First night
Marriage!
A day that is engraved deeply into one’s heart. For some, it’s one of the best days of their lives; for others, it’s a new beginning. Some women see it as a celebration of becoming someone’s ‘forever,’ while others view it as the union of soulmates—each perceiving the marital bond according to their deepest desires. Yet, one element remains universally present: love. Whether it’s love for the soon-to-be spouse or the affection lavished upon them during the entire ceremony.
It is widely believed that a girl looks magnificent on her wedding day, a truth often witnessed in the tears a groom sheds upon seeing the woman he loves as his bride.
All this would have been true for Asmaira if her marriage had occurred under typical circumstances. Although her wedding unfolded exactly as she had pictured—in her modest home with only her family present to witness one of the most significant moments of her life—she was anything but happy. For her, the romantic notions about marriage and finding a soulmate were a cruel mockery of her reality. She stood there, solitary and grieving. Grieving for what had already transpired and for the dread of what lay ahead.
“I do!”
A tremor ran through her as she recalled his voice during the ceremony; the suffocating tension she felt at the moment of the vows still sent shivers down her spine. It was a voice she had never heard before, yet she could sense an unwanted, almost repulsive connection. A connection she had desperately wished to avoid forming in the first place.
She had been perfectly content in her middle-class existence until the truth emerged, shattering her peaceful world. Marriage was meant to bring joy into her life; instead of happiness, she was consumed by fear, emptiness, and profound restlessness. Instead of the comfort of her family, she was besieged by loneliness, and instead of envisioning a future filled with a husband’s love, she was terrified.
Soulmates?
When her soul was filled with nothing but utter loathing for her husband, how could anyone possibly consider them soulmates?
A solitary tear escaped her lowered gaze as she remembered the expressions on her family’s faces, particularly her father’s. The devastating thought that her father couldn’t even meet her eyes or had not been there to send her off threatened to break her composure with a sob. She clenched her hands into fists, feeling her fragile resolve slowly crumbling.
She couldn’t recall how long she had remained seated on the couch or when her co-sisters had escorted her to what felt like the devil’s lair. If, by some miracle, she could have summoned the strength, she would have refused to even step into the room—the room of the devil she was not prepared to face for the wedding night.
Any woman in the world would have coveted her position, but for Asmaira, becoming Mrs. Hashmi was a profound torment rather than a stroke of fortune. Married to the city’s most eligible bachelor, many would have instantly labeled her a gold digger from a modest background or a cunning woman who had seduced the man of the hour. If only they knew that neither assumption was true in her case. If only they could know her truth.
Asmaira sat rigid, her body tense. The silence in the room was so absolute that, at one point, she could hear her own heart frantically hammering against her ribs out of sheer terror. Afraid of being watched from the shadows of the dimly lit room, she tightly grasped her simple bridal wear, conscious of breathing softly lest that unseen shadow be disturbed. Subconsciously, she knew she was alone, but the room’s lack of light—save for the solitary table lamp beside the couch—and the terror of encountering the one person she never wanted to see made it impossible for her to think clearly.
Anyone who truly knew Asmaira understood that she had always been profoundly introverted. Like her plain appearance, her inner world was uncomplicated. She neither harbored grand expectations from anyone nor from life itself, nor did she possess the boldness required to seize control of her own destiny. Her sole dream since childhood had been to make her parents proud. Her sense of duty and gratitude toward her parents far outweighed any sense of self-love. She would sacrifice anything within her power, even abandon her own well-being, for her parents’ sake—a fact her parents were painfully aware of. No matter how much they encouraged her to build a life of her own, she consistently placed her parents’ needs above her own.
It wasn’t a result of a stern upbringing; she was simply hardwired that way. Not every human shares the same personality and traits, and just as one can’t fault people for being extroverted or ambiverted, the same holds true for introverts. Asmaira’s mother often used this defense when questioned about her daughter’s reserved nature.
Unlike other girls, she never sought attention. On the contrary, she would panic the moment she became the focus of any attention, especially from the opposite gender. Another reason she was often misunderstood was her frantic reaction when boys approached her or even tried to initiate a conversation. She considered herself “old school” when it came to men and had been relentlessly mocked for it throughout high school.
It was precisely this deeply held ideology that baffled people when she agreed to marry her husband. To an outsider, it would appear as though she had been tempted by the influential family name—the Hashmis—and the immense power that came with it. If only that were the truth.
When her back began to ache from sitting rigidly on the edge and keeping her head bowed for so long, she finally shifted. The thought of easing her stiff muscles briefly crossed her mind, only to be instantly extinguished by the prospect of coming face to face with HIM, even though he was now her husband.
