It was finally the day.
My ‘wedding day.’
I’m being treated like a fragile object. The lady at the salon even offered to help me put on my wedding dress. I refused. But the dress is beautiful, I have to give it that.
Its a simple black gown, laced all over with matching black pearls. After putting on my white diamond jewelry and black heels, I look no less then a demon goddess with lips the darkest shade of red. I look gorgeous and dangerous, and I love how it all turned out.
And even though my parents are freaking out and Maha is nowhere to be found, I feel happy. There’s nothing happy about the occasion, or nothing happiness worthy was actually happening in my life, but I felt satisfied, beause whatever was going on, I had control over it. I was marrying the guy I wanted, not my parents. A man who wouldn’t dare try to control me, not ask for stupid rights or stop me from doing what I want. And because of him, I would do whatever the fuck I wanted to do, without my parents pushing me back or trying to control me. They are welcome to now sit back and watch Mansha Haseeb make their worst nightmares come true.
At around eight, father brought the car to the salon. Maha helped me get in and we all left for the wedding Hall. I notice how she looks the exact opposite of me in her white gown and long, flowing dark hair. While hers are elegantly braided and left flowing past her shoulders, mine are in an intricate bun, decorated with small pearls and with a few locks brushing my cheeks. We looked like a good and evil mashup.
The Wedding Hall was half an hour away, and minutes before we reached mom finished her speech about how I should sit quietly, stay silent and most importantly, smile.
“Now Mansha, we’re your family, we know you don’t smile. But everyone doesn’t. So smile. Wide. Or people will think you’re not happy. I don’t want you grimacing do you hear me?” I just smile and nod in response, but bells of joy were already ringing in my head.
Before I thought getting married meant captivity, being bound to someone else’s every wish. But now, with Khizer, because of the deal, I felt like a free woman, and boy was I ready to make sure everyone knew it.
Khizer’s POV:
I hadn’t realised even grooms spent their wedding day in a salon getting waxed and make uped. But apparently I was supposed to do it because I was rich and had an impression to maintain. Or at least that’s what my married cousins said. Either way, getting waxed is painful.
I’d invited all my employees to the wedding, and along with them came their gifts and gossip, which Ahsan was gracious enough to discuss with Saeed while I was getting my facial.
“Mubashir recently married Saleema did she not? Why is he coming alone today then?” I cut into Ahsan’s s sentence.
“Saleema had this huge crush on you dumbass.” Saeed said laughing.
“Yes but now she’s married to Mubashir.”
“Apparently she hasn’t moved on sir.” I could tell Ahsan was smiling.
I grunt. “Right.”
They continue on discussing her for a moment, but I don’t add anything else. Normally, I would’ve joined them, but today I just wasn’t in the mood. Already the thought of being with Mansha alone in a single room was making me anxious, and not because I was afraid of losing control or anything. Granted, Mansha was attractive, but you really aren’t in a position to consider that when you fear marriage and everything that comes with it.
That was one of the reasons I’d agreed to Mansha’s deal. At least everything sexual and intimate would be out of the books. And I was grateful for that, I really was, but that didn’t mean I’d be okay with a girl living with me in a single room, sharing the same space as me. That would mean touching, and touching means nausea, then headaches, or worse, attacks.
The thought makes me grip the armrest tighter, and I try to tell myself that it doesn’t happen with Mansha. The whole time we were in the highway house, I was okay.
But deep down I know I wasn’t. I couldn’t eat or sleep, and the headaches were a nightmare. I don’t know how I’ll bear with it now.
But I’m forced to stop thinking the moment I’m out of the chair and in my suit. It’s time to attend the biggest event of my life. My wedding.
It feels like going back to jail for some reason.
×——-×
She looks gorgeous. So fucking beautiful it’s scary, and I stop walking, surprised by my own emotions.
This is Mansha, and something about liking how she looks just feels wrong. As if she’ll find out and threaten to kill me for even thinking of her in that way.
Mansha’s POV:
Man are gross period.
But Khizer gets a pass because he’s absolutely heavenly. That man, in all his glory, with those marble eyes and sweetly smiling lips, is from another world.
I am not the simping type. But I’ll give myself a pass this time, if only for the man standing down at the entrance just staring at me. He deserves my googoo eyes.
That face, that man, he deserves my smile.
So I smile.
I walk down the aisle to him, ignoring my mother’s hisses not to, ignoring my staring relatives. Girls don’t go to recieve their husbands. They wait for them to come to her. But fuck that. I’ll grab his hand and take the walk up to the stage with him, and call it Walk of Freedom.
Khizer’s POV:
She has extended her hand, waiting for me to hold it.
I do. Because she’s smiling, and it’s so pretty it hurts. I’m so lost in her I don’t realise we’re holding hands and walking down the aisle. The entire Hall is silent, and it’s just me and her. I’m not looking at her anymore, instead looking at the small anklet she’s wearing. There’s something written on it.
I make a mental note to ask her what.
We walk the few steps up to the stage, and I wait for her to sit before sitting down myself. And that’s when I remember.
“Your flower bouquet.” I murmur.
“What?” She says, the grin plastered to her face.
“Your flower bouquet. I forgot to take it out of the car.” As if on cue, Saeed comes over hurriedly, bouquet in hand.
Mansha’s POV:
Black roses.
He got me a bouquet of black fucking roses.
“Khizer-” I say in awe, as his friend hands the bouquet to him. Smiling, he offers it to me.
“Consider it your wedding gift grump.”
I take the bouquet from him in a daze, out of words as well as senses. What do you say to a man who gets you black roses on your fake wedding? It’s no secret how expensive they are.
“Wasn’t a black dress enough? Now you had to give her black roses as well.” His grandma says, sniffing disapprovingly.
Khizer grins. “The intentions count granny, not the color.”
“But dear you shouldn’t have!” Mom says pouting. “They’re very expensive aren’t they?”
His friend laughs. “You wanna tell your mother in law how much they cost?”
I roll my eyes. “As long as he didn’t have to sell an organ, it’s ok.”
Everyone gasps at my audacity, and Khizer chuckles. “Is the evil color already getting to you?”
I bite my lip too late, the smile already out in the open.
My maternal grandma, who came from Lahore just for the wedding, kisses my forehead, and pats Khizer’s head. “You chose well Salma.” She tells mom, smiling at the two of us. “They make the perfect match.”
Khizer thanks her, but I don’t say anything, musing at how fake it all is. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m very much enjoying fooling everyone in this Hall, without an ounce of guilt in me. They asked for it.
Them and their stupid culture.