Murtasim had always been good at hiding things, especially his feelings. From the outside, he seemed like the typical heir to a vast empire—confident, authoritative, and a little too full of himself. But beneath that carefully crafted facade lay a secret: he had been in love with Meerab since the day they had first crossed paths. The problem? She had always thought he couldn’t stand her.
And that was entirely his fault.
For years, he’d mastered the art of acting like he despised everything about her—her headstrong nature, her outspoken opinions, her stubbornness. All of it was a shield to protect his fragile ego, to stop her from ever realizing that her rejection could break him into a thousand pieces. So when their families arranged their marriage, forcing them together, Murtasim was secretly thrilled.
The irony? Meerab was anything but thrilled. In fact, she was furious.
---
The wedding had been a lavish affair, full of pomp and grandeur that neither of them had asked for. As they sat on the ornate stage, draped in the finest silks, surrounded by a sea of guests, Meerab's smile was forced. Every now and then, she'd glance sideways at Murtasim, who was trying—failing, rather—to look indifferent.
"This is not happening," she muttered through gritted teeth, her lips barely moving.
Murtasim, who had been watching her every move, leaned in closer, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, it's happening, Meerab. And there's nothing you can do about it."
Meerab shot him a withering glare. "I’d rather marry a donkey."
"Too late for that," he replied with a casual shrug, leaning back in his seat as though this was all part of a normal day. "But don’t worry, I’m not too different from one."
Her eyes narrowed at his attempt at humor. She didn’t laugh. Murtasim could almost hear the wheels turning in her head, planning her escape. Not that she had any real choice now. They were married. Officially bound by vows and, more importantly, their families’ honor.
---
The first night after the wedding had been tense, to say the least. Meerab had claimed the bed for herself, leaving Murtasim to sulk on the sofa in the corner. He didn’t mind, though; he had a plan. All he needed was time.
Day after day, Murtasim made attempts to win her over—small gestures, grand gestures, anything that might melt the walls she had built around her heart. But every time, his efforts backfired in the most hilarious ways.
---
Murtasim had heard somewhere that the key to a woman’s heart was through her stomach. So, one early morning, he decided to surprise Meerab with breakfast in bed.
Standing in the kitchen, Murtasim stared at the ingredients in front of him. "How hard can it be?" he muttered to himself. "People cook all the time."
By the time he finished, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Eggs were burnt beyond recognition, toast was blackened to a crisp, and somehow, there was batter on the ceiling.
He carried the tray upstairs, determined to make this work. Gently opening the bedroom door, he tiptoed in and placed the tray on the bedside table, leaning down to wake her.
"Meerab..." he whispered in what he thought was a romantic voice, only to receive a groggy groan in response.
Meerab blinked her eyes open, her gaze immediately falling on the mess in front of her. "What... is this?"
"Breakfast," Murtasim said proudly, puffing out his chest. "I made it for you."
Meerab eyed the burnt toast with visible horror, then slowly turned to look at him, her expression deadpan. "Did you cook it or fight it in a duel?"
