Chapter 1
The streets of Dubai were always alive, but nothing turned heads like Khalid Al Mazrouei on his matte-black Ducati. Dressed in black, kufi swapped for a helmet, he was known more for speed and silence than smiles. Wealthy, yes. Wild, definitely. He was the sheikh’s son who chose engines over business meetings, street rides over souls.
But beneath the tattoos peeking from under his sleeves and the chain he wore tucked beneath his shirt, was a man broken by loss. He hadn’t prayed in months. He hadn’t cared in longer.
That was, until she walked out of the masjid.
Fathima Raniya, soft-spoken and serious, wore her hijab like a crown and her eyes like warnings. She was volunteering at a refugee food drive when Khalid rode by, engine purring like a threat. She didn’t look twice. That drove him crazy.
He kept coming back. Not for charity, not for faith, but for her.
She saw him watching her from his bike across the street. Always in the shadows. Always silent. His presence loud, even when his engine wasn’t.
One evening, as she stacked food boxes, she looked up. “You hungry?” she asked flatly.
He tilted his head, surprised. “For food?” he smirked.
“For something you can’t buy,” she replied.
That was the moment it happened, obsession. Not lust. Not love. Obsession. Not for her body, but her calm. Her clarity. Her light.
He started texting her. He found her Instagram. Always respectful, never a word out of place, but always there.
“You pray five times?”
“Every day.”
“Even Fajr?”
“Especially Fajr.”
“You make me want to be better.”
She didn’t respond that time. But she read it twice.
When he showed up one day in a plain white thobe instead of biker gear, attending Friday prayer with her brother’s group, she was stunned. Afterward, he waited by his bike.
“I came for the khutbah,” he said.
She raised a brow. “Or for the girl who ignores you?”
He smiled. “Both.”
Their friendship was quiet, like whispered du’aa. But Dubai talks. Her friends warned her. His boys laughed.
“She’s too good for you.”
“She’ll change you.”
She didn’t want to change him. She just didn’t want to be hurt.
“Khalid,” she said one evening, “I don’t date. I don’t flirt. I don’t play games.”
His voice was low. “Then tell me how to love you the right way.”
