For Khan to at least break off this engagement if he didn't want me. Because of the engagement, nobody dared to ask for my hand, scared of the wrath of the man who might have forgotten the age-old promise.

Murtuza Khan was different from the masses, he didn't care about public opinion, and he was a loner just like me. Misunderstood and condemned by the society for different reasons.

In all honesty, I had accepted that the stone in my finger carried no value. I had a year, an entire year to get married otherwise I would be labeled as a spinster in my society.

I had always wanted to marry, my sister Asiya had fallen in love with a soldier, and to avoid any scandal to soil her reputation my father quickly agreed to the wedding.

My father was a handsome man, but my mother had an angelic beauty, before my father she had attracted many proposals. But at the age of sixteen, she agreed to marry him, although my father posed to be a strong man, he was weak to my mother's charms.

She had an aura that made people around her want to follow her, I had always wanted my father's care and my mother's approval. At the age of thirteen, I weighed over sixty kilograms, and my mother hated looking at me. I was the ugly one, the fat one.

The dinner table was a war zone for me, she would glare every time I took a serving. Her eyes would make me tremble, at night I would cry look at myself in the mirror and take a vow to lose the fat. Her words eventually got to me and I developed an eating disorder, I ate to live, to survive.

"You are a woman".

Those four words had killed my self-confidence along with my sister's, the world I grew up in conformed to male laws. Women had no rights, their only role was to be a perfect wife and give heir to men. When I completed high school at the age of seventeen, my father who was the airline chief at that time suddenly was issued to send his services to the army by Bhutto. My father being a businessman calculated the profit rates and refused. When the war ended and Bhutto got the power, he took away my father's position of power, my uncle Imran who had my father's guts was offered a lot of money and he testified against my father of being involved with the CIA. My father was thrown into jail and given the death sentence within a week.

I was disappointed by life, the parent who showed me an ounce of acceptance, too was snatched away from me.

A large portrait hangs in my hall and has a picture of a married couple. A tall, handsome gazing at a woman whose beauty is eye-blinding. The beauty was my mother, a stern cold-hearted woman, in the portrait as well one could notice that my mother held no affection for my father. They never fought, but they hardly spoke, my mother was too busy bossing us around. My father tried his best to woo her his entire life, in such a broken family, I never expected my mother would commit suicide after his death. She left me a single note, "Don't disappoint me".

Those were her last words to me, as her corpse was being carried away and I stood outside the large mansion, I felt everything and nothing. I had always been an obedient puppet to receive their love, but all she left me was a distasteful note. It revealed how little she cared for me. What was there to disappoint her? The status, the name and the lives all were lost.

Uncle Imran was a feudal lord, and his manor was well-kept, but it had an orthodox touch to it. There was a large well outside, a massive cricket stadium just beside the house and a vast garden sprawling behind the mansion, filled with vibrant flowers and ancient trees that seemed to whisper stories of the past. The air was always thick with the aroma of spices from the kitchen, where delicacies were prepared for extravagant gatherings that Uncle Imran hosted regularly.

I was fascinated by it, but my uncle hated my guts like I had expected because of how much I resembled my father. My mother hated it too, she had always wanted her daughter to inherit her looks, but I had failed. I was a failure in her eyes from the moment I was born.

____

He was a dark and handsome man in a black suit. His starched white shirt was set off by a burgundy tie and a matching handkerchief. A female mind could classify him as a rake, a bit devilish in an appealing sort of way. He had attracted a group of women around him, who seemed to hang on to his every word.

The ash on his Davidoff cigar was about to flake and fall on the expensive carpet, but he did not seem to care. Slowly and stylishly, he raised a glass of Scotch to his mouth. Instead of taking a drink, he merely touched the vessel to his lips below his well-groomed moustache. His eyes glittered like those of a cobra ready to strike. He relished his ability to mesmerize this elite female company. He was the kind of man who could choose his place at the dinner table, and he chose to sit directly across his victim.

They made small talk across the salt cellars. His words did not hold her, but his eyes had her riveted. They grew lustrous, they glittered and blinked rather frequently, they peered across the table at her hypnotically. Their message was far from subtle. The woman was drawn like a moth to a flame.

After dinner, he adjourned to a sitting room for cognac and liqueurs. As he drained the last of his Napoleon brandy, three men moved at once to replenish it. He rolled his cigar in practiced fingers and, the very moment he lifted it toward his lips, a cigar-cutter appeared. When it was snipped and ready, six lighters flicked open. Murtuza took this deference in his stride. The women drank it in.

His rugged good looks and piercing gaze made him irresistible to women. His confidence and self-assuredness were evident in every move he made.

He was a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it.

When he reached his room late at night, he saw his victim lying there, Mrs Hena Chaudhary wife of the governor in just her underwear. Her legs raised in an arc and her eyes met him, "I am sorry all the rooms were occupied, so I had no other option".

The saree she wore was neatly folded and sat on the bedside table.

His lips curved the scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his right cheek rising with his facial movement. The woman was fascinated by it, so she asked, "Who did this to you?"

He looked at her and his lips curved up.

"What about your husband?"

The woman's eyes glinted with desire and mischief, "Do you think I care about him?"

She pulled him by his tie, her curly hair making her look wild with the lusty eyes, there was an edge to his voice, "Why did you marry him?"

She shrugged, "That oldie is rich but he lacks vigour, I have to fake my orgasms half the time. His penis is the size of a pencil, and he gets done within a few minutes" as she rolled on the sheet, making space for him Murtuza jumped suddenly, so that he was inches away from hers, "What makes you think I have a larger one?"

"I am fifty-two and have seen and ridden quite a few. I can detect someone's size by looking at their face", she said twisting her index finger, as Murtuza lay still above her.

She pulled him by the tie and bit his lips, her black eyes trying to read his, "How much money do you want? I can buy you the world".

That hurt his ego.

Burnt his soul. His lusty eyes were now filled with rage.

"I don't need your money...", he replied in a deathly calm voice.

"If not money then what are you after?" She asked sitting up now and gazing at the handsome man as he removed his coat and threw it on the ground. Hina knew no man as young and handsome as him would want her.

"I want you to murder your husband", he said passing her plastic filled with powder casually. Her eyes widened as she stuttered, "What- what's this?"

"Arsenic", he removed his belt, rolled it slowly and placed it on the table. He removed his shoes, and socks placing them in the shoe rack properly. Murtuza's room was organised and clean, unlike his intentions.

"The poison works slowly, nobody would know, it was you. Trust me", he said removing his pants, Hina looked at the arsenic and then at the devil giving her a choice. The devil was seducing her, his dark black eyes intense as he waited for her expectantly.

The nervousness vanished when he unbuttoned his shirt, she was lured into his trap. He stood at the end of the bed, gazing at her as she crawled towards him, removing his boxers and letting his cock  free. It stood proudly, the devil offered her the forbidden apple and she tasted it.

"I was right", the woman said looking at his length proudly, she pleasured him with her experience.

Another victim fell to the charms of the Khan. He was the king of the jungle, and he knew it.