Veil of Mercy

The city of Istanbul shimmered beneath the dying sun, wrapped in a cloak of golden fire as the horizon bled into the Bosphorus. The bridge, suspended like a silver thread between two continents, blinked with lights that resembled fallen stars trying to claw their way back to heaven. Yet within a marble mansion that crowned the hillside—a structure carved with Ottoman grace and laced with European pride—there was no warmth to be found. Not in the echoing corridors nor in the heart of the man standing before the mirror.

Muhammad Zayan adjusted the crisp black collar of his suit with a precision that mirrored the rest of his life—disciplined, calculated, void of sentiment. His hazel eyes, framed by lashes too dark to be soft, stared back at him with glacial stillness. They were the kind of eyes that had once lit up tabloids and silenced boardrooms; eyes that saw numbers and power, not dreams. Beneath the silk of his charcoal tie pulsed a fury so quiet it could cut glass. He looked like a groom from a royal painting—tall, lean, devastatingly handsome in a way that commanded both envy and unease. But behind that sculpted jaw and that ruthless poise lived a man caged.

Downstairs, the house buzzed like a nest of golden hornets. Laughter laced with champagne floated through corridors wrapped in fresh white roses and thick garlands of jasmine. Oud smoke curled through the air like whispered sins, and the chandeliers, dripping with crystal and extravagance, blinked with the weight of generations. Waiters glided through with silver trays; women in silk and diamonds fluttered like moths near the fire of prestige. It was a celebration designed for envy—a Turkish-Muslim wedding carved from dreams. But it was not his. He had not chosen the bride. He had not chosen the life. Everything had been arranged, as if he were a signature on a contract, not a man with a pulse.

My wedding, he thought with bitter amusement, running a hand down the smooth lapel of his jacket. To a girl I barely know. A name whispered in the halls of tradition and signed in blood and honor. Outside, the call to Maghrib echoed faintly from a distant mosque, threading through the velvet dusk. Zayan's jaw clenched. Even God seemed to mock him tonight.

In the quiet glow of the bride's chamber, Ayesha Demir sat like a secret whispered by heaven—gentle, pure, and breathtaking in her stillness. The deep teal undertone of her white silk hijab shimmered under the chandelier's warm light, casting an ethereal glow over her delicate face. Her modest wedding gown, stitched from layers of ivory silk and adorned with fine lace along the sleeves and hem, clung to her gracefully like a prayer come to life. A long, gossamer veil cascaded from her crown to the floor, embroidered with silver thread at the edges. And right at the front—just above where it brushed against her lips—Zayan'ın Gelini was delicately inscribed in Turkish script: Zayan's Bride. The words glittered with a soft defiance, a vow, a claim that thrilled and terrified her all at once.

Her palms rested gently in her lap, henna-dyed with intricate designs that curved and danced across her skin like sacred art. Among the florals and vines was a miniature portrait of Zayan's face, etched so perfectly into her palm it felt like her heart had spilled out into her skin. Her long lashes fluttered as she looked down at the carpet beneath her, eyes the colour of calm seas—soft, stormless blue. She radiated modesty, elegance, and the kind of quiet courage that only love can give. She was just eighteen, but the way she carried herself—composed, accepting, silently glowing with faith—made her seem timeless. And yet, inside, her heart was a wild drum.

The man she was about to marry was not just Istanbul's most talked-about bachelor. He was Zayan. Her best friend's older brother. Her childhood crush. The distant shadow she had once watched from the window when he returned home from university. He had always seemed carved from marble—untouchable, powerful, too far above her to ever notice. She had loved him in secret for years, with the quiet kind of love that grew with prayer and poetry, never once believing it would come to life. And now—now—fate had written his name across her veil.

Standing beside her was Elif—Zayan's younger sister, and Ayesha's best friend since childhood. Elif's hands were busy adjusting the veil, her voice a soft melody of teasing and excitement. "You look like a princess, Ayshu. No, more than a princess—like one of those Ottoman brides from the old stories," she said, her eyes dancing. She gently traced the silver script on the veil. "Zayan'ın Gelini… Can you believe it? You're going to be my sister now!"

Ayesha managed a small smile, her breath catching in her throat. "I'm scared," she whispered, barely audible. "He's… older. Serious. Always so cold."

Elif knelt down beside her, taking her decorated hands into hers, eyes locking with fierce affection. "He may be cold to the world, but not to you. I know my brother, Ayesha. He wouldn't have agreed to this if there wasn't something already in his heart. And even if he doesn't show it tonight, he will. Slowly, in his own way."

Ayesha blinked, lips trembling beneath the veil. "I just hope… I'm enough."

"You're more than enough," Elif said with conviction, squeezing her hands. "And I'll be with you every step. You're not just becoming Zayan's bride. You're becoming family. And nothing is more sacred."

Ayesha's lips curved into a soft, trembling smile. Despite the nerves storming inside her, she felt a strange peace settle in her chest. This wasn't just marriage. It was destiny. Allah's plan. And even though her hands trembled, her heart whispered a quiet Alhamdulillah. Because love had always been a secret between her and Allah. And tonight, that secret was becoming a reality.

The storm had begun a few days ago, in the grand sitting room of the Muhammad estate, wrapped in velvet curtains and ancestral portraits that watched in silence. The chandeliers flickered overhead, casting long, sharp shadows across the marble floor where Zayan stood like a volcano on the verge of eruption. His jaw was clenched, veins bulging against his neck, eyes burning with disbelief. "This is insane," he spat, glaring at his parents as if they were strangers. "You want me to marry Ayesha? She's like Elif's shadow. She's just a girl. She wears hijab, recites the Quran, and avoids eye contact like it's poison. You think she's meant for me?" His voice cut through the room like broken glass.

His mother, always the softer one, tried to ease the blow with a calm, rehearsed tone. "She is also the daughter of your father's closest friend. And a woman of dignity, modesty, and faith."

Faith. That word struck Zayan like a blade. His laugh was hollow, bitter. "And what exactly do you think I am, mother? A saint? A mosque-going man waiting for a wife wrapped in silk and verses?" He turned to his father. "I'm in love with someone else. Her name is Liyana. We've been together for two years." His voice dropped into a venomous whisper. "And I don't care if she wears shorts or doesn't pray. At least she's real."

The room froze for a moment, just long enough for the rage to thicken in the air. Then, his father slammed his fist on the walnut table with such force that the crystal ashtray jumped and cracked. "Liyana," he said with venom, "is not the kind of woman who builds a home. She's not the woman who carries our name. She is using you, Zayan. For your wealth. Your power. You are blind."

"I don't care," Zayan growled, stepping forward, his hazel eyes now boiling with fury. "I won't marry Ayesha. I'll walk away. I'll leave this house, this empire, this fake circus you call a family."

His father stood tall, eyes sharp as a dagger, lips curling into a cold threat. "Then do it," he said, voice deadly calm. "Walk out that door, and don't expect a single coin from me. No money. No inheritance. No company shares. You'll be nothing. A man without a name. Without a legacy."

Zayan's breath hitched in his throat, rage now clashing with the cage of reality. He knew his father meant every word. In this family, honor wasn't a concept—it was law. His mother watched them both, her hands trembling slightly as they gripped the edge of her shawl. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. Deep down, she knew Ayesha was the only one who could anchor her son's soul before it drowned in darkness.

Zayan's fists curled, his nails biting into his palms. The war in his chest was loud, violent. But resistance was like screaming in a storm. Pointless. Useless. His voice dropped to a whisper soaked in venom. "Fine," he said, his breath trembling. "I'll marry her. Not because I want to. But because I've been forced. Because in this house, my life has never been mine."

His mother's eyes glistened with sadness, but she smiled faintly and reached to caress his head. "You'll see, my son," she whispered, "sometimes Allah places us where we least expect, because He knows what we need."

His father's voice was sharp and final. "The wedding is in a week. Prepare yourself. This is the last conversation we'll have on this matter."

Zayan didn't respond. His silence was colder than his words. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, footsteps echoing like thunder on the stairs. Behind him, his parents looked at each other—his mother with trembling eyes, his father with a stone-cold face. "Are we doing the right thing?" she whispered.

He took her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "We are. InshaAllah, Ayesha will change him. We will do sabr, and Allah will do the rest." His voice cracked for the first time that evening, laced with hope and burden.

Outside the room, just around the corner, Elif stood frozen. She had heard everything. Her heart beat with both excitement and worry. She loved Ayesha like a sister, but her brother… he was fire, untamed and cruel when cornered. She looked up toward the staircase where he had vanished and whispered a small dua. "Ya Allah… guide them. Make this marriage one of healing, not war."

