Chapter 7
> "No matter what storms life brings,
He is always with you.
Whisper your prayers—
He is closer than you think,
Always ready to listen and heal."
---
Alya's POV
I sit rigid at the edge of the bed, my bridal lehenga heavy as chains. Each breath feels measured, as though the air itself might betray me. The chandelier's soft glow makes the jewels at my throat and wrists sting against my skin. My heart hammers, each beat an echo in the cavern of my chest.
I keep my hands folded in my lap, fingertips white around the fabric. If I move too suddenly—if I breathe too loudly—he might grow angry. I cannot bear his anger again.
Memories crash in on me: my mother's empty smile, my father's scornful glare, chachi's cruel laughter. The moment I was offered like a ransom, a child pawned for vengeance. A silent cry rises in my throat.
> "Why, Allah? Why is this happening to me?"
"First You took Mama…
Then Abbu and Fuppi…
And now, this man claims me."
"Am I worthless? Will I ever be loved?"
"Yet I am Your servant. I will bear this quietly…"
A single tear slips beneath my veil. I press my palm to my mouth to stifle the sob.
Then—I hear him. Footsteps: firm, unyielding. My breath halts.
The door clicks. Reyhan's silhouette fills the frame: broad shoulders, dark sherwani, expression unreadable. He stands there a moment, surveying me like property.
> "Go to the bathroom."
"Change your clothes."
His words are ice shards against my ribs. I swallow hard, nodding without raising my head. My legs tremble as I stand and walk away—silent, obedient.
Inside the bathroom, I lean against the door, trying to steady my breath. The mirror reflects a stranger: a fragile girl draped in gold, eyes swollen with fear.
With shaking hands, I strip off the heavy jewelry—each bangle slipping off like a shard of my broken past. My veil falls away. The bridal dress slides to the floor, replaced by the simple kameez awaiting me. I pull it on, the fabric cool against my skin, yet it feels as confining as ever.
Tears spill freely now.
> "Don't cry, Alya," I whisper. "Not here."
But the ache in my chest will not relent.
Then, somewhere beneath the pain, a quiet hope stirs:
> "If he chose to marry me… maybe one day he'll choose to love me too."
I recall Bu Rina's gentle words:
> "The man who marries you will love you deeply, In Shaa Allah."
Clinging to that promise, I wipe my tears and breathe.
The door clicks. I step out—head bowed, silent.
---
Reyhan's POV
I hear the bathroom door close. Alone, I stand by the bed, the hush pressing at my temples. My mind whirs: duty, revenge, regret, something unnameable…
Part of me wants to call her back, to assure her I won't hurt her. Another part demands distance—mafia rules, my reputation, the cold oath I swore.
I pace. Each step echoes off the marble floor.
> "She's just a child," I think, "a frightened girl wed by my hatred."
I recall Kakek's words: "Treat her kindly—she is your wife, not a pawn."
Anger flares—at my enemies, at myself. I should be planning strikes against Victor Arman, not fretting over her tears. Yet when I imagine her alone in that bathroom, fear twists my gut.
I pull off my coat, roll up my sleeves. The world outside my door demands my strength. Inside, I feel hollow.
A soft knock: it's her. She steps out, simple kameez replacing silks. Her eyes drop; tears glint on her lashes.
I struggle for words—words of reassurance I've never learned. My throat tightens. Instead, I offer a curt nod.
> "You may sleep," I say, voice rough. "I'll be in the office if you need anything."
She returns to the bed, curling into herself. I turn away, unwilling to witness her terror.
As I leave the room, I pause at the doorframe, torn between closing it and stepping back inside.
Finally, I close it gently. Behind the wood, her light breathing drifts through.
I walk down the hallway, each footstep a question I have yet to answer.
The night stretches out—silent, watchful.
And somewhere in the shadows, two hearts ache in lonely darkness, bound by vows neither believes in… yet neither can escape.