Chapter 2
Sakina’s POV
I know what I could do.
I could run away with Omar. Just grab a one-way ticket
to Dubai and vanish. They’d never find us there.
It sounded like a solution—romantic, dramatic—but it
wasn’t practical. Not entirely. Omar came from a modest family. He would suffer
in Dubai. No connections. No qualifications. We hadn’t even finished our
degrees yet. We were just getting started.
And besides…
I couldn’t tell anyone what was really happening.
That I was set to marry a cousin.
I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea. The thought
of laying down with someone from my own bloodline made me sick to my stomach. I
had a fever last night, tossing and turning, shuddering every time the thought
crept in like a shadow.
This morning, I found myself scanning the walls for
clues—photos, heirlooms, anything that might give away the identity of the man
I was supposed to marry.
All I found were antique portraits. Black and white
photos of stern-faced men from the 1900s.
Was I being married off to one of them?
An old man preserved in memory, dragging his legacy
forward through a name and a proposal?
That would be an easy kill…
But then, a thought occurred. Maybe this cousin and
I—whoever he was—could come to an agreement. A quiet arrangement. A truce of
sorts. Maybe he didn’t want this marriage either.
Maybe we could both walk away.
Maybe, just maybe, I could still marry
Omar.
I built my imagination brick by brick around a life
with Omar.
It was perfect.
Tending the garden, being the soft, submissive wife,
having his children, and dedicating myself to our home—that was my dream long
before I ever thought about pursuing my studies.
As I wandered the hall, my eyes scanned the expansive
wall lined with portraits. It felt more like walking through a museum than a
family home.
I couldn’t live here.
Why was I even thinking about living here?
I shouldn’t have had even a shred of thought about
marrying my cousin.
But I did.
Just a little.
My curiosity got the better of me. And honestly, my
thoughts weren’t kind:
Old.
Ugly.
Rich.
Completely insane.
My skin still crawled, like a serpent shedding its
layers.
The very idea of some old man, wheezing down my neck,
grunting with every breath, his powdered sperm trying to plant itself inside
me—it made me nauseous.
"Oh, look—it’s the original art piece of Brisket
Palmer," my father said, pointing to a large framed portrait on the wall.
"Who’s that?" I asked, uninterested but
polite.
He turned to me. "You clearly didn’t pay
attention in history class."
I glanced back at the painting. A man clads in armor.
"He fought in the war?" I asked, though I doubted it.
"He served under the first queen of this
country."
Of course, our nation no longer operated under a
monarchy. Democracy had long taken root. But I couldn’t help thinking—if we had
kept the monarchy, if incestuous marriages were still common, maybe my own
arranged marriage wouldn’t feel so... bizarre.
Maybe it would be normal.
Instead, I felt like I’d been raised in a web of
secrets, twists, and emotional muck.
"All original pieces," my father muttered
with pride, barely moving his lips. "Now that’s what you call
wealth."
"And madness," I murmured under my breath.
"This way," the butler said as he opened the
heavy door.
My heart pounded, fully expecting to find an old man
inside—perhaps hunched over a chessboard, mumbling to himself, smelling faintly
of mothballs and ego.
But instead, the room was empty.
Only the echo of my heartbeat filled the space.
"Where—"
"Running late."
"He did say 10am?"
"Are you excited?" my mother asked with an
infuriating smile.
"No," I deadpanned.
I could run.
They didn’t know much about Omar—not really. I’d
mentioned him a few times in passing, but every time I did, their faces soured
like spoiled milk. After that, I stopped bringing him up. I was just waiting
for the right time.
And maybe that time was now.
I stood up abruptly.
This was it.
I had to move now. There was no point in admiring how
plush the sofa was or letting my fear trap me in my own body. My heart was
racing, screaming at me to go.
I just needed to remember where the front door was.
Sure, the house was a maze of museum-like corridors,
but nothing beats trying.
"Sit down," my mother said,
"I need to use the bathroom," I said
quickly. "Too much tea. And water."
"Oh dear," she muttered. "Do you
have—"
"The butler will show me. If I catch up with
him." I didn't wait for a response. I was already halfway out of the room,
my words tumbling behind me.
I retraced my steps, trying to remember the path I
came in.
The house was exquisite—overwhelmingly so. Wealth
dripped from the chandeliers, clung to the art-lined walls, echoed in the
silence between steps.
In our family, wealth wasn’t just money. It was a
hierarchy. A skyscraper ladder.
And everyone knew their rung.
My parents were somewhere in the middle—we had some
assets, just enough to afford a butler and four maids. Though, in typical
fashion, the staff was changed out annually.
And every single one of them?
Bound by a strict contract and airtight NDA.
I was learning a few things—but of course, they
decided to release all this information in the car. I still had questions. I
would probably always have questions.
The family was massive, divided into sprawling groups,
yet somehow the world remained oblivious to the fact that this family had been
engaging in inbreeding for generations. Surely, they couldn’t have had everyone
sign confidentiality agreements. That would be impossible. Right?
Every answer only bred more questions.
I wasted no time rushing to the door. But the moment I
reached it, I saw the first complication—multiple locks. One panel glowed
faintly, showing a place to enter a four-digit passcode. Below that, a sleek
keyhole glinted in the dim light.
Was this even the right door?
I looked it over carefully, beginning to doubt myself.
I lifted my dress, already dirtied from dragging along the pristine floors, and
pressed my body against the door. Through the thick structure, I could feel the
outside breeze vibrating faintly on the other side.