Upstairs, in the privacy of his darkened room, Zayan exploded. The sound of glass shattering echoed through the mansion as he hurled a perfume bottle at the mirror. His reflection fractured into a hundred pieces, each one showing a face twisted with betrayal. He kicked the ottoman, tore off his jacket, and slammed his fists against the wall until his knuckles turned red. "I won't forgive you for this," he growled into the empty room. "I'll marry her, but don't expect love. You forced me. All of you. And I'll never forget it." In that moment, the golden heir to a powerful empire looked less like a groom-to-be and more like a prince imprisoned in a castle of expectations—with no key, no escape, and no mercy.

The backyard of the grand Muhammad mansion had been transformed into a vision of timeless beauty, suspended between the earth and the heavens. Overlooking the tranquil sea, the garden bloomed with thousands of flowers—white lilies, scarlet roses, lavender, jasmine—all carefully arranged to form an arch of scent and colour that danced under the warm amber lights strung like constellations across the sky. The sound of soft Turkish instrumental music hummed in the background, mingling with the murmur of guests dressed in their finest, each waiting in hushed anticipation for the sacred union to begin. At the centre of it all stood the wedding stage, an elevated platform framed by a curtain of fresh white roses and baby's breath, strung together like a waterfall of blossoms.

The floral curtain, draped in the middle, acted as a partition between the groom and the bride until the final moment. On either side, two regal velvet sofas in pale gold shimmered under the chandeliers suspended from the tree branches above. Zayan sat on the groom's seat already, tall, silent, and wrapped in a suit as dark as the storm in his heart. His expression was unreadable, lips set in a flat line, eyes staring off into some meaningless point in the distance. His jaw tightened slightly when his father, Mr. Muhammad, placed a firm hand on his shoulder from behind, leaning down to whisper in a warning tone, "Do not disappoint me in front of these people, Zayan. Not today."

Zayan didn't turn. He didn't blink. He simply nodded once, stiffly. His mind was elsewhere. Liyana. Her laughter. Her arms. Her perfume. He'd see her again soon—tonight, if possible. This wedding meant nothing. It was a transaction, a performance, a cage. But then, the crowd stirred. There was a sudden hush, then an excited murmur, followed by a wave of cheers and smiles as everyone turned their heads. Zayan's gaze snapped toward the entrance, where he saw her. Ayesha Demir.

She walked slowly toward the stage, one hand gently linked around her father's arm, the other holding a small bouquet of white and pink roses wrapped in silk. Her modest white gown flowed like water around her feet, embroidered with delicate lace and shimmer that caught the light. Her veil was long, trailing behind her like moonlight, and on the front edge—stitched in glimmering silver thread—were the words: Zayan'ın Gelini. Zayan's Bride.

Zayan's brows furrowed. His chest tightened. Anger flickered in his eyes. How dare they? He thought. How dare they write that on her? His name. His claim. As if she belonged to him. As if he accepted this. He gritted his teeth, but didn't speak. Rage burned beneath his skin, but he masked it beneath a facade of cold restraint. She will never be my wife—not in my heart. Never.

Ayesha, meanwhile, walked with careful steps. Her breath trembled as she whispered to her father, "Baba… I'm scared."

Mr. Demir glanced down at her, smiling softly as he patted her hand. "I'm right here, canım. You're not alone. Just trust Allah. Whatever happens, He is with you… And so am I."

She nodded slowly, her lips barely moving as she murmured, "Alhamdulillah…"

They reached the stage. Her father helped her gently onto the bride's sofa opposite Zayan and kissed the top of her head. Elif rushed forward next, glowing with joy and nerves, adjusting Ayesha's gown and veil, whispering, "You look like a dream… like something out of the old love stories. My brother has no idea what blessing is sitting in front of him."

Ayesha smiled shyly, her fingers clutching the bouquet tighter. Zayan remained seated like a statue, flanked by his father, Mr. Demir, and Ayesha's older brother. The Imam arrived and took his place at the centre. His presence brought silence across the entire backyard as he opened a Quran, his voice rich and reverent as he began to recite the verses of Nikah. "Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim… Wa min ayatihi an khalaqa lakum min anfusikum azwajan li taskunu ilayha…" (And among His signs is this: that He created for you mates from among yourselves, that you may find tranquillity in them, and He placed between you affection and mercy…)

The words echoed into the night, wrapping around the hearts of those who believed. The Imam then turned toward Zayan, his voice calm but firm. "Muhammad Zayan… Do you, with your full heart and will, accept Ayesha Demir as your lawfully wedded wife under the guidance of Allah?"

Zayan's throat was dry. He didn't look up. His voice came like a whisper dragged across stone. "I do."

There was a moment's silence. Then his mother smiled through teary eyes. Mr. Muhammad's jaw relaxed ever so slightly. The contract was passed. Zayan signed it with the same cold precision he used in boardrooms. No emotion. No hesitation. Just duty.

Now it was Ayesha's turn. The Imam stepped gently toward her. "Ayesha Demir… Do you, with your full heart and will, accept Muhammad Zayan as your lawfully wedded husband under the guidance of Allah?" Her lips trembled beneath the veil. Her hands were shaking. But her voice, though fragile, rang out clearly: "I do." She signed, her pen leaving the final stroke of fate on paper. The Imam smiled and lifted his hands. "Ya Allah… bless this union, grant them love where there is silence, peace where there is fear, and faith where there is doubt…" The guests raised their hands, the wind carrying their duas into the night sky. Then it happened.

Zayan stood slowly, his steps heavy, calculated, and walked toward the floral curtain. With one hand, he reached forward and gently pulled the curtain aside. Ayesha's breath hitched. She hadn't seen him like this—not this close. Not with his towering frame and cold hazel eyes staring directly into hers. Zayan leaned down without a word. His hand came up, strong yet slow, and he lifted the veil from her face. Her blue eyes widened. Their gaze locked like two storms crashing silently in the night. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in and cupped her face in one hand. A second of pause. And then, a kiss—soft and brief—pressed against her forehead. Ayesha's eyes fluttered shut, her heart thudding loudly against her ribs. His touch left a burn that felt like both blessing and warning. A deep blush crept across her cheeks. He pulled back, and for a single moment, his gaze softened.

But just as quickly, the cold returned. She opened her eyes and met his again. Slowly, she reached out, took his hand gently, and lifted it to her lips. She kissed the back of his palm, her lips trembling, warm and sincere. And for the first time… Zayan felt something. A flicker. A spark. Quickly smothered. He pulled his hand away, turned without a word, and walked back to his seat. Behind her, Elif leaned in and whispered teasingly, "Well, that was something. Maybe he's not made of complete ice."

Ayesha blushed deeply, whispering back with a nervous smile, "Maybe… or maybe I've just stepped into a storm."

And somewhere in the heavens, perhaps even the angels paused, holding their breath. Because what had just been written was not just a marriage. It was the first page of a war… and a love story. As the wedding concluded beneath the silver-kissed sky and the lingering scent of rose and oud hung in the air, the atmosphere was wrapped in warmth and celebration. Guests were clapping joyously, and soft music resumed under the golden string lights above. The waves beyond the garden whispered against the rocks, carrying the echoes of sacred vows.

Mr. Muhammad and Mr. Demir stepped toward each other, both fathers radiant with pride and emotion. Years of friendship, loyalty, and legacy had led to this moment—their children, now bound by sacred vows. They embraced tightly, clapping each other's backs in a gesture not only of happiness but of trust. "She is yours now," Mr. Demir said, his voice gruff with emotion. "And he is your son too, from now on," Mr. Muhammad replied with a smile, their eyes glistening.

Nearby, Ayesha's older brother approached Zayan with a broad, genuine smile. He pulled him into a firm embrace. "Welcome to the family, brother," he said. Zayan, with all eyes on him, returned the hug briefly and offered a small, restrained smile—a flicker, barely there, but enough to satisfy the moment. As they pulled away, Ayesha's brother placed a firm hand on Zayan's shoulder. His smile faded into a serious stare. His voice dropped, low and deliberate. "She's the most precious thing we've ever had. If she ever cries because of you…" He leaned in, eyes sharp as glass, "I won't hesitate to end the reason that caused it. Even if it's you."

Zayan didn't flinch. His hazel eyes locked with steel. Cold. Unmoved. "Understood," he said flatly, but inside, a flicker of rage twisted in his gut. Another warning. Another threat. As if I'm the villain in this story already. The tension passed in a blink, and Ayesha's brother smiled again, patting Zayan's back as if nothing had happened. "Take care of her, man. She deserves the best."

On the other side of the garden, Mrs. Muhammad and Mrs. Demir were wrapped in a long, emotional hug, both mothers glowing with relief and hope. "She's my daughter now," Mrs. Muhammad said as she kissed Ayesha's cheeks tenderly. "You are no longer just Elif's best friend. You are our family, my daughter."

Ayesha smiled, eyes brimming with both nerves and peace. "Thank you, Ana. I promise to be the daughter you never had… and I'll try my best to be a good wife to your son."

