My Ugly Bride

My blood boiled as I stepped into the room. A heavy weight settled in my chest, pressing down like a boulder. The walls felt suffocating, the air thick with something unbearable. Do I deserve this? A voice screamed inside my head. No! This is not fair.

Why should I have to marry someone so... unattractive?

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I struggled to contain my rage. My entire life had been a series of privileges, every desire of mine indulged, every whim catered to. I had never once claimed responsibility for helping others. So why was I being punished like this?

As I stepped further into the room, my gaze locked onto the figure sitting on my bed.

Husna Ara.

The name itself felt like a joke. I didn’t know who had chosen it for her, but surely it had been given in mockery—because nothing about her embodied beauty. If anything, she was painfully ordinary. Almond-toned skin, thick curly hair, plain features. A face so utterly unremarkable, it was almost offensive to me.

And yet, my mother had chosen her for me. Me. The most attractive man in my entire family. How could she possibly expect me to accept this?

Rage curled hot in my chest. I still couldn’t believe I had been forced into this. If my mother hadn’t threatened to cut me off from the family fortune—and worse, to drink poison—I would never have gone through with it. Even now, as Husna sat there, draped in a heavy red veil, I felt a wave of resentment crash over me. She should keep her face hidden. A face like that doesn’t deserve to be seen.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. She needed to know the truth. I wouldn’t let her think, even for a second, that this marriage meant anything.

I stepped in front of her and cleared my throat.

“Look,” I began, my voice sharp. “My mother forced me into this. I married you under duress. Don’t expect anything from me. I still can’t believe you’re my wife.” I let out a humorless chuckle. “There is no match between us. I have been deceived. My mother assured me you were beautiful, and like a fool, I agreed to meet you. But the moment I saw your face, I refused. I told her—clearly—that I would never marry you. But she manipulated me, threatened me. And here we are.”

I let my words settle in the air, waiting for them to break her. Let her understand her place.

“I won’t acknowledge you as my wife,” I continued. “I will provide for you, but you are nothing to me. So don’t expect anything beyond that.”

Satisfied, I turned to leave.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Walid.”

I froze.

The voice that stopped me wasn’t timid or pleading. It was strong. Confident.

Slowly, I turned back.

Husna had risen to her feet, her veil now removed, revealing her face. Her chin was lifted, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her brows knitted together in open defiance, and in her deep brown eyes, I caught something unexpected.

Disgust.

At me.

“You aren’t the one who has been deceived, Mr. Walid,” she said coolly. “I am. I was told that you didn’t want to marry because of your career, because you thought you were too young. But if I had known it was because of something as shallow as my looks, I would have refused immediately.”

She scoffed, shaking her head.

“I still can’t believe I married someone like you. A man so pathetically obsessed with his own face. How do you even see yourself?”

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

“I am ashamed of your way of thinking,” she added, wrinkling her nose in open disgust. Then, gathering her heavy bridal lehenga in one hand, she strode past me toward the door. “Aunt Salma! Aunt Salma!” she called, her voice firm.

I stood frozen.

What just happened?

She was disgusted by me?

It should be the other way around. She should be grateful to have married someone like me. I was the most handsome man she would ever lay eyes on. And yet...

I couldn’t shake the way she had looked at me.

—--

She didn’t return to the room that night.

And yet, I couldn’t sleep.

Her words echoed in my head, relentless. I tried to push them away, but they clung to me, burrowing under my skin.

Frustrated, I woke early and went straight to the gym, throwing myself into my routine. I needed to reclaim control, to shake off this irritation.

But when I returned home, sweat still cooling on my skin, my steps faltered.

Husna was standing in the kitchen. With my mother.

She looked... unbothered. Laughing softly at something my mother had said, her lips curved into an easy smile. She was dressed well, her hair neatly styled, light makeup enhancing her features.

And yet, she was still ordinary.

The moment she noticed me, her expression shifted. Her gaze flickered to mine—just for a second—before she rolled her eyes and turned away.

I clenched my fists.

Who did she think she was?

—-

At breakfast, she was already seated beside my mother.

“Come, son. Have breakfast. We were waiting for you,” my mother said warmly.

I had no appetite.

