Sofia's pov
I still couldn't believe it.
No matter how many times I replayed last night in my head, it still didn't feel real. I kissed Khalid. Khalid Voss. My fiancé's brother. The one person in this city colder than my father's heart.
And now… I was married to him.
Not engaged. Not promised. Married.
And the worst part? My father had arranged the whole thing like it was some kind of business merger. No family meeting. No warning. No "Hey sweetie, we've decided to switch grooms, hope you don't mind."
He didn't even ask how I felt. I guess my feelings weren't worth a damn.
I stared at the ceiling of Hajara's apartment, tracing imaginary cracks just to stop myself from crying again. I had cried enough last night to fill a river — the kind that swept away your dignity and left you raw. Thank God for Hajara. She didn't just stay with me; she practically became my bodyguard-slash-therapist-slash-kidnapper. And weirdly, it helped. Waking up and seeing her face instead of a camera or a headline eased the panic in my chest.
But I couldn't hide forever.
Sooner or later, I'd have to go home… or rather, to his home.
To Khalid.
The man whose lips had ruined everything — and started something I didn't know how to finish.
I was still wrapped in Hajara's oversized hoodie, my feet tucked under me on her couch, when a knock echoed through the apartment.
Three short taps. Sharp. Calculated. Like a warning.
I froze.
Hajara stood immediately. "I'll get it," she said, voice tight. The way she walked to the door — like a lioness guarding her cub — reminded me why I loved her.
I couldn't hear who it was.
Then suddenly, GAP — a full gasp exploded from her.
"What the—" she slammed the door so fast it rattled the frame.
She turned to me like she'd seen a ghost wearing Armani.
"Sofia," she said, pressing her back to the door. "Your husband is here."
Just hearing that word — husband — hit something sharp in my chest. My eyes stung immediately. A tear slipped out, hot and traitorous. I didn't even try to stop it.
"Don't cry," Hajara whispered, wiping my face. "You want me to jump out the window with you? I swear, we can disappear. Change your name. Hair. Whole vibe. I have wigs. We can make this work."
Despite the ache in my heart, I laughed. Actually laughed. Because of course Hajara would offer witness protection and identity change before she'd let me be sad.
But I shook my head. "I have to face him. I have to face… my reality."
She watched me for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. But if he says anything shady, I'm dropkicking him."
I took a deep breath and walked to the door like it was an execution chamber. My hands shook a little. My heart thudded against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
I opened the door — and there he was.
Tall.
Sharp-jawed.
Ice in a suit.
Khalid Voss didn't speak at first. He just stood there, dressed in a black button-down and charcoal slacks, sleeves rolled slightly, revealing veined forearms that shouldn't have made me feel anything — but unfortunately did. His jaw was set, his dark eyes unreadable. If emotion lived in his face, it was currently locked behind an armored vault.
I suddenly felt small. And barefoot. And stupid for wearing a hoodie that said "I paused my game to be here."
He glanced at the hoodie but didn't comment. Thank God.
"Sofia," he said, voice low and precise, like everything he said was filtered through glass and logic. "Can we talk?"
Talk. Right. That thing married people were supposed to do. I stepped aside slowly, letting him in.
Hajara folded her arms and didn't budge an inch. "If you make her cry again," she said coolly, "I'll make sure the media finds out what brand of cologne you wear so they can hunt you down in malls."
He blinked. Then looked at me. "Is she always like this?"
"She's being polite," I mumbled.
Khalid nodded once, and walked into the apartment like he'd rather be doing open heart surgery on himself than be in someone else's living room. He stayed standing, like sitting would make him vulnerable.
"Why are you here?" I asked, pulling my sleeves down over my hands.
"To take you home," he replied. No hesitation. No warmth. Just that calm, emotionless tone he'd mastered better than anyone.
I bit my lip. "You mean your home."
He looked at me for a beat. "It's ours now."
Something in my stomach flipped.
Khalid wasn't being romantic. He didn't do that. He didn't hold hands or whisper sweet nothings. But somehow, that one line — "It's ours now" — made my walls shake a little.
"I… I'm not ready," I whispered.
"I'm not asking you to be," he replied. "But we can't delay this forever."
His eyes flicked to Hajara, and something passed between them — not hostility, but understanding. Like he respected her loyalty to me.
"I'll give you a moment to change," he said. "I'll wait outside."
And then he turned and walked out.
Just like that.
Leaving me stunned.
I stared at the door, my fingers curling into fists. He was cold. So cold. But not cruel. Not… unkind. Just distant. Like he didn't know how to be anything else.
Hajara came over and sat beside me.
"I don't trust him," she said immediately.
"I know."
"But I trust you. And if you think you can survive living with a man who makes the moon look warm, I'll support you."
I exhaled shakily. "You think I'm making a mistake?"
"I think the mistake's already been made. Now you just have to decide what you'll do with it."
I hugged her tightly. She smelled like cocoa butter and stubborn love.
Twenty minutes later, I was dressed in jeans, a soft lilac top, and flats. I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard. But I also didn't want to look like I was falling apart.
I grabbed my phone, ignored the 59 missed calls from my father, and walked to the door.
Hajara opened the window just as I was leaving.
"If he acts up," she said, "blink twice and I'll come with a taser."
I smiled. "Love you too."
Khalid opened the car door for me — a matte black luxury SUV with black-tinted windows and zero personality. Just like him.
The ride was quiet.
Too quiet.
I stared out the window while city lights bled into the sky. I could feel him glancing at me every now and then, but he didn't speak.
Until…
"I'm not your enemy," he said softly.
I turned to look at him. "Then what are you?"
He paused. "Someone who didn't ask for this either."
That hurt more than I expected.
"Oh," I said quietly, turning back to the window. "Good to know I'm not the only one forced into this marriage."
His jaw clenched. I saw it in the reflection.
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?" I whispered.
Silence.
Of course.
He didn't answer.
When we arrived at his penthouse, I expected cold marble and silence. But I didn't expect the faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood. Or the huge windows. Or the warm lighting.
Or the guest room with rose-colored sheets and a little sticky note on the pillow that read:
You can sleep here. You don't owe me anything.
And just like that, I didn't know whether to cry or forgive him.