Mrs. Muhammad gently touched her chin. "You already are. And we'll be with you every step of the way."

Elif, bouncing on her feet in excitement, clapped her hands and called out, "Tamam! It's time for the ring exchange!" Her voice carried over the garden, and the crowd responded with a wave of cheers and applause.

Zayan remained still. Cold. Hands clasped behind his back. But beside him, Mr. Muhammad nudged his shoulder lightly and whispered, "Let them see your strength, not your defiance." Zayan stepped forward reluctantly.

Ayesha stood across from him, glowing in her modest white gown, her bouquet now resting on the table nearby. Her hands trembled slightly, heart racing as she looked into the unreadable storm in Zayan's eyes. Elif approached with the first ring box and handed it to Zayan, grinning like the mischief in her veins might explode. "Be nice," she whispered only to him. "Everyone's watching. Try not to act like a mafia boss at his sentencing."

Zayan raised a brow but said nothing, opening the box to reveal a brilliant-cut diamond ring—simple, elegant, expensive. He held it between his fingers, sharp and precise, and extended his hand with subtle authority. Ayesha gently placed her left hand into his. The heat of his palm against her skin sent a jolt through her chest. Slowly, without meeting her eyes, he slid the ring onto her finger. His touch was cold but careful, like a man who knew how to command but didn't want to care. The crowd erupted in applause, but Zayan didn't blink.

Then Elif handed the second ring box to Ayesha. "Your turn, habibi," she teased softly, nudging her.

Ayesha's fingers brushed the lid of the box as she opened it, revealing a thick platinum band. Her hand shook just slightly as she reached for Zayan's hand. He extended it, watching her with a face carved from ice, but something in his stare flickered when her delicate fingers wrapped around his. She slid the ring onto his finger, and when their skin touched, something silent passed between them—fleeting, confusing, not yet welcome.

The applause roared again. Smiles. Photos. Joy. Ayesha's brother stepped forward and kissed her forehead warmly. "You're always my little sister," he whispered, "but now, you're someone's wife. I'm proud of you."

She smiled, her voice low. "I'll do my best to deserve that pride."

Then Elif practically tackled Zayan in a teasing side-hug, grinning. "Mabrook, Ağabey. You're officially married. Try not to kill the vibe with that death glare of yours."

Zayan didn't even blink. "You talk too much."

Elif sighed dramatically and grinned. "Cold as always." She turned to Ayesha, hugging her tightly. "You did so well, Ayshu. You looked like a fairytale. I'm so happy for you."

Ayesha hugged her back, whispering, "It doesn't feel real yet."

"It will," Elif whispered. "It will."

Soon, traditional Turkish sweets were passed around—baklava, lokum, and sugared almonds—served with little cups of tea and sherbet. The guests mingled, congratulating the couple and their parents and snapping photos beneath the floral arch. But Zayan didn't look at Ayesha again. He kept his posture rigid, eyes wandering elsewhere, deliberately ignoring the girl who now bore his name. Ayesha, seated quietly, stole a glance at him. Just once. And wondered what kind of storm she had truly married.

Ayesha's older brother turned to the professional cameraman and motioned toward the couple. "It's time. Take their pictures. Make it memorable."

The cameraman, already poised with his equipment, nodded enthusiastically and approached the newlyweds. "Mr. Zayan, Mrs. Ayesha, can we have you both at the centre of the stage? We'll do a few classic wedding shots."

Zayan's expression froze. His spine stiffened like steel. His brows twitched with irritation. Pictures. Of this farce? No. He didn't want to fake a smile. He didn't want to pose like a man in love. But before he could protest, he caught his father's glare from across the garden—sharp, commanding, and unforgiving. Zayan let out a slow, cold sigh and wordlessly stepped beside Ayesha. The crowd parted as they moved to the centre of the floral arch, where the light hit their faces in just the right way, and the scent of roses hung heavy in the air. The camera clicked. Ayesha stood with her hands gently clasped in front of her, her eyes flitting nervously to Zayan's rigid form beside her. He didn't smile. He didn't move.

"Sir, can you wrap your arm around your wife's waist? Pull her closer?" the cameraman asked gently, gesturing to demonstrate.

Zayan's jaw clenched. A muscle twitched in his cheek. This is ridiculous. But with his father's presence looming, he finally moved. His hand reached around her waist—firm, deliberate, cold—and he pulled her closer, so their shoulders brushed and her gown gently touched his shoes. Ayesha's breath caught in her throat. She wasn't expecting it to feel like this—electric, surreal, terrifying and tender all at once. Her eyes lifted to his face cautiously. Does he feel anything? she wondered. But his face was carved in stone. Yet his eyes-those—those hazel eyes—flicked down at her, pausing. For a moment… something shifted. Zayan found himself staring into her blue eyes. Not out of affection. Not out of love. But memory.

A flashback pierced his mind—him, age seven, sitting on the hospital bed, cradling a newborn baby girl swaddled in pink silk. His mother's voice echoed faintly: "Zayan, be gentle, she's so tiny." He had held her like she was glass, eyes wide with wonder. "I'll protect her forever," he'd whispered to the baby. "She's like my little doll." And now… she was here. A bride. His wife. Not by choice. Not by love. But by force. That baby I once swore to protect has become a cage around my heart, he thought bitterly. I loved someone else. Not her. Never her. His hand tightened slightly on her waist. Rage flared behind his eyes again.

"Now, sir, can you face each other? Yes, just like that. And look into each other's eyes," the cameraman instructed cheerfully.

Ayesha turned slowly, facing him. Her hands folded delicately in front of her stomach, the ring on her finger catching the last bit of fading light. She lifted her gaze to his again, and for a brief second, her lips parted, uncertain. She saw the tension in his jaw. The cold in his stare. But she also saw the ghost of the boy she once knew. Does he hate this marriage? Hate me? she wondered. Her heart ached silently. She remembered a memory, one tucked so deep it felt like a secret with Allah alone. She was only five when Zayan had found her in the garden crying because Elif told her she was too small to get married. Zayan had knelt before her, cupped her cheeks and smiled. "Don't worry, Ayshu. When you grow up, I'll marry you myself and make you my queen." She had giggled, kissed his cheek, and believed him. Every day since then, she had only ever loved him.

"Sir, could you gently hold her hand now? A little closer—yes, that's perfect."

Zayan took her hand. His grip was firm, strong, and without emotion. But when her fingers curled softly into his palm, a strange warmth stirred in his chest. A feeling he didn't want. Didn't welcome. He quickly suppressed it. I will never love her. She is not Liyana. More poses followed—him behind her, arms around her shoulders in a modest embrace; her leaning slightly into him, smiling shyly. Her cheek nearly brushed his. The camera clicked. Her perfume—jasmine and musk—lingered in the air between them. And yet, behind every picture-perfect moment, Zayan's thoughts were boiling. This is all for show. A performance. Let the world believe what it wants. Once this circus ends, I'll find my way back to Liyana. This girl… this marriage… It's not real. But Ayesha's heart whispered a dua with every click of the shutter. Ya Allah… soften his heart. Let him see me not as a burden, but a blessing. Let this marriage become something sacred.

Then, cutting through the crowd and across the night sky, the Isha Azan echoed from a nearby mosque. The voices quieted. The camera paused. Ayesha instinctively lowered her gaze, whispering a SubhanAllah under her breath. She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed in her heart. Ya Allah, if this is my destiny, give me strength. Make this love real one day. Let my heart be enough for his, even if he doesn't know it yet.

The photographer lowered his camera, smiling. "That's perfect. Beautiful couple. Congratulations again."

Zayan released her hand first and stepped back, his cold expression returning as he turned away without a word. Ayesha, still in place, glanced at his retreating figure with a soft ache blooming in her chest. You once promised to make me your queen. Today, I am your wife. But will I ever be loved… or just worn like a crown made of thorns? She smiled faintly at the guests who clapped again, clapping for a fairytale they thought had just begun. But for Ayesha and Zayan, the tale was already layered in ice and fire. And it had only just begun.

The soft murmurs of farewell mingled with the crashing waves below the cliffside mansion, where fairy lights still glowed in the garden like fading stars. The wedding celebration had dimmed into a heavy silence as the moment of departure approached—the moment every daughter dreads and every parent tries to delay. Ayesha stood by the gates of her childhood home, wrapped in her white gown and long veil, her hands trembling as she clutched the bouquet tighter than before. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks, her lips quivering as her mother, Mrs. Demir, pulled her into a tight embrace. "My baby…" her mother whispered, her voice breaking as she gently stroked Ayesha's back and head, trying to soothe her. "You're not leaving us… You're just beginning something new." Ayesha nodded into her mother's shoulder, sobbing softly, her heart feeling like it had been split in two.

"I don't want to go, Ana… I'm scared," Ayesha whispered brokenly.