Still, I sat down, unwilling to cause another scene. Who knew what nonsense Husna had fed my mother the night before?

“So, dear,” my mother asked, “what are your career plans?”

Husna took a bite of her roti, chewing thoughtfully before answering.

“I’ve received a few calls from different institutions. If the salary package is attractive, I might consider joining one of them.”

My mother beamed, serving more food onto her plate with her own hands. A maid had already placed the dishes on the table, but for some reason, my mother insisted on personally serving her.

Why is she so taken with this girl?

Then my mother spoke the words that sent my world spinning.

“I was thinking that before you start your job, you two should go on a honeymoon.”

The sky might as well have collapsed on my head.

Before I could respond, Husna spoke.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Salma, but I don’t think that’s feasible right now. I have interviews to prepare for and exams to take. A trip would be a distraction.”

She didn’t even look at me.

Her words stung. As if she were rejecting me.

I scoffed.

“Yes, Mother,” I added hastily. “I’m extremely busy with work as well. This wedding has already taken up too much of my time. It’s best to postpone.”

My mother sighed but said nothing.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was losing control of something.

As Husna calmly sipped her tea, her expression unreadable, one thought gnawed at my mind.

What did she tell my mother last night?

—--

This girl, this stranger imposed upon my life, had taken over my space as if she belonged. The morning after our wedding, I walked into my closet only to find her clothes neatly hung next to mine, as if she had always been there. A scent unfamiliar to me, something soft and floral, replaced the emptiness I had been used to.

I scowled. “I don’t share my closet.”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she turned from where she was folding her prayer shawl and raised a brow. “Then take your clothes and put them somewhere else.”

That was Husna. Unapologetic. Dismissive. Always leaving me without a retort.

I tried to ignore her presence, but she had a way of existing in a manner that made ignorance impossible. We had maids to take care of the house, yet two days into our marriage, she took it upon herself to cook. The aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering spices filled the air before the sun had even fully risen. It was unnecessary. Who was she trying to impress?

I got my answer soon enough. My mother was already enchanted. A week into the marriage, she insisted on throwing a gathering to introduce Husna to our relatives, colleagues, and friends. I had objected—it was unnecessary, disruptive—but my mother’s word was law. What made it worse? Husna had requested a segregated gathering. And my mother, ever eager to please her new daughter-in-law, complied.

I barely noticed the guests arriving, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries out of habit. But then she arrived. Rushna.

I felt my chest tighten. She was radiant, every step exuding confidence. Her presence commanded attention effortlessly. The way she said, “Congratulations,” was like a blade slipping between my ribs—smooth, precise, and utterly painful. I forced a smile, directing her toward the women’s section, while her father joined us.

But the party continued without me. My mind lingered where it shouldn’t.

-----

I did not like Husna. That much had always been clear. But she had something—something I couldn’t explain. She engaged with my family so naturally, speaking with my aunts, winning over my grandmother, laughing with my cousins as if she had known them her whole life. Even the ones I considered far more beautiful than her were captivated.

I had expected her to be shy, reserved, unsure. But she wasn’t. She spoke with confidence, her presence commanding attention, not through charm or beauty, but through an undeniable warmth. It unsettled me.

I didn’t want her here, but she was becoming a part of my world in ways I couldn’t control.

-----

I had assumed that once Rushna knew I was married, she would step back. That realization should have changed things. But instead, it emboldened her. She lingered in my life, in my thoughts, in the spaces where she had no place. Her laughter, once casual, now carried an edge of intent. Her glances, once fleeting, now held an invitation.

I told myself I was imagining it—until one day, Fahad confirmed it.

“She’s liked you from the start,” he said, leaning against my desk. “She just never had the courage to say it. Maybe seeing Husna gave her hope. Maybe she thinks she still has a chance.”

A chance? With me? The thought sent an unsettling thrill through me.

A few days later, Rushna invited me to lunch. I shouldn’t have agreed. But I did.

Sitting across from her, in a restaurant that smelled of freshly grilled meat and warm bread, I watched as she took a deep breath, gathering her words. Then, she said them.

“Walid, I love you.”

I exhaled sharply.

