Monday morning arrived with a sky the color of bruised steel, and the school parking lot filled with the hum of engines and the slam of car doors. Musab walked through the main gates with Armish’s hand in his, her ponytail swinging, her laugh bright as she leaned into him. Arsala flanked his other side, her short black hair still wet from the shower, her dark eyes scanning the crowd with practiced disinterest. Fizbah trailed a step behind, her heavy breasts straining the buttons of her white shirt, her brown hair spilling over her shoulders, a quiet smile on her lips.
They were a constellation now—four bodies moving together through the hallways, drawing stares and whispers. Musab’s arm draped across Armish’s shoulders. Arsala’s fingers brushed Fizbah’s lower back. The cheerleading captain and the busty classmate and the petite dark-eyed girl who’d been his best friend since forever. Everyone knew. No one said a word.
Maryam stood by the water fountain, her phone clutched in both hands, her long black hair straight as a curtain. She watched them pass, her brown eyes tracking every touch, every shared glance, every laugh that didn’t include her. Her jaw tightened. She hadn’t spoken to Musab since the night of the live stream—since the video. He’d told her to delete it. She hadn’t. She’d watched it seventeen times. Each time she got angrier.
“Hey, Maryam.”
She blinked. Arsala had stopped, turned back. The others were a few steps ahead, Musab’s hand now on Armish’s waist.
“You coming to class?” Arsala’s voice was neutral. Polite. That made it worse.
“Yeah.” Maryam forced a smile. “Just grabbing water.”
Arsala nodded, held her gaze for a beat too long, then turned and caught up with the others. Maryam watched them disappear around the corner. Her fingers whitened around the phone.
Soon.
---
The week unspooled like thread from a spool. Tuesday afternoon found Musab and Armish alone in the penthouse, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing the campus in amber light. She sat on the leather sofa, her legs tucked under her, her long fingers tracing circles on his chest through his t-shirt. His arm was around her, his lips against her hair.
“Two weeks,” she said quietly. “Then you leave for Madrid.”
He didn’t answer. His hand moved to her jaw, tilting her face up. Her dark eyes were wet.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know.” His thumb traced her cheek. “I don’t want to leave you.”
She pressed closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What if I came with you?”
The words hung between them. He didn’t move. She felt his chest rise, hold, fall.
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.” She pulled back, met his eyes. “I’ll transfer. Take a gap year. Whatever. I don’t care about school, Musab. I care about you.”
His hand slid into her ponytail, pulling her in. He kissed her—deep and slow and full of everything he couldn’t say. When he broke it, his forehead rested against hers.
“Yes,” he said. “Come with me.”
She let out a breath she’d been holding and buried her face in his neck.
---
Wednesday evening, Arsala and Fizbah sat cross-legged on Fizbah’s bedroom floor, a bottle of wine between them, homework forgotten. The window was open, letting in the scent of rain on dry earth. Fizbah’s heavy-lidded eyes watched Arsala’s mouth as she spoke.
“He’s planning something,” Arsala said, swirling her glass. “I can tell. He gets this look—like he’s about to do something stupid and romantic.”
Fizbah laughed, soft and low. “That’s how he looked before he kissed me in my kitchen.”
Arsala’s eyes flickered. “Yeah. I remember.” She set her glass down. “You know, I used to hate you. For sitting on his lap.”
“I know.”
“But now…” Arsala’s gaze dropped to Fizbah’s lips. “Now I don’t.”
The silence stretched. Fizbah leaned forward, her breath warm and wine-sweet.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.
Arsala’s heart stuttered. “What kind of thinking?”
“The kind that gets me wet.”
Arsala’s hand moved before she thought about it—her fingers brushing Fizbah’s knee. Fizbah didn’t pull away. Her skin was hot through the thin fabric of her jeans.
“I’ve never been with a girl,” Arsala said, her voice hoarse.
“Neither have I.” Fizbah’s hand covered hers. “But I want to try.”
Arsala’s mouth went dry. “What do you want to do?”
Fizbah’s voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes dark and hungry. “I want to fuck you with a strap-on.”
Arsala’s breath caught. Her hand tightened on Fizbah’s knee. “Now?”
“Now.”
---
Fizbah’s bed was white, with a quilt her grandmother had made. She pulled a harness from her drawer—black leather, dildo attached, thick and curved. Arsala watched from the edge of the mattress, her heart hammering, her thighs pressed together. Fizbah stepped out of her jeans, pulled the harness up, adjusted the straps. The dildo stood out from her pelvis, dark against her pale skin. She turned, and Arsala saw the hunger in her face.
“On your back.”
Arsala obeyed. Her shirt came off, then her bra. Her breasts were round and firm, her nipples hard. Fizbah knelt over her, pressed her lips to Arsala’s mouth, and kissed her slow. Her tongue slid in, tasted the wine. Arsala moaned, her hands finding Fizbah’s hips, pulling her closer. The dildo pressed against her thigh, warm from contact, and she felt a rush of heat between her legs.
Fizbah broke the kiss and moved down. Her mouth found Arsala’s left nipple, sucked hard, made Arsala arch her back. Her fingers trailed down Arsala’s stomach, found the waistband of her shorts, pulled them off. Arsala’s panties were soaked through, a dark patch visible. Fizbah pressed her palm flat against that heat, and Arsala whimpered.
“You’re so wet for me.”
“Yes.”
Fizbah pulled the panties aside, slid one finger inside. Arsala gasped. Fizbah added a second, watched Arsala’s face as she fucked her slowly. Her thumb found the clit, pressed in circles.