I pulled back, excited.
I reached for the black handle and yanked. A loud
click stopped me.
"Please enter your four-digit passcode or present
your passkey," the door announced in a robotic, unnervingly cheerful
voice.
A talking door. How dramatic.
What happened to simple locks? Doors should open or
lock with a key. Just one. This was pure rich-people nonsense.
I tried again—same click, same voice:
"Please enter your four-digit passcode or present
your passkey."
“Gosh, you don’t have to sound so dramatic,” I
muttered, glaring at the door. Then, almost instinctively, my tone softened
into a quiet plea.
“Please, I need to get out of here.”
I ran my fingers along the smooth surface of the door,
half-expecting it to scold me for touching it without wearing designer gloves.
Then a voice—not the door this time, but a human one.
"That’s not the bathroom,"
I spun around in a panic, only to exhale in relief. It
was a woman. A butler. I hadn’t noticed her before.
"I’m not trying to go to the bathroom," I
said bluntly. "I’m trying to run away."
I turned back to the door, still frantically analyzing
its mechanisms, wondering if I could melt into a puddle and seep through the
cracks.
"Trying to run away?"
A wave of regret washed over me. Honesty might’ve been
the wrong choice. I was certain this woman was loyal to her old, ugly, nut-job
master. I glanced sideways at her—her appearance screamed authority. Dressed in
a sharply tailored black suit with a golden pocket watch swinging from her
vest, she looked like the head of all butlers.
She stood tall and lean. Her eyes—deep, black
orbs—stared into mine with a haunting, obdurate calm. There was something
uncanny about her. Something that made me quietly slide my hand off the door
and fidget with it behind my back like a guilty child.
"You were attempting to escape?" she asked
Politely.
I stared down at her polished black shoes. Then bowed.
"I was, ma’am. But I ask your pardon. I have my
reasons."
"Mhm… and what might those be, Sakina
Rayan?"
My head snapped up. She knew my name. The way she
pulled her hands behind her back only emphasized how imposing her frame was.
Her left shoe tapped the marble beneath us with unnerving precision.
"You know me?" I asked, still startled.
"I do. You’re expected here, are you not?"
"I am."
"And yet you want to run. I gather you're not
fond of some of the recent changes."
I let out a dry chuckle, turning my attention back to
the overcomplicated door.
"You could say that again. What’s your
name?"
"Hassan," she replied smoothly.
I resumed fussing with the locks, hoping she'd take
pity and help, but she looked far too amused by my pathetic attempts.
"Well, Hassan, I’d very much like to
disappear."
"Why’s that, my dove?"
I glanced back at her face. She was impeccably groomed;
her short black hair stylishly faded from the sides to the back. She wasn’t too
young, but she wasn’t yet at that age where wrinkles start to show—I'd guess
around thirty-one.
"I suppose I could tell you," I began,
"you’ve signed one of those top-secret contract forms, haven’t you?"
I didn’t wait for her to respond, exhaling tiredly. "I have to marry some
old man, Hassan. It’s morbid."
She chuckled. "Have you met this old man?"
"I haven’t, and I don’t care to meet him. But
based on those old photos, I'd say he’s pretty ancient."
She nodded; her expression indecipherable.
I fiddled with the door again. "What do you think
the passcode is for this?" I pointed at the door in frustration.
"You’re running away... what’s your plan, my
dove?" she asked, her tone smooth, but with a hint of curiosity.
I smiled. "You see, I’m already in love."
Her demeanor faltered for just a moment before she
cleared her throat and returned to her usual monotone. She didn’t look like
a butler at all.
"I just don’t think I can marry a family."
She nodded curtly; the gesture almost dismissive.
"How about you take a chance?" She
suggested, almost too desperate.
I groaned. "Honestly, I’m scared."
She moved closer, locking her gaze with mine.
"There’s nothing to be scared of." She
extended her hand toward me.
I glanced back at the door. It was still stubbornly
locked, and Hassan didn’t seem inclined to help me escape her master’s grasp.
If anything, it felt like she was more content to watch me struggle toward a
life with that old, eccentric man.
"You’re scary," I mumbled, not taking her
hand. "In a stealthy kind of way."
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, and it
made her look even more unsettling. She exuded perfection—every strand of her
hair in place, not a wrinkle in her suit.
Then, in an instant, she noticed my flaw. Before I
could even react, her hand reached for the long strand of hair I had been
trying, unsuccessfully, to tuck under my veil.
"I’m scary when I need to be." She released
my long, straight hair, her fingers brushing through it with a sharp,
deliberate motion.
"Oh."
I hesitated for a moment before offering her my hand.
I didn’t need to know what someone like her was capable of. She seemed to have
walked through hell, making men bleed and causing women to cry.
"What’s your master like?" I asked, my voice
steady but laced with unease.
"Don’t worry, you’ll meet him in due time."
No one had given me much information about this man. I
could already tell from their reluctance that he was likely some eccentric, old
nutjob with foul breath.
We returned to the dreary room, and she shut the door
softly behind us, remaining inside.
My mother sighed, glancing between us. "I see the
two of you have already met."
I looked around the room, my confusion growing.
"What are—" The realization hit me like a mouthful of dry, roasted
chicken, sticking in my throat. My neck turned stiffly as my gaze landed on the
tall, handsome figure sitting before a pile of paperwork, likely related to the
arrangements.
I was marrying her.
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