"You're strong," Mrs. Demir replied, kissing her cheeks, wiping her tears. "You are filled with iman, Ayesha. Wherever you go, Allah will be with you. And so will my duas."

Then came Mr. Demir. The tall, dignified man who had always been her rock looked unusually vulnerable. He didn't speak at first—he just opened his arms, and Ayesha collapsed into them, clutching his sherwani like a child afraid of the dark. "My princess," he murmured, his lips against her forehead as he kissed her, "this is your home forever. My door, my arms, my soul—will always be open for you. Always."

"I'll miss you so much, Baba…" she sobbed.

"I know," he said, brushing her tears away with his thumbs. "But remember, Allah is closer to you than your own heartbeat. And if you ever need strength, talk to Him first… then call me."

From the side, Zayan watched it all with an icy stare, his hands buried in his pockets, jaw tight with annoyance. His patience was thinning. How long is this going to take? It's not like she's going off to war. He shifted on his feet, avoiding his father's sharp, watchful glare.

Mr. Muhammad narrowed his eyes at his son, disappointed by the lack of emotion. His wife, Mrs. Muhammad, stood beside him with visible worry creasing her brows. She glanced between Ayesha's trembling frame and her son's frozen stance. If Ayesha ever finds out this marriage was forced… her heart will shatter, she thought. And if Zayan treats her like a stranger… it will kill her spirit.

Elif stood silently nearby, her fingers twisting nervously in her dress. She fought to keep her tears back, but her worry overwhelmed her. She wanted to hug Ayesha again. She wanted to scream at her brother. Does he not see? She's not just a girl. She's light… and he'll destroy her if he stays this cold.

Trying to break the tension, Ayesha's older brother stepped forward, smiling through red eyes. He wrapped Ayesha in a big, dramatic hug and whispered, "You sure you want to leave this cool of a brother behind?" Ayesha giggled softly through her tears, and he grinned, rubbing her head affectionately. "Listen, if you ever need anything, call me. Message me. Snap your fingers. I'll appear like a jin, ready to slap whoever made you cry." Everyone chuckled gently at his words. Even Elif laughed softly, her heart breaking but warmed by the moment.

Then, unexpectedly, Mr. Muhammad stepped toward Ayesha, his arms open. She walked into his hug, and he held her firmly, like she was his own blood. "I'm your Baba now, too," he said. "And while I'm alive… no harm will dare come near you."

Mr. and Mrs. Demir smiled tearfully at the gesture. "She's lucky to have two fathers," Mrs. Demir said warmly.

Mr. Muhammad turned to Zayan with another hard glare. "You better live up to that blessing," his eyes seemed to say. Then he turned to Mr. Demir, and they shared a firm handshake before embracing with the pride of men who had sealed a legacy. "She's safe, brother. You have my word."

Then Mr. Demir stepped toward Zayan, placing a firm, fatherly hand on his shoulder. "She's not like other women, Zayan," he said, his voice heavy but calm. "If you ever hurt her… she won't tell anyone. She'll only tell Allah. And you know what happens… when a woman tells Allah about her pain." Zayan's throat tightened for a moment. He swallowed hard, but quickly masked it with indifference. Let him hear, then, he thought bitterly. It won't change anything.

"She won't scream, or beg, or fight," Mr. Demir continued. "She'll kneel down and pray. And Allah's justice… is not something anyone escapes." His voice was gentle, but every word cut like thunder. Ayesha, watching them, felt a strange twist in her stomach. The look in her father's eyes... the tension in Zayan's.

"If you ever feel like you can't love her," Mr. Demir said more softly now, "then don't hurt her trying to pretend. Just return her to me. With dignity. With respect."

Then take her now, Zayan screamed silently in his head. Why wait? I don't want this. But all he did was nod once, cold and unreadable. Mr. Demir smiled faintly, hugged him, and patted his back. The gesture was warm. Zayan's body remained stiff like a statue. The final hugs began. Mr. and Mrs. Demir hugged Mr. and Mrs. Muhammad again, their eyes full of pride, pain, and hope. A family bond sealed by more than blood now. And then came the final moment of humor.

Ayesha's older brother turned to Elif with a mischievous smirk. He opened his arms wide and said dramatically, "Now, come on, Devrim Sultan. We must also seal our alliance with a royal embrace!"

Elif rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "I'd rather hug a cactus."

He clutched his chest as if stabbed. "Such betrayal! Right after I offered to be a jin for your sister!"

Everyone burst out laughing, even Ayesha through her tears. The air felt a little lighter again, if only for a moment. Elif finally gave in, walked over, and hugged him tightly. "Thank you for being her shield," she whispered.

"I'll always be her sword too," he whispered back.

And as the car pulled up to take the bride away, Ayesha looked back one last time, the lights of her home flickering behind her like fading stars. And in that moment—between grief, love, and fear—she prayed once more: Ya Allah, if this is my path, walk it with me. And if my heart must bleed, let it bleed only in Your remembrance.

The luxury car pulled up in front of the grand five-star hotel, its glass façade shimmering under the streetlights like polished ice. It was the place Zayan's parents had arranged for the newlyweds' wedding night—lavish, cold, and unfamiliar. The second car came to a halt just behind them. Zayan stepped out first, slamming the door with a sharp thud, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings with silent contempt. He didn't care for the roses etched into the marble walls, the soft light spilling from the entrance, or the red carpet rolled out for them. This entire event felt like a trap—a beautiful cage built from guilt, religion, and family honor. Behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Muhammad and Elif exited the second car. Zayan barely glanced at them, but the annoyance in his expression was unmistakable.

Mr. Muhammad's cold gaze settled on his son. Without saying a word, he looked at his wife and daughter. "Take Ayesha upstairs," he said with calm authority.

Mrs. Muhammad and Elif nodded. They approached the car and gently opened the door on Ayesha's side. The young bride sat inside, fingers twisted in her lap, eyes wide with nerves. Elif reached in and gently took her hand, helping her out, while her mother-in-law adjusted her hijab and smoothed the train of her gown. "Come, my dear," Mrs. Muhammad said softly. "You must be tired. Let's get you inside." Ayesha offered a small, uncertain smile, still overwhelmed, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She glanced at Zayan briefly, but he didn't meet her eyes. He stood like a statue, distant and cold. The three women entered the hotel lobby, leaving Zayan alone with his father beneath the glow of the entrance lights. The silence between them was thick with resentment.

Mr. Muhammad stepped forward, his hands folded behind his back like a commander ready for war. "Before you go inside," he said, voice low and cold, "let me make one thing clear. Don't speak to Ayesha about Liyana. Don't poison her with your past."

Zayan let out a bitter laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You still don't get it, do you?" he snapped. "I don't want this marriage. I don't care about Ayesha. I love Liyana. I always will."

His father's eyes narrowed, rage simmering beneath his composed expression. "You don't have to love Ayesha. But you will not disrespect her. If you can't be a husband… be a man. Treat her like a human being."

"I never asked for this," Zayan hissed, voice rising with every word. "You forced this on me! You threw away my life like it meant nothing! And now you want to tell me who to love, who to respect?"

Mr. Muhammad's voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "If you ever hurt her physically, emotionally, even with words-I-I—I swear to you, Zayan… you'll wish you were never born. And if you even mention Liyana to her—"

Zayan's fists clenched. "You act like I'm the villain here, but you're the one who took everything from me!" he growled. "I will do what I want. You can't control me forever!"

He turned to storm toward the entrance, but his father's voice—calm, composed, and piercing—stopped him mid-step.

"This marriage happened by Allah's will," Mr. Muhammad said. "Not mine. Not yours. Ayesha is your halal wife. You're chasing haram and calling it love. You think you're correcting Allah's plan? Marriage is a mercy, a blessing. And you want to throw it away for a curse in disguise?"

Zayan froze. Something in those words pierced deeper than he expected, but pride wouldn't let him show it. He turned around slowly, his eyes dark with fury. "Then Allah chose wrong," he spat. "And I will fix it myself."

Mr. Muhammad smiled bitterly. "Remember this night, son. Remember my words. One day, you will regret everything—what you said, what you'll do. The woman you're chasing will show you the filth behind her beauty… and the girl you're rejecting will show the world why she was always worth loving. And when that day comes—when your knees hit the floor and there's no one left—you will remember I tried to save you from yourself."

"That day will never come!" Zayan snarled. "Never."

Without another word, he turned and walked into the hotel, fists clenched, heart burning. Behind him, his father remained still, staring after his son with eyes heavy with sorrow and fire. He had lost a battle tonight—not to Zayan, but to arrogance, to blindness. And only time would show the battlefield that pride always leaves behind. Inside, on the other side of the doors, Ayesha waited alone in the bridal suite—unaware that love had not followed her there… but something far more dangerous had.