“I want to feel you come on my fingers first,” Fizbah said. “Then I’m going to fuck you with this.” She gestured with the dildo.
Arsala’s breathing was ragged. “Do it.”
Fizbah’s fingers moved faster, harder, curling inside her. Arsala’s hips bucked, her hands gripping the sheets, her mouth open in a breathless cry. The orgasm hit her in waves, her body shuddering, her cunt clenching around Fizbah’s fingers. Fizbah watched her, eyes bright, and kept moving until Arsala pushed her hand away, gasping.
“Not done.” Fizbah leaned over, positioned the dildo at Arsala’s entrance. The tip was slick with lube and Arsala’s own wetness. She pressed in—slow, inch by inch. Arsala’s eyes went wide, her hands flying up to Fizbah’s shoulders.
“Fuck—”
“You feel so good.” Fizbah pushed deeper, until she was fully inside. The harness pressed against her own clit, sending sparks through her. She began to move—long, slow strokes that made Arsala’s breath catch with each thrust.
“Look at me.”
Arsala’s eyes, dark and dazed, met hers. Fizbah fucked her harder, faster, leaning down to kiss her again. The room filled with the wet sound of the dildo sliding in and out, with Arsala’s moans, with Fizbah’s heavy breathing. Arsala’s second orgasm built, crested, and broke with a cry that turned into Fizbah’s name.
Fizbah rode the aftershocks, then pulled out slowly, the dildo slick and shining. She lay down beside Arsala, pulled the smaller girl into her arms.
“That was—” Arsala’s voice was hoarse. “That was a lot.”
“Good?”
“Fucking amazing.”
Fizbah smiled, kissed her forehead. “We have to tell Musab.”
“He’ll love it.”
---
Thursday night, the four of them lay tangled in the penthouse bed. Musab had his arms around Armish; Arsala was draped across his chest, Fizbah curled on his other side. The lamp cast warm shadows. Musab’s hand moved through Armish’s hair.
“I have something to tell you,” he said.
Armish looked up. Arsala and Fizbah exchanged a glance.
“I’m planning to propose to you,” he said. “After my debut in Madrid. I’ve been talking to Arsala and Fizbah about it.”
Armish’s eyes filled with tears. “What?”
Arsala squeezed her hand. “We’re all in. We want you to be his.”
“And yours,” Fizbah added. “All of us, together.”
Armish buried her face in Musab’s chest, her shoulders shaking. “Yes. Yes, I’ll say yes. Whenever. Yes.”
Musab kissed the top of her head. “Good. Because I already bought a ring.”
Arsala laughed. “Told you he was planning something stupid and romantic.”
---
Friday afternoon, the last week before Madrid began. The air was thick with humidity and tension. Maryam watched from the library window as the four of them crossed the courtyard—Musab in the middle, Armish hanging off his arm, Arsala laughing at something Fizbah said. She saw the way their bodies moved together. The way they belonged.
Her hand curled into a fist. She pulled out her phone, opened a messaging app, typed a single line to a contact she’d saved weeks ago: Ready when you are.
The reply came fast. Monday. The park after school. I’ll handle the rest.
Maryam smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.
---
Saturday morning, Armish woke early. She stood at the penthouse window, watching the campus stir to life below. Musab was still in bed, one arm reaching for her spot. Arsala and Fizbah were tangled on the other side of the mattress. Everything was perfect.
She pulled out her phone, checked the time. Seven forty-three. She had a text from an unknown number: Your future is waiting. Meet me at the old gazebo in the park. I know what you and Musab are planning. Come alone if you want to keep it safe.
She frowned. Read it again. Then, deciding it was probably one of Maryam’s games, she slipped out of her shorts, pulled on jeans, and wrote back: Who is this?
No reply.
She should have woken Musab. Should have shown him the message. Instead, she scribbled a note on the bedside table— Gone for a walk, be back soon —and left the penthouse, the door clicking softly behind her.
The morning air was cool, the streets quiet. The park was a ten-minute walk. The old gazebo stood at the edge, half-hidden by overgrown hedges. She saw no one. She checked her phone again. Still no reply.
Behind her, leaves rustled.
She turned—and saw nothing. Only the hedges, the empty path. Then a hand clamped over her mouth, and everything went dark.
---
Musab woke at noon to a cold bed and a note. He read it, frowned, called her name. No answer. He called her phone. It rang once, then went to voicemail. He tried again. Same result.
Arsala stirred. “What’s wrong?”
“Armish went for a walk. She’s not answering.”
Fizbah sat up, her brown hair a mess. “Since when?”
“The note says ‘be back soon.’ It’s been four hours.”
Musab got up, pulled on a shirt. His hands were shaking. He called Sameer, who hadn’t seen her. He called her mother, who hadn’t heard from her. He called the school, the police station, every number he had.
No one had seen Armish Zubair since she left the penthouse that morning.
By evening, panic had settled into a cold, hard knot in his chest. He stood at the window, watching the streetlights flicker on, and felt the shadow of something he couldn’t name wrap around the room.
Arsala came up behind him, her voice barely a whisper. “We’ll find her.”
Fizbah said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the darkening park beyond the glass.
And somewhere in the city, in a room with drawn curtains, Maryam watched Armish’s unconscious face on her phone screen, the livestream already counting viewers. She smiled, and the chat exploded with emojis and laughter.
“Soon,” she whispered. “Soon, everyone will know what you really are.”