CHAPTER THREE
1353 Words
As the front door clicked shut behind John, silence folded over the apartment like a warm sigh.
Huda helped her mother into the master bedroom and tucked her in gently, fingers lingering on the edge of the quilt, eyes fixed on the fragile rhythm of her mother’s breathing. Only when she was sure she was fast asleep.
Then, needing air, needing space, she grabbed her shawl and slipped out.
The city was a kaleidoscope of light and motion, and Huda walked with wide, curious eyes, her footsteps echoing softly on the stone pavement.
The sun had dipped low, casting a deep gold over the tall buildings, making the glass windows blaze like embers.
Laughter bubbled from open-air cafés where wine glasses clinked and jazz played from someone’s speaker.
A boy zipped past her on a skateboard, and a group of girls posed for selfies beneath a mural painted in splashes of blue and violet.
Huda slowed her pace, her heart stirring with a strange, unexpected ache. Everyone here seemed to belong. Everyone had somewhere to be. Someone to talk to.
It was the feeling she’d only just learned the word for: sonder—the quiet realization that each passerby lived a life as vivid and complex as her own.
And none of them had ever seen a horse give birth, she thought dryly.
Inside a stylish corner market, warm and humming with soft music, she reached toward a sleek tin of English breakfast tea, drawn to its familiar name, another hand darted out at the same time and snatched it off the shelf.
Startled, she turned sharply.
The man beside her was tall, at least a full head taller than her. Sculpted jawline, sharp cheekbones, impeccably dressed in a navy coat over a charcoal turtleneck. His dark hair was combed back with casual precision, and his features looked like they belonged in a perfume ad.
But his face?
Cold. Completely unreadable. Not even a flicker of apology.
He glanced at her briefly with piercing eyes the color of storm clouds, then turned back to the shelf as if she were invisible.
“Excuse you,” Huda said, blinking. “I was reaching for that.”
No response.
“I guess manners don’t exist in billion-dollar cities?”
Still nothing. He simply added the tin of tea to his basket, without a word and turned to walk toward the checkout.
Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?” she called after him. “You’re not even going to say sorry?”
The man paused, looked over his shoulder at her with a faint twitch of a smirk, arrogant, amused, and then turned away without a single word.
Oh, hell no.
“Jerk!” she hissed, loud enough to earn a glance from a nearby cashier. “Next time I’ll throw the tin at your perfect, arrogant face!”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even slow down.
Huda stormed out of the store, muttering to herself as her boots clacked furiously on the pavement.
“So much for city charm.”
She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, cheeks flushed with heat, not from the chill, but from the encounter.
By the time she returned to the apartment, her pulse was still tapping a furious rhythm.
But nothing haunted her more than the quiet name that echoed through her thoughts as she drifted off to sleep:
Edward Hawthorne.
She shot awake at a car horn blaring from the street.
10:03 a.m.
Her eyes flew wide open. Ten?!
Panic hit like a slap. She scrambled through her morning, cold water, tangled hair, heartbeat in her throat.
As she stepped barefoot into the living room, adjusting the sleeves of her linen shirt, she paused.
Her mother was already awake, sitting on the couch with a cozy shawl over her lap, sipping tea.
Beside her stood John, looking all prepared for the order of the day.
“Good morning, Miss Huda,” he said with a calm, warm tone and a small smile. “You must’ve had quite the sleep.”
She blushed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I… I didn’t expect to sleep that long.”
“Not to worry,” John replied gently. “Mr. Hawthorne has made arrangements to meet with you around noon. We still have a bit of time. Would you like me to prepare breakfast or would you prefer something light before we head out?”
“Wait… noon?” she asked, blinking.
“Yes,” John said with a nod. “He prefers late mornings.
Still, her stomach twisted. Butterflies or panic. She wasn’t sure.
She looked to her mother, who gave her a tired but knowing smile. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Go easy on yourself.”
Huda nodded slowly, a lump in her throat, she couldn’t feel calm.
Not when she was about to meet the man who had bought her future.
She turned toward the window, letting the golden morning light wash over her face.
By 11:50 a.m., Huda stood in front of Hawthorne Industries, a building so tall it seemed to pierce the clouds. The gold plaque on the wall gleamed like prophecy.
John parked the car and stepped out swiftly, walking around to open her door.
“This way, Miss Huda,” he said with a gentle nod.
Inside, the air smelled of wealth, leather, coffee, ambition. The lobby was all marble and metal, polished to a mirror sheen. The chandelier above looked like a burst of stars frozen in mid-collapse.
This was his world.
They stepped into the private elevator, and John pressed the top floor 52. Huda’s heart skipped.
She clutched her purse tightly, staring at her reflection in the mirrored walls. Behind her own wide green eyes, she saw doubt, fear… and curiosity.
What kind of man lived in a glass tower?
What kind of man could afford to buy a wife with a promise and a name?
The elevator chimed.
As the doors slid open, she was immediately struck by silence, luxurious, heavy silence.
They stepped into a vast office suite flooded with natural light. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting. Every detail gleamed with precision: velvet chairs, dark oak bookshelves, minimalist art, a single orchid on the corner of an enormous desk.
And then she saw him.
Standing by the window, one hand in his pocket, was a man dressed in a deep navy suit that fit like it was sewn into his skin. His posture was relaxed but firm. His hair, dark and slightly windswept, fell across his brow as though it didn’t care to behave. He turned slowly at the sound of the elevator.
Huda’s breath caught again.
It was him, the arrogant man at the store!!
His face, so impossibly sculpted, it could’ve been chiseled from marble. But his eyes… oh, those eyes. Cold, unreadable, the shade of an overcast storm. He didn’t smile.
So calm. So composed. So…
Unreachable.
She doubts he even recognized her.
John cleared his throat. “Mr. Hawthorne… Miss Huda.”
Edward didn’t move at first. He studied her, like a man inspecting something behind glass. Then finally, he walked forward, unhurried but direct and extended his hand.
“Huda,” he said, voice deep, with that unmistakable English sharpness. “We finally meet.”
She hesitated. Then placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, warm.
“You’re… not what I expected,” she said before she could stop herself.
His brow lifted slightly. “Neither are you.”
The corners of his mouth curved, just a little. Not quite a smile. More like… curiosity, barely concealed.
“Shall we sit?” he asked, motioning to the private seating area near the window.
As they walked, her mind was racing. This man wasn’t desperate. He wasn’t hideous. He wasn’t needy.
He was dangerously composed. And far too handsome to be real.
As she sat across from him, sunlight casting lines across his face, she had one sudden, overwhelming thought:
This man… is going to change everything.
- Writer