The suite was warm and breathtaking-soft, soft candlelight danced across the high walls, delicate jasmine incense curled in the air, and a golden chandelier above spilled a soft glow over the king-sized bed. On it, scattered rose petals spelled Zayan & Ayesha, joined in the centre by a heart made of red velvet roses. It was the kind of room built for fairytales. But fairytales don't begin with broken hearts.

Elif gently led Ayesha to the bed, helping her sit down carefully on the satin sheets. "I kept a prayer mat and some clothes in the closet," she whispered, adjusting the long folds of Ayesha's gown with a soft smile.

Ayesha returned the smile, her blue eyes shining with nervous excitement. "Thank you, Elif. I… I didn't know what to expect."

Elif glanced at her, a trace of sadness in her expression. "I know," she murmured.

Mrs. Muhammad joined them, sitting beside Ayesha on the bed. Her fingers lovingly brushed Ayesha's veil off her shoulders as she cradled her head. "You're not just my daughter-in-law now," she said with warmth. "You're my daughter, too. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me. I'm your ana now."

Ayesha's lips trembled with emotion. She lowered her eyes, reached out, and gently kissed the back of her mother-in-law's hand. "You're already like a mother to me," she whispered. "Thank you… for accepting me."

Mrs. Muhammad smiled and kissed her forehead. "May Allah bless your heart, habibti."

But across the room, Elif stood quietly, her arms wrapped around herself. She couldn't smile fully. Not tonight. Not when she knew the storm that was coming. Her throat tightened. With a sigh, she walked to Ayesha, knelt in front of her like she used to when they were kids, and took her hands. "Never feel alone, okay?" she whispered, kissing Ayesha's palm. "Just because you're my sister-in-law now doesn't mean our friendship changes. You're still my sister. My best friend. And you're stronger than you know."

Ayesha blinked away forming tears and cupped Elif's face with both hands. "As long as you're by my side, I'll never be afraid," she whispered. "And I'll always be your friend before anything else."

Mrs. Muhammad watched the girls, her heart quietly praying: Ya Allah, soften my son's heart… don't let him ruin this pure soul. Protect her. Protect their future.

Then the sound of the door unlocking snapped all warmth from the room. The atmosphere turned tense—cold. Zayan entered, tall, sharp, and rigid in his black suit. His face was unreadable. His hazel eyes swept once across the room, then quickly turned away. Elif stood from the floor, stepping back. Mrs. Muhammad rose as well, but not before whispering softly to Zayan and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Be kind to her," she pleaded. "Please." He said nothing. Not a nod. Not a glance. Elif bit her lip anxiously as she and her mother exited, closing the door behind them. A soft click echoed in the silence, sealing Ayesha's fate in that gilded cage.

Zayan didn't move toward her. He walked to the window instead—slow, almost casual—and stood there staring out at the glowing Bosphorus Bridge in the distance. The silence between them was suffocating. Ayesha sat still on the bed, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress, waiting for him to speak… waiting for anything. Finally, his voice cut through the silence. Cold. Emotionless. "Don't be too happy." Ayesha's heart stilled. "This marriage," he continued, eyes fixed on the bridge, "means nothing to me. It's just a compromise. A contract. Something I signed… not something I chose."

She stared at him, breath caught in her throat. Her fingers tightened over the sheets. "W-what?"

Zayan still didn't look at her. His tone remained detached. "I didn't agree to this. I was forced. For my father's sake. For the business. For the name. Not for you. I won't love you, Ayesha. I can't. So don't expect it."

Her world cracked in half.

The warmth in her chest, the silent duas, the childlike dreams she had nurtured for years—all shattered like glass. Her heart dropped, her throat tightened. She wanted to say he was joking. That he didn't mean it. But deep down, she had seen it in his eyes all along. That coldness. That indifference. He still didn't tell her about Liyana. Not because he was trying to protect her… but because she didn't even deserve to be in that conversation. She wasn't even a threat. Just an obstacle. A shadow.

"You're free to do whatever you want," he added coldly, sipping a glass of water from the side table. "Wear your veil. Pray your prayers. Live like you want. But don't interfere in my life. I'll stay out of yours."

Tears rolled freely down Ayesha's cheeks now, silent and endless. She didn't even know how to respond. Her voice had abandoned her. Her dreams lay in ruins on the rose-strewn bed.

Zayan finally turned a little, his face still unreadable. "You don't have to pretend. This marriage… It's just a show. For the world. Not for us."

Ayesha wiped her tears quickly, her fingers trembling. Her lips trembled, but her voice, when it finally came, was steady—soft, but strong. "Then let it be a show of patience."

Their eyes met for the briefest second. Hers were wet, shining with pain but also strength. His flickered—just once—with something unspoken. Then he looked away. Without another word, she rose quietly, her movements graceful despite the pain, and walked to the bathroom. The door closed behind her with a soft click. And in that room—meant to celebrate love—only silence remained. One filled with broken dreams, hidden truths, and a war neither of them knew they were about to fight.

The room sat in a still, deceptive calm—its luxury lost to the storm swirling between two hearts lying mere inches apart. Zayan turned sharply from the window, irritation clawing at his chest as his eyes fell on the rose petals scattered over the bed, spelling Zayan & Ayesha with a perfect heart stitched between the names. His jaw tightened. Something about it made him sick. A mockery. A lie dressed in roses. He reached down in one sweeping motion and raked his hand through the petals, scattering them on the floor with cold precision. The heart broke first.

Then their names disappeared—just like how he intended their so-called union to. He yanked off his suit jacket and threw it onto the couch with a frustrated grunt. Each movement was sharp, deliberate, filled with quiet rage. The bed was too soft. The silence is too loud. He turned off the bedside lamp and lay down, turning his back to the room. Darkness folded around him, but his thoughts were still ablaze.

Some minutes passed. The sound of the bathroom door opening pulled gently at the edge of his consciousness. He didn't move. Just listened. Pretended to sleep. It's her, he thought bitterly. Playing the obedient bride. Ayesha stepped out quietly, wrapped in a modest satin nightgown and still in her hijab. She paused, eyes adjusting to the dim light. Her heart ached as she saw Zayan already in bed, facing away. No words. No glance. Not even the courtesy of a look on their wedding night.

She walked to the closet, pulled out the black abaya Elif had lovingly kept for her, and clutched the folded prayer mat. With small, soft steps, she walked across the marble floor to the window, where the city lights shimmered like distant stars. Facing the Qibla, she laid down the mat gently. Her hands trembled as she put on the abaya and stood tall, alone, in silence.

Zayan heard the fabric rustle. Heard the click of her fingers locking into position. He didn't move. But he watched. His eyes, half-lidded in mock slumber, followed her every movement. Her back was to him. Her posture was poised. Her prayers flowed in whispers. He scoffed internally. Of course, he thought with silent mockery. A prayer for a marriage that should've never happened. But the longer he stared, the less mockery he felt—and more something foreign. Something he refused to name.

Ayesha's lips moved slowly as she finished the shukr prayer, one meant to be performed by a newlywed couple together. But she prayed alone. Her voice wavered silently as tears spilled, unseen by the man lying behind her. She raised her hands in dua. "Ya Allah... I won't give up. Not on this. Not on him. Please… soften his heart. Guide him. And give me sabr. Enough sabr to endure this storm. Enough love to light it." She cupped her face with both palms, burying her pain into her skin, holding her own heartbreak.

Zayan still didn't move. But he had heard every word. Not with his ears—but with his gut. He clenched his teeth, trying to shake the weight those whispered pleas left in the air. Still, he stayed quiet, unmoved on the outside, yet burning with unseen fury within.

Ayesha folded her prayer mat gently, reverently, and placed the abaya back in the closet. She didn't remove her inner cap—her scarf now worn like a dupatta. She moved to the bed with soft steps and turned off her bedside lamp, the click echoing like a soft surrender in the dark. Sliding under the blanket, she lay still, eyes wide, heart wide open and bleeding. Zayan's back remained to her. But she stared at it like one stares at a wall they once painted with dreams, now peeling and cracked. A single tear escaped her eye. Her hand lifted to her neck, where a small golden pendant glinted faintly under the moonlight through the window. Z ❤️ A. She held it between her fingers as memory struck.

She was seven. Wearing a pink frock and pigtails. On her birthday, Zayan had given her this pendant—a thin gold chain with their initials and a heart. He had bent down to her level and clasped it around her neck, whispering, "Only take this off when I give you a new one." She had laughed, thrown her arms around him, and he had picked her up and twirled her. "Kalbim seninle, benim sonsuz Deniz'im," he had said in Turkish. My heart is with you, my endless sea. 

That little girl never knew that one day her "forever" would come in the form of silence and rejection. More tears fell from Ayesha's eyes, but she didn't sob. She didn't make a sound. She just stared at the man she had loved all her life, now so close, yet galaxies away. On the other side of the bed, Zayan stared blankly ahead. His chest was tight with thoughts he didn't want to have. His fists gripped the blanket. This isn't a marriage. This is a punishment. A trap. A show. My father thinks I'll fall for her? Think again.

