Binta

Chapter Eight — The Night Everything Changed

For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be afraid of happiness.

Binta was beside me.

Her fingers were still intertwined with mine.

The necklace my father had left for her rested against her chest.

And for a few precious seconds, there was no Daniel Cole.

No Tracy.

No secrets.

No dead father.

Just us.

Then my phone vibrated.

I looked down.

The photograph was still on the screen.

Binta standing beside Daniel.

Younger.

Much younger.

The message beneath it remained:

SHE CAME TO US FIRST.

I turned the phone facedown.

Binta noticed.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

She frowned.

"You've become terrible at lying."

I smiled.

"I'm learning from you."

She slapped my arm lightly.

"I don't lie."

"You do."

"About what?"

"Everything."

She smiled.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't marry me."

The smile disappeared from my face.

"Perhaps I should."

She looked at me.

"You really mean that?"

I nodded.

"I do."

Her eyes softened.

"Issa..."

I took her hand.

"Let's stop allowing everyone else to decide what happens between us."

She stared at me.

"How?"

"By making our own decision."

"And what decision is that?"

I looked into her eyes.

"I want to marry you."

She swallowed.

"But you're still carrying feelings for Tracy."

"I know."

"And Trina?"

I hesitated.

She noticed.

"Exactly."

"Binta..."

She pulled her hand away.

"I need you to understand something."

"What?"

"I don't want to be the woman you choose because everyone else disappointed you."

I stepped closer.

"You're not."

"Then why me?"

"Because when everything became complicated, you were the only person who made me want peace."

She looked down.

"I don't know whether that's enough."

"It has to be."

She smiled faintly.

"You're still annoying."

"I've been told."

She laughed.

And that laugh made me remember something.

The first time I had seen Trina.

---

THREE YEARS EARLIER

My father had been called to treat a wealthy family in Sinkor.

I had gone with him because he needed someone to carry his medical bag.

That was the official reason.

The real reason was that I hated sitting at home.

My father had warned me before we entered the compound.

"Don't embarrass me."

I looked at him.

"How?"

"Just behave."

"I always behave."

He laughed.

"That's exactly what worries me."

The house was enormous.

Marble floors.

Huge windows.

A garden that looked like it belonged in another country.

Then I heard a voice.

"You're late."

I turned.

She was standing at the top of the staircase.

Trina.

She wore a white dress and had an expression that suggested the entire world had personally offended her.

My father looked at her.

"Good afternoon."

She ignored him.

Her eyes moved toward me.

"Who's he?"

"My son."

She looked me up and down.

"Your son?"

"Yes."

She smiled.

"Interesting."

I frowned.

"What?"

"You don't look like a doctor's son."

I laughed.

"And you don't look sick."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me?"

My father cleared his throat.

"Trina, please."

She walked down the stairs.

"What's your name?"

"Issa."

She extended her hand.

I looked at it.

Then at her.

"What?"

She frowned.

"Shake my hand."

"Why?"

She stared at me.

My father closed his eyes.

I smiled.

"I don't know you."

She pulled her hand back.

"You're rude."

"You're bossy."

She looked at my father.

"Is he always like this?"

"Unfortunately."

She walked away.

I followed my father.

That was our first meeting.

It should have been the last.

It wasn't.

A week later, I saw her again.

Then again.

And again.

She started finding reasons to visit the clinic.

Sometimes she claimed to have headaches.

Sometimes she said she couldn't sleep.

Once, she came because she had "suddenly developed chest pain."

My father examined her.

"You're perfectly healthy."

She looked at me.

"I'm not."

I nearly laughed.

My father gave me a warning look.

After he left the room, Trina smiled.

"You think this is funny?"

"Very."

"You don't like me."

"I barely know you."

"You could get to know me."

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know."

She walked toward the door.

Then turned.

"You're coming with me."

"Where?"

"To get food."

"I don't want food."

"I didn't ask."

I stared at her.

She smiled.

"You're annoying."

"You've said that before."

"I mean it."

"Good."

She walked away.

I followed.

I didn't know it then, but that was how it started.

Not with romance.

Not with attraction.

With irritation.

She challenged me.

I challenged her.

She mocked my clothes.

I mocked her arrogance.

She called me poor.

I called her spoiled.

She threatened to stop talking to me.

I told her I wouldn't notice.

She always came back.

Eventually, I started waiting for her.

That was the dangerous part.

I started looking for her whenever I entered a room.

I started noticing the way she smiled when she was trying not to.

I started realizing that beneath the arrogance was a lonely girl who didn't trust many people.

And somehow, she trusted me.

---

BEFORE TRACY

But before Trina became complicated, there was Tracy.

Tracy was different.

I met her at school.

She didn't like me.

