The morning after Noah's visit started with a heaviness I couldn't shake.
The sun slanted through the lace curtains, but the light felt cold and sharp, like a spotlight exposing every crack in the walls of my life.
Before I could even get out of bed, my mother's voice floated through the door, calm but insistent.
"Layla, it's time to get ready. Noah invited us to dinner tonight."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Tonight?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Yes. It's important. You have to be ready."
There was no room for argument. Her words were final — like a sentence being handed down.
Downstairs, the house was already buzzing with preparation.
My mother moved through the rooms like a conductor, orchestrating the women.
My sisters gathered in my room — five of them — each dressed in varying stages of readiness, chatting and whispering like this was some exciting event.
Reema, the eldest, was brushing her long hair while casting me expectant glances.
"Layla, you have to wear something nice. You want to make a good impression, don't you?"
Lina, younger and more skeptical, rolled her eyes.
"Don't listen to her. Just wear whatever you want."
"It doesn't matter what I want," I muttered.
"You'll wear the blue dress," Reema said firmly, holding it up. The fabric was soft, a little worn, and out of style but still better than my everyday clothes.
"No, green," Lina insisted, grabbing another dress from the closet.
The sisters bickered quietly, like they were trying to decide which fate was better to accept.
My mother appeared, impeccably dressed as always, her face set in a mask of calm determination.
She pulled me aside.
"The blue dress," she said softly. "It suits you. Elegant, modest."
I tried it on, the fabric tight across my shoulders and chest.
I didn't recognize myself in the mirror.
There was a strange woman looking back — someone ready to be sold.
Dinner was at Noah's house.
The ride over felt endless.
I stared out the window at the passing streets, familiar but suddenly alien.
When we arrived, his home was a different world — polished floors, gleaming furniture, the faint scent of expensive cologne and wood polish.
Noah opened the door himself, tall and confident.
His eyes scanned me with an unsettling intensity as he shook my father's hand.
"Layla," he said, voice smooth but cold.
The handshake lingered too long.
We sat around a heavy oak table, the soft glow of candles doing nothing to soften the stiffness in the air.
Noah led the conversation — a practiced host with an agenda.
"I've always believed a woman's role is to support her family," he said, voice low.
His eyes flicked to my chest again, and I felt a flush rise, a mixture of anger and humiliation.
"Someone who respects tradition," he added, "who knows her place."
My father's smile grew wider, pride shining in his eyes.
"That's what I want for my daughter," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction.
My mother nodded, but her eyes briefly flickered toward me, searching.
The meal was long.
Noah spoke about business — his dealerships, his successes, his previous marriages.
"I divorced twice because those women never wanted to listen" he said casually, as if announcing the weather.
I barely noticed the food anymore. My fingers twitched, wanting to push the plates away.
"I want a wife who puts family first," Noah said, almost to himself.
My father leaned forward eagerly.
"And our children," he added.
The pressure in the room was suffocating.
-
After the meal, the car ride home was silent except for the hum of the engine.
Back at home, my mother led me to my room.
She closed the door gently, turning to face me.
From a small velvet box, she produced a ring — old, delicate, a relic of a life I never wanted.
"Your grandmother's engagement ring," she said softly.
"Just say yes," she whispered, eyes shining with a mix of hope and sorrow.
"It gets easier once you accept it."
I held the ring, cold metal heavy in my palm.
The weight of generations pressed down on me, and for the first time, I wasn't sure I wanted to fight.