Married to my Assassin

The silk sheets felt too soft to be real. The scent in the air-jasmine and sandalwood-was unfamiliar. Warm light filtered through tall windows draped in ivory. Everything shimmered like a dream, but Zara's throat was dry, her skin clammy, her heart thudding like a war drum.

She sat up fast. Pain flared behind her eyes, sharp and sudden. Her head swam.

Where the hell was she?

The room looked like something from a billionaire's fantasy-vaulted ceilings, marble floors, gold trim, and velvet. The bed was massive, the kind only seen in palace dramas, and her body ached like it had been stitched back together. A faint beep pulsed in the background. Medical equipment?

Zara's eyes landed on the man.

He was sitting in a high-backed chair, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin. Watching her. Like a hawk.

Khalid Almasi.

The Ghost.

She froze.

His tailored black shirt clung to broad shoulders. His face was carved from something colder than stone-sharp jaw, thick brows, dark eyes like deep oil slicks. Handsome in a way that made your stomach twist. Dangerous in a way that made your soul shudder.

Zara remembered him. Of course she did.

She was sixteen when he first appeared in her father's compound in Lagos-calm, deadly, and dripping in threats. A silent storm wrapped in cashmere and menace. He'd pointed a gun at her father's head and told him to fix the deal or be buried under it.

That was the last time she saw him.

Until now.

"You're awake," he said.

His voice was low, smooth. Velvet over steel.

Zara flinched and pulled the sheet tighter around her.

"I-what is this? Where am I?"

"You're safe," Khalid said, rising to his feet. He moved with that eerie stillness, like every motion was measured. "You've been unconscious for three weeks. There was a car accident. I brought you here to recover."

"Here?" she echoed, staring around the room again. "Where is here?"

He paused beside the bed. Not touching her. Just close enough to make her nerves coil.

"My home," he said simply. "Our home."

Zara blinked. "Our-?"

She looked down. Her left hand was bandaged lightly, and beneath the gauze, something cold pressed against her finger.

She peeled it back.

A ring.

Platinum. Simple, elegant. Married.

No. No, no, no.

"What the hell is this?" she asked, voice cracking.

Khalid looked at her, unreadable. "You married me, Zara."

Her chest tightened.

"You're lying," she said. "This is insane. I would never-"

"You were scared at first. But you came to me. After everything your father did, after the people who came after you-I protected you. I pulled you out of that wreckage myself."

"I don't remember that," she whispered. "I don't remember anything."

His jaw tightened. "You had a head injury. Memory loss is expected."

Her pulse pounded.

A woman in scrubs entered the room, flanked by a tall male nurse. The woman smiled gently.

"Miss Zara, it's good to see you awake. You've been stable the last few days. The swelling's gone down, but your amnesia may persist for a while. Try not to force anything."

"Can I talk to my family?" Zara asked.

Khalid cut in. "They're being kept updated. I've told them you need space and rest."

The nurse didn't contradict him.

Zara nodded slowly, but nothing felt right. She watched the medical team leave, silence slipping back into the room like fog.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the glass of water beside her bed.

Khalid took it and handed it to her himself. Their fingers brushed.

The water hit her tongue, but it tasted like ash.

"Why don't I remember marrying you?" she asked again.

He didn't blink. "You were afraid. Then you weren't. You said you felt safe with me."

She swallowed. "That doesn't sound like me."

"You don't know what sounds like you anymore."

The room grew smaller.

He stepped back then, maybe sensing her fraying edges. "Rest. I'll be downstairs."

When the door finally clicked shut behind him, Zara breathed-truly breathed-for the first time since she woke up.

Alone, she climbed out of bed on trembling legs and made her way to the mirrored vanity. A leather-bound diary sat in the drawer beneath. Her name was embossed on the cover.

She opened it.

Most of the pages were blank.

But halfway through, scrawled in sharp, messy handwriting-her handwriting-were six words that twisted her insides to ice:

If I die, don't trust anyone. Not even Khalid.

Her knees buckled.

Zara stared at the note, bile rising in her throat.

Had she written this before the accident? Why didn't she remember? Who was she before all this?

And what had she gotten herself into?

She didn't know what game Khalid was playing-but if he thought she'd roll over and forget, he didn't know her at all.

She slipped the diary back into the drawer just as footsteps echoed down the hallway.

She climbed back into bed, heart hammering, and forced her face into a calm she didn't feel.

The door opened. Khalid stepped inside, carrying a tray with soup and pills.

Zara smiled weakly, eyes locking with his.

"Thank you," she said. "For taking care of me."

But even as she said it, she was counting the exits. Plotting her next move.

She'd pretend to believe him-for now.

But she'd find the truth.

No matter what it cost.