*Chapter 4: The Wedding of Shadows*
The wedding day arrived under a sky heavy with clouds, mirroring the storm inside Fatima's heart. Friends and family gathered, but their smiles couldn't reach her eyes. Jamil sat across her, his face unreadable—was it regret, guilt, or something else? The ceremony was a fragile act, a performance to keep her father out of prison, yet each vow felt like a tether tightening around her spirit.
The soft call to *Asr* echoed in the air as Fatima sat silently in her room, draped in a royal blue *abaya* embroidered with golden threads. Her hands trembled as she stared at the delicate *henna* patterns across her palms — dark, bold, beautiful — but her heart felt everything but joy.
Outside, the compound bustled with relatives, neighbors, and friends. The *waliyy* sat under a shaded canopy, ready to give her hand in marriage. Islamic scholars recited prayers, *nasheed* played softly in the background, and the aroma of *jollof rice*, fried meat, and *zobo* filled the air.
It was a proper Muslim wedding, simple yet dignified. No music, no unnecessary display — just faith, family, and quiet formality. The *Nikkah* was conducted after *Asr*, with jamil represented by his uncle, as is tradition. Fatima's father, now free from the fear of arrest, sat quietly beside her, whispering *"Alhamdulillah"* with tears in his eyes.
When the imam asked if she accepted Jamil as her husband, her voice came out low but steady:
*"Na'am, na amince."*
(Yes, I accept.)
Applause didn't follow. Instead, there was silence, then a collective murmur of *"Barkallahufeekum"* and *"Masha Allah."* It was done.
---Got it! Here's a *spicier, emotional, and love-filled continuation* of *Chapter 4: *The Wedding Shadows** — set in a respectful Muslim context but deeper in emotion, chemistry, and tension:
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The nikah was done. The guests had left. The soft lights in the bride's new room glowed gently against the cream-colored walls. Rose petals were scattered on the white sheets. Incense lingered in the air. Everything was perfect — except Fatima's heart.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers intertwined, eyes lowered, her gold hijab slipping slightly from her head. Her heart thundered like a war drum, not from fear... but from the unknown.
The door creaked.
Jamil stepped in. Dressed in his simple white kaftan, his gaze fell on her. Not as the proud businessman everyone knew, but as a man... seeing his wife for the first time.
"Assalamu Alaikum, amaryata..." he said softly, voice low, eyes sincere.
Her breath caught. She didn't reply immediately. He came closer, slowly, leaving space but not distance. Then he sat on the prayer mat near her feet.
"I know this marriage began with pain," he said, looking up at her, "but I don't want it to remain that way. I don't want to be a punishment in your life, Fatima."She blinked, tears welling.
"I don't hate you," she whispered. "I just... don't know how to love someone who once broke me."
He nodded. "Then let's build it, brick by brick. No rush. Just... you and me. Halal."
Silence hung. Then, softly, gently, he reached for her hand. She hesitated—then let him. His palm was warm.
"In Islam, our love can start today. With Allah as witness," he whispered.
She looked up.
And for the first time that night, she smiled.
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