𝐂𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬

Chapter 47

•••
“Sometimes the walls built to protect you become the very bars that confine you.”

•••

The week passed in a blur.

Aamirah moved through the mansion like a ghost in silk—feeding Mohammed, pacing the halls, whispering lullabies into the nursery air. But her laughter, once so easily coaxed from her lips, had vanished.

And Osman?

He was a shadow.

He came home late—if at all—and when he did, it was always after she’d fallen asleep. She knew he came to their bed, because she’d wake with the faintest memory of warmth behind her. A hand on her waist. A kiss pressed into her hair.

But by morning, he was gone.

Sometimes, in those half-conscious moments before dawn, she’d feel his arms around her. Firm. Possessive. Like he was holding on to something he couldn’t name.

But in the light of day, he felt like a stranger again.

The hours they once spent sipping tea together in the winter garden or watching Mohammed giggle on the rug were nothing more than memories now—quiet, painful treasures she carried close to her chest.

---

One evening, Aamirah sat curled up by the nursery window, the lights off, her phone pressed to her ear as her mother’s voice crackled through the receiver.

“Your father misses you,” Mama said softly. “He keeps asking if you’ll come for Eid.”

Aamirah swallowed hard. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “I… I want to. I really do.”

“Then come... You sound so… tired.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m not allowed to leave.”

A pause. Then Mama’s voice, firmer: “Is he hurting you again?”

“No,” Aamirah whispered. “Not like before. It’s just…”

Control dressed in concern. Silence disguised as safety.

“I’ll try to talk to him,” she said quickly. “Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

But deep down, she wasn’t sure anymore.

That night, after hanging up the call, she sat on the edge of their massive bed, staring at the cold sheets beside her. Her throat burned. Her chest ached.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg.

She just cried. Quietly. The kind of tears that come when hope begins to dim.

“I thought we were healing,” she whispered into the dark. “I thought we had something real.”

Her sobs were muffled by the pillow, but they echoed through the emptiness of the room. She cried herself to sleep—again.

And when Osman returned in the dead of night, he stood at the doorway for a long time, watching her.

His eyes lingered on her fragile form curled around a pillow, her chest rising with every shaky breath.

He moved silently, easing into the bed, wrapping his arms around her like he always did.

But she didn’t stir.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt like the prisoner—trapped behind the walls he built, locked out of the heart he once thought he had won. But this sadness, this distance won't last long. He will win her back... soon.