Whenever I'm anxiety-ridden, I unconsciously touch my temples, as if doing so will alleviate some of the tension. Currently, I'm rubbing them as if I am trying to summon a genie from a lamp.

Afshi swats my hand away. "You're going to ruin Pari's hard work."

"I'm sorry," I say aggravatedly. "I feel like I'm going to vomit, or keel over, or maybe both. In truth, I'm hoping for the latter."

She places her hands on my shoulders, as if warming me up before a race. "Calm down. You'll be fine. You'll be more than fine. Just lock your door tonight and sleep with one eye open."

I groan. "Please, stop reminding me. I don't even think I was this nervous for the Medical School Entry Exam!"

"Okay, MSEE was a joke, an infant could pass that exam with flying colors," Afshi says, straightening her beautiful, pastel blue, cropped choli. Where I was extremely conservative, she was just that much radical. She never donned a dupatta, whereas I would never leave the house without one covering my hair. We were opposites in every way possible.

The level of confidence Afshi oozed was one I strived to achieve. If she were in my place, she would've held her head high, and walked into the hall we were positioned in front of without a care in the world.

"Look at me." Afshi forces me to meet her eyes. "You can do this. You've survived a war, two deaths in your family, and medical school. The last one is the most impressive, in my opinion." I give her a look. "If there is anyone I know who can survive a situation like this, it's you. I've said this multiple times, but I need to make sure it is engraved in your brain to the point of it appearing in your dreams. You're going to be okay," she stresses the word and gently places her soft, slightly callused hands in mine.

"I know I come off as confident and arrogant, but I don't have half the bravery you do, and never will. I love you, and I've never been prouder of you for being this resilient. You think I'd be able to do this, but you're so wrong. You're one of a kind, Mahroosa Durrani, and you better stay that way." She pulls me into a tight hug, pressing her cheek against mine.

I hold in my tears and close my eyes tightly to shut out my surroundings. Tremors wrack my body like a flower in a windstorm and I can't seem to inhale enough oxygen. The sound of my heartbeat echoes loudly in my ears, drowning out all other noise. When I open my eyes, my vision is blurred, as if I'm looking through a distorted pair of lenses.

I can't see straight.

I can't think straight.

I can't do this.

Unfortunately, my window for escape comes to a close as Afshi pushes the grand doors open and places my hand in the crook of her elbow.

The music starts up, and that's our cue to begin our long walk down the endless gold-carpeted aisle. I look anywhere but the stage, because that's where the one-way entry gates to my doom and demise stand.

I can feel everyone's eyes on me exerting an unbearable pressure that forces all the air out of my lungs. The undivided attention is making me nauseous beyond measure.

An equal amount of tables line both sides of the aisle, each one adorned with lavish centerpieces in hues of champagne, gold, and cream. The gleaming gold cutlery, encased in cream napkins with gold embroidery, gleams like diamonds in the rough. As I gaze upward, I notice off-white wisteria vines cascading from the ceiling, adding an ethereal touch to the majestic ambience.

The excessive spending on this wedding is truly appalling. The entire island of Surajistan is drowning in poverty, while Rafay swims in luxury, expending money on unnecessary extravagances.

While the ostentatious display may have been excessive, I can comprehend the reasoning behind it. The prince was making a public appearance for the first time in years, nonetheless at his own wedding. Grandeur was a must.

However, it served a dual purpose. To keep up the facade of this being a love marriage and keeping my father's crime undisclosed, money had to be spent to serve as a distraction. People will talk about the decorations and the cuisine, instead of noticing the grief-stricken look on my father's face, the sternness in Afshi's gaze, and my own empty and desolate expression.

A pinch on my arm, courtesy of Afshi, keeps me from delving too deep into my thoughts. As we reach the halfway point of the aisle, my father takes Afshi's place, while she melts into the standing crowd on the left.

Be stubbornly brave, I tell myself, just like Ammi used to say.

Abbu comes to an abrupt halt, but I don't react quickly enough and nearly collide with the stage in front of us. He clutches my arm tight to stabilize me and prevent me from embarrassing myself in front of the whole kingdom.

The entire hall is deathly quiet, except for the sound of light footsteps making their way towards us. My stomach ties itself in knots like a fisherman preparing a net. I find myself wishing I hadn't had that extra cup of chai in the morning.

A pair of maroon velvet khussay enter my line of sight and pause in front of me. A hand extends towards me, palm upturned.

Stubbornly brave.

Abbu gently pries my stiff fingers off of his elbow and places my hand in the outstretched one in front of us.

Such a striking contrast between my delicate, mehndi-decorated hand and Rafay's unadorned, firm one. His skin feels coarse, akin to that of a construction laborer, but there is still an undertone of softness.

He guides me up the stairs and onto the stage, where the officiant stands, clutching a stack of papers. We sit on the decorated loveseat—how ironic—and wait for the ceremony to begin. I refuse to look at him, hanging on to the last vestige of freedom I have left.

