echoes of defiance (Rewriting)

chapter 39

Zain's POV

I love Hana with everything I am, yet here she is, asking me to accept Mahra into our lives. Mahra. The very name strikes something sharp inside me, echoing the loss of my mother. How cruel, or calculated, that they would choose someone with the same name. Did they think I’d accept her just for that? I don’t know, and I hate not knowing. I look into Hana’s eyes as she begs. She doesn’t need to say anything more; her expression reveals her inner torment. I despise seeing her like this—accepting something she detests just for my sake.

I sigh, swallowing the bitterness that rises in my throat. "Okay, just for a while," I reply, though my mind is already made up. The moment they leave, Mahra will be gone, along with divorce papers. They are the ones responsible for my mother’s death, and I can’t allow them to take anything more from me.

My thoughts wander, tracing the painful past my family tried to bury. My father had met my mother on a royal visit to Jordan. He fell for her the moment he saw her—a beautiful, fiery woman with a heart as large as the desert sky. My grandfather disapproved, wanting a Middle Eastern princess, someone who would fortify their royal bloodline. But my father wouldn’t listen. My mother, equally captivated, was her father’s favorite, the one with Brugada syndrome, his precious child. Her father could never deny her anything. And so, defying kingdoms, they married.

But love couldn’t shield them from the might of Qatar. After only two weeks of marriage, my father was dragged back to his homeland, leaving my mother behind. The next time they saw each other, I had already been born. My mother was sick, dying, and their love was all she had left. Qatar exiled them to Nigeria, where my mother’s body eventually gave out. She was buried in Jordan, her homeland, but my father wasn’t even permitted to attend her funeral. His punishment was isolation, cut off from the life they had dreamed of building together.

For this, I have no love for Qatar, no sense of duty or allegiance. The royal house rejected my mother—a white Arab—just because she was African. I owe them nothing. I have never wanted them, and I never will.

As we walk through the living room, my thoughts are interrupted. Hana trips on Mahra’s leg. "Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un," I whisper as she crashes to the floor, landing on her stomach. Horror seizes me. Blood. Hana is bleeding, crying, clinging to me, her voice weak and pained. Did Mahra do this on purpose? Was this some twisted scheme by that brat from Qatar? Rage boils within me as I scoop Hana into my arms and rush her to the car. I can barely keep my hands steady as I drive her to the university hospital.

The doctors take her away from me, forbidding me to follow. I’m her husband, for God’s sake! My heart pounds in my chest, terror settling deep within me. I can’t lose my child... or Hana. I can’t lose her. The fear consumes me, wrapping around my thoughts like a vice. Hana is the first woman I ever saw as more than just a girl. She’s the one who made me grow into the man I am, and the thought of losing her because of Qatar—because of Mahra—makes me sick.

We’ve been through so much. This girl, when everyone else saw me as dangerous, she decided to become my danger. She was the only one unafraid. I was just 14 when I first started noticing her. She’d come in and out of Amma’s house, completely oblivious to my existence, even as others trembled at the mere sight of me. It was during those days that Usman and I became close. He understood me, my loneliness. He saw how little interested I was in anything—except for his sister.

He warned me. I denied it, of course. But I confessed everything to him before leaving for Seoul. He thought I was insane, especially after the way I’d made Hana dislike me. "You’re mad," he told me, half laughing, half exasperated. It was true, though. I’d spent so much time trying to push her away, terrified of what I felt for her. And now, here we are—Hana, the woman I love, lying in a hospital bed, possibly losing our child.

Ya Rabbi, save my Hana. The words slip from my lips in a whisper, a desperate prayer. I pace the sterile hospital hallway, every nerve alight with tension. She can’t leave me. Not now, not ever.

I close my eyes, remembering my parents’ story—so much love, so much sacrifice, and yet, they were torn apart. My father’s love for my mother was fierce, defiant, and it cost them everything.

Now, standing here, I can’t help but wonder if history is trying to repeat itself. Will Qatar take everything from me too? Will Mahra, one with my mother's name , be the reason I lose everything I’ve fought to protect?

No. Not this time.

I won’t let it happen. Hana and I have been through too much, and I will fight for her with everything I have.