“I don’t care that you’re married. Fahad told me everything. It wasn’t your choice. Why don’t you just divorce her? Then we can be together.”

For a long moment, I stared at her, the words feeling foreign, unnatural. Divorce? It was an easy word to say. Just two syllables. But they carried the weight of destruction.

I could picture Husna in my mind—not weeping, not pleading, but standing tall with her arms crossed, her voice steady. “I told Aunt Salma I wanted to leave. She asked me to stay.”

Would she be relieved if I set her free? Or was it too late to erase the damage I had done?

I swallowed and forced the words out. “I’m sorry, Rushna. I can’t.”

A flicker of something—disbelief, maybe even anger—passed through her eyes. “Why not?”

“Because my mother loves her,” I admitted.

It sounded weak. And maybe it was. But in that moment, it was the truth.

—-

I returned home with anger simmering just beneath my skin—not at Rushna, not even at myself, but at Husna. If she weren’t in my life, none of this would be happening.

When I entered the bedroom, she was lying on the bed, a book open in her hands. The lamp cast a warm glow on her face, but she remained absorbed in her reading. She didn’t look up. Not even once.

Something about that indifference made my blood boil.

I threw my bag to the floor, letting it thud against the wooden surface. She didn’t flinch. I strode into the restroom, turned the tap on full force, splashed my face with water, and then, without thinking, tossed my wet towel onto the bed.

She picked it up silently and placed it in the laundry basket.

The quiet was unbearable.

“You don’t have any self-respect, do you?” My voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness.

She finally looked up, blinking as if I had just spoken in a foreign tongue.

“I despise you. Do you know that?” I continued, stepping closer. “You’re still here, in my house, in my room. Why? Don’t you have any shame?”

Husna closed the book with deliberate slowness and placed it on the table. She stood up, crossing her arms.

“Stop yelling. Aunt Salma is asleep.”

“Oh, cut the act. Who are you trying to impress? My mother? The servants? It won’t work. Nothing you do will ever impress me.”

She tilted her head, her gaze steady, unshaken. “You’re delusional, Walid. I have never tried to impress you.”

Her words should have stung, but instead, they unsettled me.

“Do you know why I’m still here? Why I haven’t left?” she asked.

I scoffed. “Because you like the status, the wealth—”

“Because of Aunt Salma.”

The words cut through my anger like a knife through silk.

“She begged me not to leave. The night of our wedding, I told her I wanted a divorce. She asked me to stay.”

I stared at her.

“And where were you today?” she continued, her voice softer now, almost weary. “Did you know she was sick the whole day? That she nearly fainted while waiting for you?”

I had no response.

“I did what you should have done, Walid. I took care of her. But I suppose that’s beneath you.”

She turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, empty.

—

Rushna was still willing to be my second wife. Even after I told her I wouldn’t divorce Husna. Maybe that should have made me happy. But something felt wrong.

The illusion shattered the night my mother was rushed to the hospital.

I had been with Rushna and other friends, ignoring Husna’s calls, shutting out everything but my own selfish desires. It wasn’t until I returned home at 4 a.m. that I learned the truth.

I found my mother in the ICU, looking frail and small against the endless tubes and wires. Husna sat outside, exhaustion carved into her face. The driver, Ramij Ali, was beside her.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone, Saheb?” he asked, his voice laced with disapproval. “Madam Husna called you so many times. We ran from one hospital to another, but no one would admit her without payment. Husna begged them, pleaded. She even went home to bring the money herself.”

His words felt like a slap.

I looked at Husna, really looked at her, for the first time. She didn’t gloat, didn’t throw my negligence in my face. She simply sat there, drained, her hands clasped together as if she had just finished making du’a.

“She’s stable now,” Husna murmured, her voice quiet. “InshaAllah, she’ll be discharged by noon.”

I wanted to thank her, but the words caught in my throat.

That night, for the first time, I saw the difference between a woman who cared for me and a woman who cared for my soul.

—

Mom, thankfully, had fully recovered.

I did everything I could to make up for that night. I took three days off work, dedicating myself to her care. I made sure she took her medicines on time, prepared her favorite meals, and stayed by her side as much as possible. But even as I did all this, something gnawed at me—a sense of unease I couldn’t shake.

