Chapter 2 The Woman Behind the Veil

The wedding took place three days later, as the letter had promised.

It was unlike anything Ahmed had imagined. There were no dancing guests, no long tables of laughter and spice, no brotherly slaps on the back. There was only a stillness that carried weight. Sacred. Strange. Silent.

The ceremony was held at dusk in a marbled garden deep within Zafirah's old quarter, behind a set of golden gates he had never noticed before. The driver who fetched him wore no name badge. The car was spotless, black, with tinted glass that refused to show the world inside.

Ahmed sat in the back seat, dressed in a finely tailored thobe that had been delivered to his home that morning. It fit perfectly, though he'd never given anyone his measurements. He tried to still his hands. They wouldn't stop trembling.

The driver didn't speak. The guards at the gates didn't make eye contact. The courtyard he stepped into was scented with jasmine and silence. Only a few figures were present - all veiled in black or hooded in deep crimson, faces obscured.

At the center, the imam waited beside a low table draped in white silk. Beside him, stood a woman. She did not speak. She wore a red veil that reached the floor, layered and heavy, glittering with beads that looked like falling stars.

His bride.

She never gave her name. Not aloud. Not during the vows.

Her voice, when she repeated the words of union, was soft. Low. Almost afraid. But there was something steady behind it. Like a storm that had learned to be still.

When the imam declared them husband and wife, Ahmed turned to face her.

"May I...?" he began, reaching gently toward the veil.

A woman from behind stepped forward. Her hands were gloved. She lowered Ahmed's hand, softly, but firmly.

"Not yet," she said. "Your place awaits inside."

The crimson bride was escorted away.

---

Ahmed stood inside the mansion's receiving hall alone. He had been led through shadowed corridors of old stone and perfumed wood, the walls lined with carved verses and candlelight. There were no portraits. No names. Only the hush of history and something untouchable.

A steward delivered him a note on silver tray:

> Your quarters have been prepared. You are not to leave your wing without permission. Please speak to no one outside the designated attendants. Your wife will send for you when the time is right.

He stared at the letter, stunned.

He was married.

But he was not a husband.

Not yet.

---

The days passed like soft rain on glass. Quiet, and strange.

Ahmed learned that the estate had an entire wing just for him: a private library, a marble bathing room, a garden with a fountain shaped like a falcon. Attendants brought his meals, his clothes, even a selection of books and newspapers that always matched his taste exactly. There was nothing to ask for. And yet he felt like a guest in his own life.

He did not see her.

But he felt her.

Sometimes he heard footsteps beyond the garden wall. Soft. Purposeful. At night, he would find notes slipped under his door.

> Do you like poetry?

Are you a man of faith or reason?

What do you fear most?

He answered every one. Left his replies on the fountain stone. The next morning, they were always gone.

He began to wonder if he was in a dream. If the marriage had truly happened, or if he had fallen asleep and been claimed by a tale too old to be real.

Until the sixth night.

He was returning from the prayer room when he found her waiting.

She stood in the corridor that led to the east balcony, her veil down to her waist now, her hair hidden under silk, but her profile visible at last. Moonlight made her look ethereal. Real. Almost.

"You're real," he said, breathless.

She turned. Her eyes were deep brown, unreadable, like ink that had not yet dried.

"So are you," she replied.

He stepped forward.

"Why me?"

She smiled. "Because you were the only man who looked at the world the way I did. Like it owed you nothing, but offered you chances."

He wanted to ask her name. He wanted to ask why she hid. Why he was kept from the truth. But the words wouldn't come.

"When will I know who you are?" he asked instead.

Her voice softened.

"When you stop asking."

Then she was gone.

And the air around him tasted like roses and mystery.

He was a husband in a house of secrets. And his bride was both stranger and sovereign.

But something in his chest said: stay. Because love, like a veil, only lifts when it is ready.

And she... she was worth the wait.