“I do!”
His voice had been laced with palpable venom when he was asked for his acceptance of the marriage.
Asmaira was acutely aware of his hatred for her and was not oblivious to his undisguised contempt throughout the entire event. To make matters worse, he had left immediately after signing the marriage certificate, earning numerous raised eyebrows, most notably from his mother.
Overwhelmed by turbulent emotions, Asmaira couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of her fear. Was it the prospect of living in a strange mansion, given that she had never spent a night away from her childhood home, or the terrifying thought of sharing a room with her devil of a husband?
Was it the failure to achieve the goal that had originally brought her to the mansion, or was it her introverted personality that made survival in these absurd circumstances so difficult?
In the past, whenever she faced such a predicament, one person had always come to her rescue. She closed her eyes, visualizing that familiar face, and whispered, “Where are you? Why aren’t you here? Please come and tell me that you will figure out this problem for me, just like you always do.”
Another solitary tear fell, which she quickly wiped away with the back of her hand. She had been crying non-stop since the day she said yes to this marriage, yet she was incapable of stopping now. It had been her decision, wholly and solely, to become entangled in this union, a union built on nothing but mutual hate.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she opened her eyes and attempted to gather her courage before finally raising her head. She knew there was no path back for her, and the sooner she accepted her harsh reality, the less complicated things would inevitably become.
She scanned the room, trying to find anything familiar in the decor. Adjusting her black-rimmed glasses higher on her nose, she searched for a light switch. Smoothing down her simple bridal dress and the veil covering her head, she rose from the couch. After a few minutes of searching, she found the switch. The moment the lights flooded the room, she gasped in astonishment.
As expected, the room was decorated with undeniable class and luxury. Every corner screamed wealth and reflected the exquisite taste of its occupant. The space was large enough to encompass a two-bedroom apartment and featured sleek, contemporary furniture. Lavender plants were thoughtfully placed in each corner, creating a striking contrast against the pristine white background. One wall was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, complete with a comfortable recliner and a modern floor lamp, making it a perfect sanctuary for any book lover.
‘Just like she always wanted,’ a faint smile touched her lips for the first time in many months.
Asmaira slowly looked around in awe, momentarily forgetting her crushing fear. Every detail, every corner of the room, was a poignant reminder of ‘her.’
What truly captured her attention was a wall directly opposite the king-size bed, covered with numerous photographs of a couple. Just by looking at them, anyone could tell they were deeply in love, beaming with the brightest of smiles. The girl’s smile was so infectious that Asmaira couldn’t help but smile too, remembering how charismatic she was.
For a moment, seeing her picture, Asmaira’s misery was forgotten. The emptiness in her heart was instantly replaced by a rush of precious, endearing memories of her. Subconsciously, she raised her hand to touch the photograph, to feel her presence, as if she were there, protecting her like a shield.
Lost in her reverie, Asmaira failed to notice the presence of someone else. As she walked toward the photograph, she didn’t hear the door open, nor did she see the shadow that fell across the floor. She missed the snarl that appeared on the visitor’s face upon witnessing her in the room. In her daze, she was just about to touch the picture when a strong arm shot out and grabbed her wrist with shocking, intense force. Startled, she spun around, only to freeze instantly. Standing before her was the very person she had dreaded meeting.
His face was grim and deeply shadowed, and his eyes were filled with such raw, burning hatred that she instinctively lowered her gaze, unable to withstand his glare. She winced in pain but found herself unable to struggle free from his grip. It was as if his cold fury had shattered the last remnant of her rationality. If anyone had witnessed the scene, they would have assumed this was not their first encounter; however, this was the first time they were truly seeing each other. He had been absent during and after the wedding, much to Asmaira’s relief at the time.
Yes, she hated him with every fiber of her being, but it was also true that he topped the list of people she was absolutely terrified of. Although they had never met, much less spoken, they were connected by a deep, mutual hatred for one another.
Something about his expression made her realize she was not safe with him, not when he looked ready to tear her to pieces. She flinched when a low growl shattered the eerie silence, and she saw him eye her simple wedding dress with utter disgust.
To say she was simply scared of him at that moment would have been a profound understatement.
Instinctively, her gaze darted from the man in the picture back to the one who was painfully crushing her wrist. He was the same man from the photograph, but completely devoid of all emotion. She choked on a breath, horrified by how the same smiling face could now look so coldly menacing. The devil who, in her eyes, was the root cause of all her misery.
Amaan Hashmi, the man she hated and feared in equal measure: her HUSBAND!