His heart burned hotter at the thought of Liyana. I'll prove him wrong. I'll prove her love is real. Once I get her back—once I show she loves me, not the money—I'll end this farce. I'll divorce Ayesha. I'll be free. Still, a strange silence wrapped around them. One was dreaming of saving a love already dying. The other was praying for a love yet to be born. And the distance between them, though measured in inches, was wide enough to drown an entire universe.

The faint chime of Ayesha's phone alarm broke the silence before dawn, the soft adhan tone echoing gently in the dim room. She stirred beneath the blanket, her heart still heavy but her soul tethered to purpose. Blinking at her phone screen, the time of Fajr glowed back at her. A quiet breath escaped her lips. It's time. She rose without a sound, her bare feet brushing against the cool floor. Her modest nightgown fluttered slightly as she padded toward the bathroom.

After making wudhu, she returned—her face fresh, her inner cap still tucked beneath her hijab, and her hands instinctively reaching for the black abaya folded neatly beside her prayer mat. She draped it over her frame and glanced toward the bed… where he lay. Zayan. The cold-hearted ice cube. The storm in a suit.

He was fast asleep—his back now facing up, one hand slightly curled under his cheek, lips parted just a little. In sleep, he looked like a different man. Peaceful. Vulnerable. Almost innocent. Ayesha bit her lip. Her heart fluttered. She quietly stepped closer, her gaze tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the soft flutter of his lashes. She tilted her head. Why does Allah make the ones we love the most the ones who wound us the deepest? She hesitated.

Then—biting her lip to stop herself from giggling—she took out her phone and, with a mischievous glint in her teary eyes, snapped a picture of him. "Just for me," she whispered under her breath, her voice like a breeze in the dark. Her phone slipped back into her pocket. But she didn't leave.

Instead, she kneeled by his side, resting her hand gently on the mattress near his waist, her face inches from his. "Ya Rabb," she prayed in her heart, "he's lost… but I see the goodness in him, even if he hides it under layers of arrogance and coldness. Help me guide him. I won't leave him. Not even when he pushes me away." And then, gathering every trembling ounce of courage in her chest, Ayesha bent forward, brushing a soft, feather-light kiss to his cheek. It was warm. Brief. Sacred.

Zayan didn't stir. His breath remained even, lost in dreams. But Ayesha felt the fire ignite inside her heart. She blushed, pulled back, her eyes wide with disbelief at what she had just done, then quickly looked around as if someone might've seen her. Control yourself, Ayesha! Her mind screamed, but her smile gave her away. Still, she couldn't leave without trying.

She reached out, lightly shaking his shoulder. "Zayan," she whispered gently, almost shyly. "It's Fajr. Will you… Pray with me?"

Zayan stirred, groaning. "Don't disturb me…" he muttered sleepily, his voice low and irritated. "Go pray alone. I don't pray."

Ayesha's heart sank, but she tried again. "Please," she urged softly, "just two rakats. It's important."

His voice, this time colder, cut like a blade: "I said don't disturb me. Let me sleep."

She pulled her hand back, wounded, as if the rejection had physical weight. A soft sigh escaped her lips. Her shoulders slumped, but her faith held strong. You said you won't give up… So don't, she reminded herself. She turned away from him, her steps quiet but purposeful. At the window, she laid her prayer mat and stood in the pale dawn light that spilled through the glass, washing the floor in silver. As she bowed, then knelt in sujood, her tears wet the prayer rug. But this time, her dua wasn't for her broken heart. It was for his lost soul.

"Ya Allah," she whispered, her palms raised to the heavens, "give him hidayah. Bring him back to You. Show him Your mercy. Guide his heart. Even if he never loves me, let him love You. Take him away from haram… and make him a man of Jannah." She rubbed her palms over her face, steadying her breath. Her chest was still heavy, but her resolve was stronger. She folded her prayer mat, slipped off her abaya, and returned to the bed. The silence wrapped around them again—but this time, it felt like a shield.

Lying under the covers, she turned to face him once more. His back was to her again, the same wall of silence between them. But she smiled softly, reaching for the pendant that hung at her neck. She touched it gently, whispered in Turkish, "Seni seviyorum, Zayan." I love you, Zayan. He didn't hear it. Or maybe his soul did. Her eyes fluttered closed, carrying her into sleep, still facing him. And Zayan? Still deep in slumber, unaware his wife had kissed his cheek, prayed for his heart, and loved him silently while he dreamed of someone else.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains like golden threads weaving across the room, warm and persistent. Zayan stirred under the covers, groaning softly at the intrusion of light against his closed lids. He shifted, trying to turn away from it, but as he moved, he felt the warmth of another body beside him. Slowly, his lashes fluttered open—and there she was. Ayesha. Peaceful. Gentle. Her long lashes curled against soft cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep. Her face was just inches from his—so close he could feel the soft rhythm of her breath. For a moment, Zayan didn't move. He just stared. And somewhere between that stillness, a memory flickered to life like an old film reel.

He was fourteen. Elif and Ayesha were just six. The two girls had insisted on watching a horror movie with him, claiming they were "brave grown-ups." But halfway through, they were curled on either side of him, clinging to his arms, eyes wide with terror. He'd laughed, poking fun at them, teasing, "Monsters only come for little scaredy-cats." They had pouted at him adorably and stuck to him tighter, refusing to let go. Eventually, both girls had fallen asleep in his arms—and somehow, he had too. When he woke, Ayesha's tiny face was nestled against his chest, her breath warm and soft.

He remembered brushing her hair gently from her face... and kissing her cheek. The memory faded, and so did his smile. His face hardened. That was a child. This is a woman I was forced to marry. Without another glance, he threw off the blanket and got up, walking into the bathroom without a word. The sound of the shower soon filled the room.

Back on the bed, Ayesha's eyes fluttered open at the sound of rushing water. She sat up slowly, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Her hand reached for her phone on the nightstand—10:03 a.m. Her gaze shifted to the closed bathroom door. A heaviness settled in her chest again. But before she could drown in her thoughts, a knock at the door pulled her from her silence. Opening it, she was met with Elif's excited face, and behind her, a hotel staff member pushing a breakfast trolley. Without waiting, Elif wrapped her arms around Ayesha in a warm, tight hug. But as she pulled back, her gaze immediately locked onto Ayesha's puffy red eyes. Elif's smile faltered. She didn't ask. She didn't need to. "He told you, didn't he?" Her eyes said it all. But aloud, she said nothing. Instead, she turned to the staff. "Teşekkürler. Yatağın yanına bırakın." Thank you. Leave it beside the bed. The staff obeyed and left quietly. 

Elif guided Ayesha gently to sit on the bed, her tone soft but laced with concern. "Where is he?"

Ayesha lowered her gaze. "In the bathroom."

Elif nodded but didn't let it go. She sat beside her, tucking her legs up. "Don't do that thing where you act like everything's okay. I know my brother," she said, her voice dipping between irritation and protectiveness. "I know what he said to you."

Ayesha offered a small, broken smile. "It's okay, Elif. I'm used to waiting."

"No." Elif shook her head firmly. "No, Ayesha. Don't ever get used to pain. Especially not from someone who should protect you." Her fingers found Ayesha's and squeezed. "You're not alone. You have me. Always."

Ayesha's eyes watered again, but this time with gratitude. She squeezed Elif's hand back and replied softly, "Then I'm already blessed."

Just then, the bathroom door creaked open. Zayan emerged, dressed in a black shirt and slacks, running a towel through his damp hair. He paused when he saw them. "What's she doing here?" he asked in his usual cold, uninterested voice, eyebrows slightly raised.

Elif stood dramatically, folding her arms. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe bringing you breakfast? Maybe coming to rescue my angel of a sister from your frosty silence? Maybe just existing?"

Zayan narrowed his eyes. "Drama queen," he muttered.

Elif rolled her eyes. "And you're the king of glaciers. Get over yourself."

Zayan didn't respond, but his jaw clenched. Ayesha glanced between them quietly, unsure whether to smile or hide. "Sit down," Elif said, walking toward the breakfast trolley. "We're eating. Then going home."

Zayan sighed and walked over to the couch, seating himself alone without a word. Elif grabbed Ayesha's hand and pulled her to sit beside her on the love seat, making sure Zayan was left alone with his fancy coffee and his colder-than-ice stare. The breakfast table was filled with Turkish delights—menemen, simit, honeycomb, olives, sliced cheese, fruits, and strong tea. Elif served Ayesha lovingly and whispered, "You'll need strength to deal with this oversized ego." Ayesha giggled softly. From across the room, Zayan caught that smile. For a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes. But it vanished just as quickly as it came. Three people. One table. One broken heart. One cold storm. And one sister is trying desperately to keep it all together with laughter, love, and tea. Because sometimes, the first morning after a wedding doesn't smell of romance—it smells like awkward silences, broken dreams, and buttered simit.

