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The first few days in Jamil's mansion were nothing like Fatima had imagined. She had expected hostility, awkward silences, maybe even indifference. But Jamil surprised her. He was respectful, quiet, and unusually gentle — almost as if he was also unsure of how to behave with her.
They prayed in separate rooms, ate in silence, and barely exchanged more than a few words. Yet, Fatima could feel his eyes on her sometimes — curious, observant, perhaps even regretful.
One evening, after Maghrib, he knocked gently on her door.
"I got you a shelf for your books," he said quietly. "I know you like reading."
Fatima blinked. He remembered?
"Jazakallahu khair," she replied softly, still guarded.
That night, she stared at the ceiling for hours. Why was he being kind now? What did it mean?
Memories flooded her — of their first encounter years ago at a family wedding, the teasing banter, the spark that once existed, and how it had all soured after her father's scandal. She remembered his face the day her father was arrested — cold, disappointed, furious.
Was that the day he started hating her?
Or had he never really hated her…?
---
The days rolled into weeks, and the house settled into a quiet rhythm. Jamil often left early for work and returned late, but he made subtle efforts — a plate of her favorite food ordered in, a short note left by her prayer mat saying, *"Don't forget to rest."* It wasn't grand, but it was human. Unexpected.
Fatima, on the other hand, felt like she was living between confusion and curiosity. This was the man who once humiliated her in front of the entire boardroom, the man who had exposed her father's dealings. Yet here he was, treating her with more compassion than anyone else had.
One evening, rain poured outside as they both sat silently in the sitting room. The electricity flickered off, and the house dimmed into candlelight.
"Why did you marry me?" Her voice broke the silence, trembling.
Jamil turned slowly. "Because it was the only way I could protect you."
"You hated me."
"I never hated you," he said, his voice low. "I hated what your father did. But I could never bring myself to hate you."
Silence.
"I thought you destroyed me," she whispered. "But now… I don't even know who you are anymore."
Jamil moved closer, his eyes searching hers. "Maybe it's time we start over."Fatima's heart pounded. A thousand questions burned in her mind. But for the first time, she didn't pull away. She allowed the moment to exist — unspoken, raw, real.
The rain continued to pour, but inside, something warmer had begun to fall between them.
Not a storm.
A thaw.
—