some fear the roses

chapter 2

​I didn’t give up. Surrender isn't in the Baghdadi vocabulary.

As Yahya walked away, his back a cold, unyielding wall, I felt a surge of something sharper than anger. It was a predatory instinct. I ran after him, my heels clicking against the pavement in a frantic, desperate rhythm. I caught up to him just as he reached the edge of the courtyard, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

​"Yahya! Stop! Please!" I cried out, my voice cracking perfectly.

​He stopped, but he didn't turn around immediately. I could see his shoulders tense. I stepped in front of him, blocking his path, my eyes swimming with unshed tears.

​"Just one last time," I pleaded, reaching out as if to touch his arm but pulling back at the last second—a gesture of restraint. "I am asking you to listen to me... not with your logic, not with your judgment, but with your heart. I’ve decided to open my heart to you, Yahya. And God is my witness, I have never, ever done this with anyone else in my entire life."

​I watched him waver. The silence between us was heavy, charged with the electricity of his hesitation. Finally, he looked at me. The hardness was still there, but there was a flicker of curiosity—or perhaps, the savior complex I had been banking on.

​"I’m listening, Celine," he said, his voice a low, cautious rumble.

​I took a deep breath, letting my shoulders slump as if the weight of my secrets was finally crushing me. "You see me as a girl who has everything," I began, my voice a hollow whisper. "The clothes, the cars, the attention. But it’s all a facade. It’s a cage I built to keep the loneliness out. You talked about my father, my mother... you have no idea how right you were, and yet, how little you know of the pain behind it."

​I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a level of intimacy that felt like a confession. "Every time I laugh too loud, it’s because the silence in my house is deafening. Every time I dress to be noticed, it’s because I’m terrified of being invisible again. You are the first person who didn't just look at me—you looked through me. And even though it hurt, it was the first time I felt... seen."

​I let a single tear escape, trailing down my cheek. "I’m not asking for your love, Yahya. I’m not even asking for your friendship yet. I’m asking for a chance to be better. I’m asking you to be the mirror that shows me who I could be, not who I’ve been forced to become. Don't leave me back in that swamp. Please."

​Inside, I was counting the seconds. I could feel his defenses crumbling, the 'man of principle' being replaced by the 'protector.' The trap was set. All I needed was for him to take that final step.

​"I didn't know, Celine," he murmured, his voice softening into something resembling warmth. "I didn't realize the depth of what you were carrying."

​Victory was a cold, sweet fire in my veins. The game was mine.

​I didn’t choose honesty.

Honesty is a luxury for those who don’t have a war to win. I chose effectiveness.

​Standing before Yahya, I could feel the invisible wall he had built around himself—a fortress of morality, cold logic, and a maddening indifference. To a girl like me, a wall isn't a dead end; it’s a challenge. I didn’t need a hammer to break it; I needed a crack. I needed him to see a version of Celine that didn’t exist in the gossip columns or the flashy hallways of the university. I needed to be broken, bleeding, and utterly desperate.

​"Yahya… please, just listen to me," I whispered. I let my voice tremble, a practiced fragility that I had perfected in front of my bedroom mirror. "I know what you think of me. But I admire your difference… your strength. I’m drowning in a swamp of superficiality, and I’ve realized that you’re the only one with enough solid ground to pull me out."

​I watched him like a predator watches its prey. His eyes, which had been as hard as flint only moments ago, began to soften. The clinical detachment was flickering. This was the opening. I leaned in, invading his personal space just enough to make him feel responsible for me. I began to reveal the ‘truth’—the jagged pieces of a life I usually hide behind designer labels and expensive laughter.

​"I need someone to help me, Yahya. I don’t even know how to distinguish right from wrong anymore," I continued. I reached up, letting a stray lock of hair fall across my face, obscuring my eyes just enough to look vulnerable. "My father… he’s been a ghost for years. He’s always traveling, married to other women, living a life that has no room for a daughter like me. And my mother? To her, I’m just a social accessory. She only sees her club, her friends, and the wire transfer my father sends at the beginning of every month. I am invisible in my own home. No one knows where I am, and frankly, no one cares if I ever come back."

​For the first time, I wasn’t ‘Celine the Queen.’ I was Celine, the abandoned child. Or at least, that’s the masterpiece I was painting for him.

​Then I saw it—that unmistakable flicker of remorse in his gaze. Something took hold of him, deep in his chest. Yahya, the man of principle, was falling into the oldest trap in history: the need to be a savior. The disgust in his eyes was replaced by a protective urge. He looked at me as if I were a puzzle he had finally solved.

​"I am truly moved by your desire to change, Celine," he said, his voice dropping into a warm, steady hum. "I misjudged you. I never imagined you were this sensitive, or that you were carrying such a heavy burden. I won't leave you to face this alone. I will help you."

​Inside, my soul was screaming in triumph. The victory was intoxicating, a rush of pure power. I wanted to laugh in his face, to tell him how easy he was to break—but I held the mask. I kept my expression a perfect, agonizing blend of fragile hope and fake brokenness.

​"May God reward you for your kindness," I murmured, lowering my gaze to hide the predatory spark in my eyes. "But… I have one small request, Yahya. If I may?"

He looked at me with a gaze that was a mix of pride and love—a look he was terrified to admit even to himself.

He said softly,

"Of course… everything you wish for is possible," I whispered to him, lowering my eyes with a “calculated” and “deliberate” charm. "I just hope…" I hesitated for a second, letting out a measured sigh of fear that slipped perfectly between my lips. "I hope no one knows about our arrangement, Yahya. If anyone saw us together, they could misjudge you. I can’t bear the thought of your reputation being tarnished because of me. We’re starting a new life… a pure life. And I want to protect your image in front of these people above anything else."

The cunning in that sentence was in its subtlety. By making him feel I was protecting “his image,” I ensured no one would interrupt our game. I needed him alone with me, away from this monastery of “fake morality.” If Nancy saw us, she’d know I was winning and ruin the plan. Keeping it a secret was essential.

"Protect… my image?" he whispered softly, a hint of genuine surprise softening his gaze. The idea that someone—especially a woman—cared enough to protect him was a drug he couldn’t resist. He nodded slowly, his silence a silent promise to me.

About a week later, after intensive teaching… in a public cafeteria…

I sat there, watching him, feeling the raw, absolute energy of the “hunter.” Yahya was at a quiet corner of the cafeteria, his eyes penetrating mine with a mix of love and adoration he tried to hide behind a mask of study and psychological analysis. He thought he was helping me, saving me from myself. Little did he know I was merely “using him” to reclaim my throne.

"Yahya," I said softly, reaching out to touch his arm—a light, fleeting touch, impossible for him to misinterpret. "Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you, and I’m sure you’ll love it."

He hesitated for a moment, but his heart, now dancing to the tune I had composed, agreed. His eyes widened in shock… or maybe in awe? He muttered words I couldn’t quite understand: "A… surprise? For me?"

I smiled, a perfect blend of sweet and cunning sincerity. "Of course! If it’s not for you, then who? You’re the only one who stood by me, Yahya. When everyone was judging me, you were guiding me. You’re my ‘savior,’ the only person who didn’t let me fall. This… is just a small token of my gratitude. So please… come with me."