Zayan stood in front of the mirror, fixing the cuffs of his black shirt before shrugging on a charcoal jacket. His hair, still slightly damp from the shower, was now swept back in effortless perfection. He looked like a man carved from marble—sharp lines, a colder expression. But just as he turned to grab his watch, the bathroom door clicked open behind him. A soft rustle of fabric whispered into the silence. He looked up. Ayesha stepped out, clad in a modest lavender gown that flowed around her like spring mist. A matching hijab framed her delicate face, and though she wore no makeup, her natural beauty was stunning, soft blush on her cheeks, and those deep blue eyes glimmering like the Bosphorus under moonlight.

For a moment, the world stilled. Zayan's hazel eyes locked with hers, and everything else dissolved—the noise, the walls, the distance. Just her. A familiar ache bloomed in his chest. Why does she always look like a forgotten prayer? But the warmth in his gaze lasted only a heartbeat. His ego, sharpened by pride and poisoned by denial, rose like a shield. He looked away sharply, grabbing his wallet from the dresser as if the silence hadn't just cracked something inside him.

Elif, however, noticed it all. She practically glided toward Ayesha, her grin wide and mischievous. "Maşallah, if you don't stop looking this pretty, I swear, my brother might melt into a puddle of regret," she said in a playful whisper, her eyes twinkling.

Ayesha blushed, gently pushing her arm. "Stop it, Elif…"

Elif leaned closer, dramatically fanning herself. "No, you stop. You're glowing. Lavender was made for you, my sister."

Before Ayesha could say more, Zayan cleared his throat from across the room like a winter storm cutting through spring air. "I'm going to the car. Don't make me wait. I hate waiting," he said in a tone flat as steel. And just like that, he turned and left.

Elif narrowed her eyes at the closed door. "Ugh. And here I thought I was the dramatic one." She placed a hand on her hip, looking back at Ayesha. "Ignore him. One day, inşallah, his heart will warm. It just might take a flamethrower and a divine miracle."

Ayesha chuckled, her eyes filled with quiet hope. "I'll be patient. Sabr is stronger than fire."

Outside, Zayan leaned against the car, his hands in his pockets, sunglasses now covering his unreadable expression. When Elif and Ayesha stepped out, he straightened. He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just looked. Silently. They approached the car.

"Open the door," Elif said, crossing her arms, lifting her chin like royalty. "I'm a princess today. Serve me, peasant."

Zayan gave her the flattest stare in existence. "If you're a princess, you must be from the Kingdom of Nonsense."

Elif gasped theatrically. "You dare insult the crown?"

Ayesha suppressed a laugh, looking down as her lips twitched. Zayan sighed in annoyance, rolling his eyes hard enough to change the weather. "Fine," he muttered, and yanked open the backseat door.

"Thank you, peasant prince," Elif said sweetly, and then—like the trickster she was—nudged Ayesha forward. "Ladies first."

Zayan raised a brow. Clever girl. He didn't say it, but the thought lingered as Ayesha climbed into the car quietly. Elif stuck her tongue out at her brother with a grin before hopping in beside Ayesha. Zayan muttered under his breath, "This family is cursed with chaos," and slammed the door shut with a little more force than necessary before walking to the passenger seat. The driver started the engine.

Inside, Elif was already chatting away, arms moving, stories flying, her voice like sunshine trying to warm the glacier between the front and back seats. "…and then I told the receptionist, 'Do I look like someone who waits in line?'" she said, making Ayesha laugh softly, eyes lighting up for the first time that morning.

Zayan scowled. "Elif, do you ever stop talking?"

"No," Elif replied cheerfully. "Why? Scared I'll talk some sense into your frozen heart?"

Zayan leaned his head back against the seat and let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Remind me to revoke your sibling privileges."

Elif smirked. "Remind me to install a heater in your soul."

Ayesha giggled again, hiding it behind her scarf. Zayan looked out the window, jaw tight. But deep down, somewhere he'd never admit, a voice whispered…That laugh… I've missed it.

The car purred to a stop in front of the Muhammad family's grand mansion. As the doors opened, the breeze carried the sweet scent of blooming jasmine from the garden. Ayesha stepped out gracefully, her lavender gown swaying softly with her steps as she walked alongside Elif and Zayan. The moment they entered the opulent marble-floored foyer, Mrs. Muhammad's warm, welcoming smile greeted them from across the hall. 

Ayesha's eyes shimmered with respect as she stepped forward and greeted her with a soft, reverent "As-salamu Alaikum, Ana." She bent slightly, gently kissing the back of Mrs. Muhammad's palm, her voice laced with both affection and restraint. Mrs. Muhammad pulled her into a warm, maternal hug, whispering softly, "Hoş geldin, güzel kızım. May this house always feel like home to you." Then Ayesha turned to Mr. Muhammad, who stood tall and watchful nearby. She took his hand with grace and kissed the back of his palm, too. "Baba," she whispered. He hugged her in return, wrapping his arms around her like a true father would. "My daughter, not daughter-in-law," he murmured, his voice thick with unspoken emotion.

But even in the warmth of that love, a cold gust broke through—the sound of shoes climbing the stairs. Zayan, without a word or glance at anyone, ascended the grand staircase, his expression unreadable, jaw tight. Mrs. Muhammad's smile faltered for a moment. Elif rolled her eyes hard enough to spin the Earth. "Ice cube returns to freezer," she mumbled under her breath.

Mrs. Muhammad looped her arm with Ayesha's gently. "Come, canım. Let's sit in the living room for a while. You need rest and warmth."

In the hallway, Mr. Muhammad turned to his daughter. "Is everything alright, Elif? Did he say anything to her?" His voice was low, cautious.

Elif sighed dramatically, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. "He didn't mention her name, thankfully, but he made it clear this marriage means nothing to him. Called it forced. Said he'd never accept Ayesha. Typical ice-heart behaviour."

Mr. Muhammad closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose. "That boy…" He shook his head. "Continue to make her happy, Elif. Allah tests hearts in ways we don't understand. One day, he will realise what he's losing. Until then, we need to do sabr."

Elif nodded solemnly. "I will, Baba. She's more than a sister now—she's my heart." 

Together, they moved to the living room where Mrs. Muhammad was already seated beside Ayesha, holding her hand tenderly. "My child," she said, stroking her knuckles with motherly affection, "this is your home. Always has been. Be that same cheerful girl who used to run through this house like a breeze. Nothing has changed, only your room."

Elif slid next to Ayesha, grinning as she side-hugged her. "And now that you're officially my sister, I promise—no boring days. Spa nights, food experiments, gossip sessions, and absolutely no Zayan allowed unless he learns how to smile."

Mr. Muhammad chuckled, setting his tea cup down with a warm look in his eyes. "You'll never be alone, Ayesha. Not while this Baba breathes. I raised you alongside Elif for a reason. You're family, not by marriage, but by heart."

Ayesha smiled, her eyes misting. That pain—the silent ache left by Zayan—still throbbed in her chest, but wrapped in the comfort of her in-laws, it eased just enough for her to breathe. She felt like a candle trying to shine in the wind. Not strong, but determined. She wasn't going to give up. Elif, watching her friend so closely, whispered a prayer in her heart, Ya Allah, please make my brother open his eyes. Let her never discover the shadow of Liyana. Let her hope live…

Upstairs, in sharp contrast to the warmth below, Zayan paced in his room like a storm in a cage. His brows were furrowed, and his heart battled between guilt and stubbornness. Then his phone buzzed. A message. One name lit up the screen—Liyana. His anger evaporated like steam. A rare smile tugged at the edge of his lips. "Finally," he muttered, opening the message. Liyana: "I miss you, my love. When will I see you again? My world is dull without you." He quickly typed back, "Soon, aşkım. I'll come to you. I love you, always." He pressed send without a second thought, the thought of Ayesha vanishing from his mind like a name in the sand.

Back in the living room, laughter echoed. The maid entered politely and bowed slightly. "Afiyet olsun, lunch is ready."

Mrs. Muhammad smiled. "Thank you. Please set the table." She turned to Ayesha and gently clasped her hand. "Come, my dear. Let's eat together. You need your strength."

Mr. Muhammad stood up with a grunt of contentment, motioning the girls toward the long oak dining table, now beautifully set with steaming platters of Turkish delights, İskender kebap, dolma, pide, and baklava resting nearby like sweet treasure. He took the head seat. Beside him, his wife sat with grace. Elif and Ayesha took their places across. The aroma filled the air like home. A feast of love—except one chair was empty. "Call Zayan," Mrs. Muhammad told the maid softly. The maid bowed. "Of course, Madam," she said and disappeared upstairs.