Not at first.

Actually, she hated me.

I had been sitting beneath a tree during lunch when she walked past with her friends.

One of them pointed at me.

"That's the boy who thinks he's better than everyone."

Tracy laughed.

"He doesn't look like it."

I looked up.

"You don't look intelligent either."

Her friends burst out laughing.

She stared at me.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me."

That was the beginning of our war.

For months, we fought over everything.

Seats.

Books.

Teachers.

Football.

Even who had the better handwriting.

Then one afternoon, she stayed behind after school.

I was packing my books when she approached.

"You're not as bad as I thought."

I looked at her.

"That's disappointing."

She laughed.

"Can I walk with you?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm going the same way."

"You live in the opposite direction."

She smiled.

"You noticed."

I didn't answer.

We walked together anyway.

That afternoon, she told me about her father.

About Gold Creek.

About how wealthy families could sometimes be lonelier than poor ones.

She told me she hated being treated like an investment.

I told her I hated being treated like I couldn't amount to anything because I wasn't rich.

Somewhere between those conversations, we became friends.

Then something more.

She was my first real love.

At least, that's what I believed.

We studied together.

We argued.

We made up.

We promised each other things teenagers shouldn't promise.

Forever.

It sounded beautiful then.

Forever.

I didn't know how dangerous that word could become.

---

PRESENT

"Binta?"

Her voice pulled me back.

I looked at her.

"What?"

"You disappeared."

"Sorry."

"What were you thinking about?"

"You."

She smiled.

"Liar."

"Trina."

Her smile disappeared.

"You were thinking about her?"

I nodded.

"She was the first person who taught me that people can enter your life without permission."

Binta looked away.

"And Tracy?"

"My first love."

"Do you still love her?"

I took a long breath.

"I don't know."

Binta nodded.

"I appreciate the honesty."

"But I know something."

"What?"

"If I keep looking backward, I'll never see what's standing in front of me."

She looked at me.

"And what's standing in front of you?"

I took her hand.

"You."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Issa..."

"I want to marry you."

She looked down.

"Then marry me."

I smiled.

"Tomorrow?"

She laughed.

"You're impossible."

"I've been told."

She squeezed my hand.

"Then soon."

"Very soon."

---

Three weeks later, we stood together.

There was no grand ceremony.

No politicians.

No cameras.

No extravagant celebration.

Just family.

Friends.

A few neighbors.

And the people who mattered.

My father's absence was the loudest thing in the room.

I kept looking toward the doorway, half-expecting him to walk in.

He didn't.

Binta noticed.

She squeezed my hand.

"He's here."

I looked at her.

"How?"

"In everything that brought us here."

I smiled.

For the first time since his death, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps my father had not left me completely.

After the ceremony, Binta and I returned home.

Our home.

That word felt strange.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

She stood beside the window.

I watched her.

"You look nervous."

She smiled.

"So do you."

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because this is real."

She turned.

"Are you regretting it?"

"No."

"Then what are you afraid of?"

I walked toward her.

"Failing you."

She touched my face.

"You can't promise me that you will never hurt me."

"I won't."

"You don't know that."

"Then I'll promise something else."

"What?"

"I'll never stop trying to make things right."

She smiled.

"That's better."

I kissed her forehead.

The room became quiet.

She looked into my eyes.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She took my hand.

"Then stay."

I did.

That night, the distance between us finally disappeared.

There were no speeches.

No dramatic promises.

Just two people who had spent too long being pulled apart by everyone else finally choosing each other.

We consummated our marriage that night, quietly and tenderly, with trust replacing all the fear that had followed us there.

Afterward, Binta rested her head against my chest.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then she whispered:

"Issa?"

"Yes?"

"Are you happy?"

I looked at her.

"More than I've ever been."

She smiled.

"Good."

I kissed her forehead.

She closed her eyes.

I thought the nightmare was finally over.

I was wrong.

Because while Binta slept beside me, my phone vibrated.

Once.

Then again.

I reached for it carefully.

A message from an unknown number.

Congratulations, husband.

I frowned.

Another message arrived.

You finally married Binta.

Then a photograph appeared.

I opened it.

My blood turned cold.

It was a picture of Binta.

Taken that very night.

While she was sleeping beside me.

I looked at the timestamp.

2:13 a.m.

My eyes moved to the final message.

Now ask your wife what happened the first time she met your father.

I slowly turned toward Binta.

She was still asleep.

Then her eyes opened.

She stared directly at me.

And whispered:

"Issa..."

"Yes?"

Her face went pale.

"Whatever you just saw..."

She swallowed.

"Don't believe it."

My phone vibrated again.

One final message.

Because Binta wasn't the woman who came to your father for help.

She was the woman who came to him with a warning.