Farid ibn Omar Qureshi, a 27-year-old hacker with the face of a Greek god and a sharp, cunning mind, thrives on chaos. Arrogant, charming, and an unapologetic playboy, he works for Turkey's government, living by his own rules and rejecting all notio...
And one of His signs is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves so that you may find comfort in them. And He has placed between you compassion and mercy. Surely in this are signs for people who reflect.
(Qur'an 30:21 Ar-Rum)
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-H A L A-
Maslak, Istanbul, Turkey
Marriage is often described as a sacred bond—a union built on trust, mutual respect, and love. It’s a journey where two people share their lives, their joys, and their sorrows. It’s supposed to be a haven of warmth and strength.
But here I am, married to a stranger.
Yes, I’ve only met him twice, and now, suddenly, we’re husband and wife. It’s hard to wrap my mind around it. Am I really married? Will we do all those things married couples do? Just the thought sends shivers down my spine. I’m not ready for this.
I sit on the bed—our bed, apparently. My white lehenga feels unbearably heavy, weighing me down in more ways than one.
My husband, Farid Qureshi.
What do I know about him? Not much. He’s filthy rich—like, outrageously rich. His father is one of Asia’s top businessmen, and Farid himself works for the government. Something about the NSA. He’s a hacker, which sounds impressive, I suppose. But beyond these superficial details, I know next to nothing about him.
I wait. And wait.
But he doesn’t come.
My heart doesn’t break; I didn’t expect anything from him anyway. Still, it stings a little. He shouldn’t have left me waiting like this.
Eventually, I strip off the heavy lehenga and take a bath. After slipping into something more comfortable, I decide to sleep. He’s not coming tonight, and honestly, I don’t care anymore.
The sound of my alarm wakes me up.
I yawn, rub my eyes, and sit up. But something catches my attention. Someone is lying on the couch across the room, facing me. The lights are still off, but I’m sure it’s him—my husband.
I glance at my phone. It’s 5 a.m., time for Fajr.
Quietly, I get up and head to the washroom for wudu. When I return, I glance at him again. He’s still sprawled on the couch, sound asleep.
I spread my prayer mat, focusing on my salah. The stillness of the early morning calms me, but a part of my mind remains restless, aware of his presence.
After finishing my prayers, I fold the mat and check the time. He’s still sleeping.
Should I wake him? I hesitate, debating whether to leave him be.
Finally, I approach the couch, kneeling beside him.
His thick black hair falls messily across his forehead. Even in the dim light, I can see the sharp angles of his jawline. He’s handsome, I admit, but that doesn’t make this situation any less awkward.
“Farid,” I call softly, shaking him gently.
He doesn’t respond.
“Farid, wake up. It’s time for Fajr,” I try again, shaking him a little harder.
This time, he groans and rolls over but still doesn’t wake.
I sigh, my patience wearing thin. “Farid!” I yell in his ear.
That does it. He bolts upright, looking around in confusion. “Who—who is it?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
“It’s me,” I say softly.
His eyes narrow as he turns to look at me. “Who the hell are you?” he asks, leaning closer to get a better look.
I step back slightly, feeling annoyed. “It’s time for Fajr. Wake up,” I say firmly.
He scoffs, pushing me away. I stumble back and land on the floor with a gasp.
“What are you doing?” I demand, shocked by his behavior.
“Why the hell did you wake me up?” he growls, glaring at me.
I blink, confused. “It’s time for Fajr. I thought—”
“Did I ask you to wake me?” he snaps, running a hand through his disheveled hair as if trying to calm himself.
I sit there, dumbfounded.
“Listen, woman. I don’t pray,” he says, his voice cold and dismissive.
His words hit me like a slap. I’m stunned. His father is a devout Muslim, a hafiz, and yet here he is, telling me he doesn’t pray?
Before I can respond, he lies back down on the couch. “And now, get the hell away from me,” he mutters, closing his eyes.
