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...
It is out of Allah's mercy that you ˹O Prophet˺ have been lenient with them. Had you been cruel or hard-hearted, they would have certainly abandoned you. So pardon them, ask Allah's forgiveness for them, and consult with them in ˹conducting˺ matters. Once you make a decision, put your trust in Allah. Surely Allah loves those who trust in Him.
(Qur'an 3:159 Ali-Imran)
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-F A R I D-
It's been a while since I had my friends over at my place. Well, technically, it's been three days, but who's counting? Not me.
Still, the way she reacted has been nagging at me. I don't get it-what did I do wrong? I just invited a friend over. Isn't that normal?
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
Okay, fine. Maybe I shouldn't have done it without telling her first. That part's on me, I'll admit. But let's get one thing straight-I've got an ego, and there's no way I'm confronting her about this. Not gonna happen.
But man, the way she looked at me... furious and fiery... Damn. My heart skipped a beat, no joke. Those brown eyes of hers? She could burn down cities with just a glare.
And when she stormed off in the middle of our argument, brushing past me and hitting my shoulder on her way out? Shit. I swear my pulse went wild. Who knew anger could look that good?
Just thinking about that moment is enough to make my cock to twitch in my already tight jean... Ugh. Stop it, Farid. You're acting like a pervert. But seriously, who am I kidding? She's the literal epitome of beauty.
Her silky hair, and the way her scarf slips out from her head, falling against her small shoulders... God help me. I don't know what's happening to me, but it's messing with my head-and my body.
I groaned, shaking my head to clear it.
Looks like I've found a new turn-on: anger.
No, stop. Stop thinking like this. I need to get a grip. A cold bath. Yes, that's it. A cold bath is exactly what I need.
As I walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a baggy T-shirt and a pair of loose lowers, I ran the towel through my damp hair, trying to dry it off. My movements slowed when my eyes fell on her-my wife.
She was sitting on the edge of our bed, her posture tense, her hands fidgeting slightly as if she were nervous about something. I noticed the way her lips pressed together in thought, but I ignored her. Why bother? Instead, I moved toward the other edge of the bed, sat down, and pulled out my phone.
Scrolling mindlessly through my feed, I tried to focus on the screen, but her presence tugged at the edges of my attention.
"Farid," she called softly.
Something fluttered in my stomach-unexpected, unwelcome-but I chose to ignore it. Turning toward her, I kept my tone neutral, even distant. "Yes?"
She stared at me for a moment, her expression unreadable. What now? Come on, woman, just say what you want to say and get it over with.
"Sorry," she began, breaking the silence. "For the way I behaved with you downstairs."
That caught me off guard. My eyebrows raised slightly as I tried to process her words. This woman-what is she even made of? One moment, she's snapping at me like I'm the most infuriating person in the world; the next, she's apologizing as if nothing happened.
"But still, that was your fault," she added nonchalantly, breaking my brief amusement. Of course, why would she ever admit that she could be wrong? Typical.
I sighed internally, wondering why I even bothered to hope for anything different. Still, her apology stayed with me, and before I could stop myself, the words slipped out:
"It's fine. It was my fault. I'm sorry for not informing you."
Did I just apologize? Did those words actually come out of my mouth? What the hell is happening to me?
She blinked at me, her expression morphing into one of disbelief. Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, she looked like she didn't quite believe what she'd heard.
"It's fine," she finally said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. That smile-it did something strange to my chest. My heart stuttered in a way I didn't understand, a beat too fast, too erratic.
"I was thinking," she continued hesitantly, "maybe you can invite your friends for dinner tomorrow. I'll make food, so don't worry."
I stared at her, stunned. Was this the same woman who, not long ago, seemed to resent every interaction we had?
Before I could say anything, she added, "I'm not saying you can't invite anyone here. It's just... I think you should inform me beforehand. It's my house too, right?"
Her voice softened at the end, and for a fleeting moment, I felt something-an ache, a pull, a warmth I didn't want to acknowledge.
I wanted to say something, to tell her how unexpected this was, but my mind was too busy racing. The way she was looking at me-soft, sincere, maybe even hopeful-was too much. All I could do was nod stiffly, unsure of what else to do.
This woman... She made me feel things I don't want to feel. And that terrified me more than anything else.