The officiant hands us the papers that will forever bind us by law. I sign the offending document and give it back to him without reading over it. The less I look at the prison sentence I've just signed, the easier it will be for me to ignore my impending doom.

I'm hyper-aware of my surroundings. The scratching of his pen against the paper as he signs his parchment resembles sandpaper grating against a chalkboard. The rustling of the papers as he hands them to the court clerk echoes like tree branches blowing in the wind. His light breathing from next to me parallels the hum of an industrial fan.

"Mahroosa Durrani, daughter of Sufiyaan Durrani and Nomal Taimoor, do you accept Prince Rafay Ehsan Mir, son of King Ilyas Ehsan Mir and Queen Tania Rizwan, as your husband?"

Stubbornly Brave.

"Qabool hai," I say in a soft voice, keeping the waver out of it.

"Mahroosa Durrani, do you accept Rafay Mir as your husband?" the court clerk asks again.

"Qabool hai."

"Mahroosa, do you accept Rafay as your husband?" he asks for the last time. There's no going back if I say yes to this question, as my answer finalizes our union.

Stubbornly brave.

I utter the words that seal my destiny. "Qabool hai."

The officiant asks Rafay the same question he did me, thrice.

And then, it's over.

The deed has been done.

I'm no longer under my father's care, but my husband's. What great care he'll take of me, I think bitterly.

Tears gather in my eyes as the reality sinks in—I won't be living with my father anymore. Even though I know that I am doing this to protect him, the thought of leaving him alone weighs heavily on my heart.

The sound of applause grates on nerves as we turn around, hand in hand, as husband and wife. It is at that moment when I realize that I still haven't looked at Rafay.

I married a man without sparing him so much as a glance.

If someone were to tell me that about six years ago, when I was twenty, that I would be marrying someone without knowing how he looks, I would've directed them to the nearest hospital psych ward for an evaluation. Not that appearances mattered greatly to me, but to wed a man who I've never met in my life, or haven't physically seen in four years was something I would have never consented to.

I scope Afshi out in the crowd and start heading towards her. Or at least, I attempt to. Just as I reach the foot of the stairs, Rafay seizes my hand, preventing me from escaping. He pulls me to an uncongested corner and places his hands on my hips, drawing me nearer. Startled, I raise my head.

He's changed. Gone is the youthful, conniving heartbreaker of four years past. In his place stands a striking, composed figure with deep, penetrating brown eyes, tousled black hair, and a neatly trimmed stubble. He looms over me, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. 

Rafay brings his face unnervingly close to mine, his minty breath sending a tingling sensation across my lips. His nose brushes against mine and reflexively I yank my head back out of fear of our lips touching.

"We're married. Act like it," he says roughly. "You keep cowering away from me."

My lips part slightly in surprise, my heart beating violently. He had noticed that? "I mean, what other reaction do you expect from me?"

"You're acting like you're afraid of me," he says in a low voice, his thumbs rubbing light circles on my hips. I know it's just a charade, but it doesn't stop my lower stomach from clenching. Whether it's in fear or anticipation, I don't know.

"That's because I am," I mutter, more to myself than him.

Rafay places one hand on my lower back and the other between my shoulder blades, and presses my body against his. My heart lurches as he brings his face closer. His lips skim across my cheek to my ear. "Get over it." He nips my earlobe and releases me.

I shakily turn towards the throng of people and look for Afshi. I spot her talking to a man in a Royal Fauj uniform near the drinks table and stumble over to her, pushing past people who were trying to start a conversation with me.

She sees me approaching and immediately leaves the man to come hug me. "I know this isn't something to be celebrating, but congratulations. I really hope this turns into something better."

"I doubt it will," I say, remembering my encounter with Rafay. "But, thank you."

Afshi pulls back, frowning, and opens her mouth to say something, but I quickly cut her off. "I'm going to be okay, I think. I can do this," I say, trying to reassure myself more than her.

A smile grows on her beautiful, modelesque face. "That's the spirit!" she says cheerfully, and then in a quieter tone she says, "Your father will be safe thanks to you."

That alone lifts my mood enough to put a small, genuine smile on my face.

"Come on, let's dance!" She grabs my hand and leads me to the middle of the room, her blue lehnga sweeping across the floor and glinting under the golden lighting.

As we dance and twirl around to the upbeat music played by the court musicians, I catch glimpses of Rafay watching me with an unidentifiable look on his face. I ignore him, trying to make the most of my bogus wedding celebration.

Words to be Defined

Choli - a cropped blouse (South Asian attire) that is often paired with a lehnga

Khussay - a type of South Asian footwear (plural). Resemble loafers

Qabool Hai - I accept. Very widely used in Pakistan during wedding ceremonies. It is an Islamic tradition to ask the bride thrice. (However, the characters in this book are not Muslim. I have not defined a religion for the sake of focusing on just the cultures)

Author's Note: I've added Mahroosa's walk-in song in the media section