When I finally returned to the office, I noticed something strange.

Rushna was avoiding me.

At first, I brushed it off, assuming she was busy. But then I remembered—I was supposed to meet her parents. In the chaos of Mom’s illness, the thought had completely slipped my mind.

And now, Rushna was furious.

I tried to apologize, but the moment I opened my mouth, she cut me off, her eyes flashing with something sharp—something I wasn’t used to seeing from her.

“Walid Ashraf, who do you think you are?”

I exhaled, trying to keep my voice calm. “Rushna, I already told you—I’m sorry. My mother was in the hospital.”

Her arms crossed over her chest, her expression dark with irritation. “So what, Walid? Do you have any idea how humiliated I was when you didn’t show up? You’re married already. Have you forgotten that? Do you know how much effort I had to put in just to convince my parents to meet you?”

I clenched my jaw. “My mother had a heart attack, Rushna. I was worried about her. I forgot to inform you.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Stop making excuses. Your mother didn’t die, did she? Besides, your so-called wife was there to take care of her.”

A sharp heat spread through my chest. “Rushna, enough.”

“No, Walid, why should I stop?” she snapped. “I was humiliated in front of my parents because of you!”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” she shot back, her voice laced with mockery. “Tell me, Walid, what exactly do you think you are? Some kind of prince?”

I frowned. “I never said that.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You are insufferable. I can’t believe I even considered becoming your second wife.”

Something in my stomach twisted. “Rushna, I never asked you to. That was your choice.”

Her eyes burned with frustration. “You’re so ungrateful, Walid. A coward. You couldn’t stand up to your mother, so you let her force you into a marriage you didn’t want. And then, instead of facing your reality, you started an affair with me.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

“You think you’re special? You’re not. You’re just another arrogant, ignorant man who thinks his good looks will carry him through life. But that’s all you have, Walid. A pretty face—and nothing else.”

And with that, she turned and walked away. I looked around where the people around was looking at me. I felt humiliated and the worst part that, I knew I deserved it.

Her words echoed in my mind long after she was gone.

And then, strangely, Husna’s face appeared in front of me.

I had never been kind to Husna, but she never lashed out at me. She never argued, never fought. She would just roll her eyes and walk away, her silence cutting deeper than words ever could.

Maybe she knew from the beginning.

Maybe, on the first night of our marriage, she had already seen through me. Maybe she had stayed not for me, but for my mother’s sake.

And maybe, once my mother recovered, she would leave.

A hollow feeling settled in my chest.

For the first time, I asked myself—what if I wasn’t the one who deserved better?

—I stood on the veranda, staring up at the night sky. The vast emptiness stretched before me, yet it felt no heavier than the weight pressing against my chest.

Guilt.

It had settled deep within me, suffocating, inescapable.

I didn’t know why I felt this way. Or maybe, I did.

I was lost in my own thoughts, drowning in memories I couldn’t escape, when a soft voice pulled me back.

“Here is your tea.”

I flinched at the unexpected presence and turned.

Husna.

She stood there, calm as ever, holding out a steaming cup. The dim light from the veranda cast a soft glow on her face, highlighting the quiet strength in her features.

“Oh... thanks,” I muttered, taking the cup from her hands.

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she looked out toward the sky for a moment before speaking.

“Aunt Salma is fine now,” she said. “The doctor has assured us there’s nothing to worry about.”

I nodded, managing a weak smile. “That’s... good.”

She gave a small nod, then turned to leave.

I don’t know what compelled me, but before she could step away, the words slipped out.

“Husna... thank you for everything.”

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t even turn around.

But her voice reached me, steady and matter-of-fact. “I only did it for Aunt Salma.”

No bitterness. No resentment.

Still—it hurt.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know.”

She walked away, disappearing into the house, leaving me alone once more.

A cold breeze brushed past, but the chill that ran through me had nothing to do with the weather.

Because I knew the truth.

After everything I had done—after every cruel word, every dismissive glance—Husna and I had no future.

And yet, standing there in the silence, watching the night stretch endlessly before me, only one thought echoed in my mind.

Why do we only realize what we’ve lost... when it’s already too late?

—