A story of a man who betrays his wife and develops relations with another woman
Raphic Burdo
Karachi, the port city where the sea whispered wealth and ambition, had been Riz’s crucible. There, he forged his Tech unicorn, Burdo Inc., a phoenix rising from late-night coding sessions and relentless hustle. His wife, Shamila, and their twelve-year-old daughter, Nadra, were the heartbeat of his world until the siren call of power lured him to Islamabad. The administrative capital, with its manicured hills and corridors of influence, promised plush government contracts. Riz moved his company’s headquarters, leaving his family behind in Karachi’s humid embrace. For six months, he ached for them, tethered by video calls and weekend promises. But the new city’s rhythm, its glittering parties, social butterflies, and global pulse soon drowned out the longing. Islamabad became home, and Riz, its eager dancer.
Riz had always been a flirt, a charmer with a quiver of warm smiles, firm handshakes, and winking glances. Building his empire, though, had demanded discipline: one mission, one focus, one woman at a time. Shamila was his one, her love a constant like Karachi’s tides. But with the company now a sleek machine, its brand gleaming and C-suite executives steering the daily grind, Riz turned to giving vision, closing deals, clearing roadblocks, and chasing thrills. Islamabad’s glamour sharpened his old arrows, and he aimed them with precision.
A week before his birthday, at a chandelier-lit gala, he met Saira. She was a spark, a newbie hungry to scale the social ladder on the shoulders of tech titans and bureaucrats, effort be damned. Their eyes locked, and the air crackled. Who was the hunter, who the prey? Neither cared. They bantered, their words a dance of innuendo, and parted with a vow: a private tryst on his birthday. “Guest list?” Saira purred, twirling her glass. “Just you,” Riz replied, his voice a velvet arrow. He sealed the promise with a flourish: the venue would be his new farmhouse, a secluded Eden on the city’s edge.
Riz had forgotten the sacred rhythm of his family’s traditions. Birthdays, anniversaries, the day he and Shamila first met. These were Shamila’s canvas, painted with cakes, chocolates, gifts, and love that lingered like heirlooms. Even when Riz’s memory faltered, Shamila never missed a beat, surprising him with celebrations that anchored their bond. Distance, they say, makes the heart grow fonder. But for Riz, out of sight meant out of mind. Weeks, sometimes a month, passed without a visit to Karachi, his family fading into the static of Islamabad’s allure.
The night before his birthday, daughter Nadra’s digital card and voice notes lit up his phone, her voice a melody of love. At midnight, Shamila called, their banter as warm as ever, laced with memories and laughter. “Coming home this weekend?” she asked, hope threading her words. “Can’t, love. Company retreat at the farmhouse. It is design thinking, big roadblocks to clear.” She sighed, her voice soft but firm. “Wives and mothers guard the legacy, Riz. I’m teaching Nadra to hold family close, on happy days and sad.” He chuckled, deflecting with a promise to visit soon. Shamila relented, but her words were a quiet drumbeat, warning of tides he’d ignored. Shamila, though, was not one to drift with the current.
On his birthday, a Saturday, Riz woke at noon, the city’s haze filtering through his curtains. After a workout, shower, and breakfast, he scrolled through birthday wishes, firing off replies. To Shamila, he sent a voice note: “Heading to the farm soon, signal’s patchy there. Keeps us focused, no distractions. Love you.” It delivered, but no read receipt appeared. Shamila, always online, was a digital lighthouse. Her silence was odd, but Riz brushed it aside, his mind on Saira’s message: a sultry birthday wish, promising an evening etched in memory. At the appointed hour, he picked her up, her perfume a siren’s call, and they drove to the farmhouse, the city’s lights fading like a forgotten dream.
As they crossed into the no-signal zone, Riz silenced his phone. No interruptions, just them. The farmhouse sprawled before them, its terrace a throne overlooking the countryside’s golden dusk. Inside, passion ignited like a long-dormant spark. They clung to each other, kisses hungry, champagne forgotten. The birthday faded; this was no celebration but a quiet, greedy union. They sank into the moment, the world reduced to touch and whispers.
Then, a creak. Footsteps, light and eager, tripped through the hall. “Surprise!” Nadra’s voice, bright as Karachi’s sun, shattered the silence. Shamila followed, arms brimming with flowers, a towering cake, presents wrapped in love, balloons bobbing like afterthoughts. They’d flown from Karachi that morning, the 1 hour 55 minutes aligning with the unread message Riz had dismissed as a quirk of timing.
The air turned to glass. Riz’s flute slipped, shattering on the stone floor, a jagged echo of his fracturing world. Saira froze, her face a calculated mask, smoothing her dress like armor. Nadra’s smile faltered, her eyes darting to Saira. “Daddy? Who’s she?” Shamila’s gaze met Riz’s, not with fire, but with a quiet grief that cut deeper than rage. She set the cake down, her hands steady despite the tremor in her voice. “Happy birthday, Riz. We came to keep our tradition.” Her smile was a blade, soft but sharp. “One family at a time, Riz. Choose.” The farmhouse, once his Eden, was now a mirror reflecting his unraveling. Shamila’s weren’t just words, it was a lifeline, a reminder of the anchor he’d nearly cut loose. Whether he’d grasp it, or let ambition pull him under, was a question that hung in the Margalla Hills’ silent night.
Read: Short Story: The House with Keys of Gold
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Raphic Burdo is a poet and writer, hailing from a remote village of Sindh province of Pakistan
