The flower that is struck by a storm of coldness
On a night dressed in lavish deceit, the grand ballroom of the Lakan estate shimmered with false splendor. Nobles and guests, adorned in their finest, filled the air with laughter that danced among the crystal chandeliers, their smiles mingling with the soft, luxurious melodies of string instruments. The occasion, as everyone believed, was worthy of celebration: the wedding of the family’s sole heir—Amir Lakan.
Amir, twenty-seven years old, a man whispered about behind closed doors and among hushed servants—as if his very presence was a dangerous secret. Strikingly handsome despite his blindness, he bore a pale complexion like moonlight carved into flesh, with soft, golden hair brushing against a high, regal forehead. His frame stood tall and unyielding, the body of a man who could not be broken. Yet his greatest secret was not the absence of sight, but the expression forever hidden behind his closed lids—as if guarding a world that belonged to no one but him.
He held his white cane with quiet resolve, never smiling, never turning his face to meet a greeting or a voice. Beside him, his mother Alexandra smiled with a cold, practiced grace. She moved with calculated poise, drawing eyes like a seasoned queen, as though determined to distract from the ice that emanated from her son.
Beside him stood Noor.
A twenty-three-year-old girl from a remote village barely marked on any map of the Lakan domain. Her skin, warm and deep like the earth, framed a quiet beauty; long, black hair fell down her back like threads of night, and her delicate features belonged to a life lived among trees and soil. Her light brown eyes darted across faces and chandeliers and conversations, searching for a way out—of this room, this heavy white dress, this unfamiliar destiny.
She had been told nothing about her groom except: “He is blind. Mysterious. Alexandra’s son.” And that was enough. Alexandra had said to her, with finality, “He suits you. You will be his wife.” Noor hadn’t the luxury of protest.
Alexandra moved toward them, her hands guiding them closer like actors in a scene she alone had scripted. “Come closer... a photo for the memory,” she whispered.
But the only image Noor would remember from that moment wasn’t captured by any lens. It was a feeling etched deep inside.
Then Amir spoke, barely audible, his voice soft yet firm:
“We are both forced into this. I will treat you with respect—if you stay away from me. And I will stay away from you.”
His words dropped into her heart like a stone in a deep well, heavy and sinking. During her long journey from the village to this palace, Noor had imagined tender beginnings, dreamed of a love that might grow gently with time. She had hoped to be seen—not by his eyes, but by his soul. She had hoped to be loved.
But now she stood before a man who did not want her.
In truth, a man who wanted no one.
All the sounds around her—music, laughter, polite conversation—faded into a dull silence. The world seemed to drift farther away, and she felt herself pulled inward, into a darkness that had no form. She didn’t know whether the sorrow was in his voice or in her own, swallowed before it could break free.
In that moment, the palace every girl might dream of became a glass cage—beautiful, but cold. Noor was nothing more than a flower misplaced in a vase, in a room untouched by sunlight.
She carved a false smile onto her face, just as they had taught her, and stood still beside him. Between them was nothing but his white cane… and a wall of silence.