Everyone else waited, a silence hanging heavy in the golden air—hope and hurt, prayer and pride… all sharing the same table. Zayan strolled toward the dinner table in his gray t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers, his demeanour as careless as his appearance. His hair was tousled, eyes low, jaw tight. As he reached the table, he noticed Ayesha already seated beside the chair reserved for him. His steps slowed. Discomfort curled in his gut like fire—but not from guilt, only irritation. Without a word, he turned, intending to sit far from her, but Mr. Muhammad's commanding glare cut across the room like a blade.

Zayan's jaw clenched as he reluctantly sank into the seat beside her. Ayesha, dressed in a soft peach scarf and elegant modest dress, offered him a fleeting glance—hope flickering in her blue eyes—but he didn't even acknowledge her presence. The silence around the table was thick, strained, but unspoken. The maid began placing platters of warm Turkish dishes on the table—steaming lamb stew, saffron rice, roasted eggplants with yoghurt. Everyone began eating slowly, politely, except Zayan, who dug into his food with indifference. Elif chatted with Ayesha, trying to lift the air with light humor, but her eyes flickered toward her brother with growing fury.

Suddenly, Mr. Muhammad set down his glass. His voice was calm but carried weight. "Zayan, take Ayesha out tomorrow. You're newly married. It's time to start acting like a husband."

Zayan didn't even look up. He simply kept chewing, then spoke coldly, words laced with venom. "This marriage means nothing to me. Don't expect me to act like something I'm not." His tone sliced through the warmth like ice against skin.

Ayesha blinked quickly. But it was too late—her heart cracked in her chest and her eyes welled up, tears threatening to fall into her food. She bit her lower lip, blinked again, and forced her hand to steady as she reached for water.

Mr. Muhammad's voice grew sharper. "Don't talk like that in front of your wife. You may not feel the bond, but you carry the responsibility. Allah has joined you both in sacred union."

Zayan looked up sharply, rage behind his hazel eyes. His tongue itched to spill everything—to throw Liyana's name across the table and watch it burn. But then his eyes met Ayesha's for a fleeting second—innocence, confusion, pain—and something restrained him. Not kindness. Just the thought that she didn't deserve to hear it. Not yet. He scoffed and looked away. Mrs. Muhammad touched her husband's wrist gently, her eyes urging him not to press further—not now, not in front of Ayesha.

Mr. Muhammad exhaled, angry but silent. The tension was a storm beneath the stillness. Ayesha felt as though someone had ripped out her heart and left it on the dinner plate. Elif, watching it all, gripped her spoon tightly and thought bitterly, If this weren't my brother, I'd push him off the roof with my bare hands. She turned to Ayesha, forcing a light tone. "You know what would make this meal better? My grandma's dessert recipe—next time, we're baking together. Agreed?" Ayesha smiled faintly, her lips trembling. "Agreed," she whispered, clinging to the kindness.

Zayan kept eating as if none of it mattered. His thoughts? Simple. If Ayesha weren't my wife, maybe I'd be nice to her. But now? She's a reminder of my prison. When lunch ended, he stood up without a word and walked out of the room, leaving everyone staring after his back. Upstairs, Zayan collapsed onto his bed, leaning against the headboard with a groan. He closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to escape. But peace wouldn't come. His mind was a battlefield. Then, the soft creak of the door. Light footsteps entered. He didn't open his eyes. He knew it was her. Ayesha.

She closed the door behind her gently and stood still for a moment, watching his sleeping—or pretending—form. Her heart ached like never before. She wanted to cry, scream, ask why, but she did none of it. Quiet as ever, she went to the bathroom, washed up, and changed into a comfortable light-grey dress. She wore her inner cap again and draped a soft scarf like a dupatta over her head, as modest and graceful as ever. From the shelf, she took out the Qur'an and made her way to the window where the Bosphorus shimmered under the late afternoon sun. The sea looked endless, like her hopes—vast, deep, sometimes violent, yet always returning. She placed the Qur'an on the coffee table, sat down, and opened its pages. Her voice, soft and steady, began to recite.

Zayan, still lying with closed eyes, heard her. He couldn't escape the melody of her voice. Her tone was pure, gentle, unshaken even through the sorrow he'd poured into her. And for a strange, fleeting moment, he felt calm. What is this… this warmth? he thought, mocking himself. Just words. Just noise. He told himself not to care. Not to listen.

But her voice drifted through the room like the ocean breeze—verses with meanings of mercy, of trials, of healing, of divine love. As she recited, she forgot her broken heart. For a while, she was no longer the girl whose dreams had been shattered by her own husband—she was simply a servant of Allah, holding on to Him alone. And Zayan lay there… still. Quiet. Eyes shut. But his heart, unknowingly, heard every word.

The soft scent of cardamom and saffron greeted Ayesha as she walked into the kitchen, where Mrs. Muhammad stood over a simmering pot, instructing the maid with practised ease. Ayesha smiled gently and approached. "Ana," she said warmly, "can I help you cook today?" Mrs. Muhammad turned, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her daughter-in-law. With a loving expression, she took Ayesha's hand and placed a soft kiss on her palm. "Not today, my sweet girl. This is your time to enjoy. Go laugh with Elif, go make memories with Zayan—these days won't come again. When the time is right, you'll run this kitchen better than me."

 Ayesha smiled with a nod, heart warmed, and softly replied, "Insha'Allah." She turned and left, the sound of bubbling pots fading behind her. As she returned to the bedroom, the smile faded from her lips. The door creaked open to reveal chaos. Zayan's shirt was hanging off the edge of the couch, socks scattered near the dresser, his cologne bottle on the floor, the bed unmade, and the closet doors left half open. Ayesha blinked, then chuckled to herself softly. "Still the same Zayan… always turning his room into a battlefield," she whispered. She rolled up her sleeves and began cleaning, folding his clothes, setting the pillows straight, and gently smoothing the creases in the blanket. While tidying the closet, an envelope slipped from the upper shelf. It hit the floor and burst open, a handful of photographs spilling across the polished wood. Curious, Ayesha knelt and reached to gather them.

Just as her fingers brushed one, a powerful grip clamped onto her wrist and yanked her to her feet. Her breath caught in her throat as her back slammed against the wall, hard. She winced, pain blooming in her arms as Zayan pinned her wrists above her head with both hands, his face inches from hers. His hazel eyes were molten with rage. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. His body was pressed against hers, heat radiating from his chest. She could feel his breath against her skin, could hear the fury in every syllable. "Who gave you permission to touch my things? Didn't I tell you not to interfere in my life?!"

Ayesha's eyes widened, tears springing instantly. "Zayan… you're hurting me…" she whispered, voice trembling, her eyes locked on his as his grip only tightened, fingers digging bruises into her skin.

"Oh, this is hurting?" he mocked bitterly, leaning even closer. "This marriage… you… have ruined my life. You're the reason I feel like I'm rotting in prison. Do you understand that? And now you're going through my personal things? Are you that desperate to belong in a life that doesn't want you?"

Every word struck like a blade, tearing through her hope. Her tears began to fall freely now, her lips quivering as she tried to speak, but no words could escape her broken heart. She had never imagined that the boy who once picked her flowers in the garden would be the man to crush her soul without mercy.

Zayan suddenly let go of her with a rough exhale. "Stay away from my stuff. Stay away from me." His voice was final, ice-cold. He bent down, gathered the photographs, shoved them back into the envelope without letting her glimpse the faces on them, and stuffed it back into the closet before slamming it shut. Without another glance, he stormed out of the room, the door slamming behind him with a thud that echoed in her bones. Ayesha stood frozen, her back still pressed against the wall.

Then her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor. Her palms braced against the wooden tiles as sobs broke from her chest. Her voice cracked, whispering to the silence, "What did I do so wrong, Ya Allah…? Why is he like this? He used to smile at me… he used to care…" Her hand trembled as she reached for her chest, gripping her pendant tightly, as if the past could somehow shield her from the present.

After minutes that felt like hours, she slowly got up and dragged herself into the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her tear-streaked face, trying to erase the evidence of her pain, but her eyes remained red and hollow. She dried her face with a towel, then walked quietly to the nightstand, picked up her diary, and flipped to a blank page. With a soft sigh, she wrote: "Allah sees what I do not question. He listens when I cry alone. Maybe love will never grow here. But maybe sabr will bloom."

A tear smudged the ink as it hit the paper. Ayesha closed the diary and walked to the window, gazing at the stars glimmering faintly above the Bosphorus. Her eyes were full of longing, heartbreak, and unwavering faith. "No matter how many times he breaks me… I will rise again. I won't give up. Not on him. Not on the promise I made to Allah." And in the darkness, where her heart wept silently, hope still glimmered—faint, fragile, but alive.