CHAPTER TWO
1128 Words
“He asked specifically for someone… untouched by the city. Someone soft, sincere. A woman with roots, not polish.” Her mother met her eyes now. “He said he didn’t want another socialite with a glass heart.”
Huda swallowed hard. A glass heart. The phrase sat heavy in her chest.
“How does he know Uncle Sam?” she asked, suspicion creeping in.
“They met at a business event in Johannesburg. Edward needed someone to curate a rural-themed art exhibit. Sam showed him a photo of you, one of the ones your father took when you were sixteen. Barefoot. Braiding wildflowers into Orion’s mane.”
Huda’s stomach turned. That photo?
Her mother continued, “He said… you looked like the kind of woman who knew how to love deeply. And that he hadn’t known that kind of love in his entire life.”
Huda turned back to the window, her thoughts thundering louder than the train.
A stranger with money. A man who wanted a wife born of the earth. A man who had everything, except maybe, something real.
“But what if he doesn’t like who I am now?” she whispered, almost to herself.
“What if I’m not who he imagined?”
Her mother reached out again, this time with firmer fingers.
“Then he’s the fool, not you.”
Silence fell between them again, but it was warmer this time, softer.
The city skyline was beginning to show at the horizon now, its towers like steel needles stitching new seams into the sky.
Edward Hawthorne.
British billionaire.
And somewhere at the end of the rails… waiting for her.
Huda didn’t know whether to run toward it or turn back.
But the train had already chosen for her.
And fate was waiting at the next stop.
“What if he’s hideous?”
“What if he’s cruel… or arrogant?”
“What if no one else wanted him, and he chose a girl like me because he thinks I wouldn’t know any better?”
The questions raced through Huda’s mind like a storm she couldn’t outrun. No matter how hard she pushed them aside, they returned, louder, sharper, relentless.
She glanced at her mother, breathing slow but labored, and gently adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. She had to stay calm. For her.
Outside, the train crested a wide hill, and then Huda froze.
“Oh my dayssss…”
The city unfolded before her like a dream spun from gold and glass. Towers stabbed into the sky, catching the evening sun like mirrors angled toward heaven. Curved buildings shimmered like ribbons of molten silver.
Highways pulsed with light, veins of motion and color, cars swarming like bees, honking, weaving, glowing.
It was overwhelming and utterly breathtaking.
“So this is the world he lives in…” she whispered, forehead pressed to the window.
Edward Hawthorne. The English billionaire. Her soon-to-be husband.
Back home, houses stood far apart, quiet and weatherworn. Here, everything pressed in shiny, alive, uncomfortably close.
And yet… beautiful.
The train hissed into the station. Lights flickered. Porters in crisp uniforms stood ready.
Somewhere out there, Edward was waiting.
She regained consciousness of herself and she hurriedly turned to her mom, who was oddly quiet.
“Mama, are you okay?” she asked quickly.
“I’m fine, Huddi. Just… slower than I used to be,” her mother replied with a weak smile, her voice still barely audible.
“Don’t worry Mama now that we’re in the city, you’ll get your treatment soon, and you’ll be fine again”
Her mom nodded claiming with a smile, even though she wasn’t so convinced she’d make it through this illness.
Huda tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, stood tall, and helped her mother to her feet.
No turning back now.
The girl from the hills was about to meet the man from the towers.
And the city?
It had already started whispering her name.
As they stepped off the train, a voice cut through the noise.
“Miss Huda Walden!”
She flinched.
Was that him?
She turned. A man in a neat, if unremarkable, suit walked toward her. Not chiseled. Not commanding. Kind eyes. Familiar accent.
“Hi,” she said quietly, heart thudding.
He smiled gently, took her luggage with ease, and gestured for them to follow. Huda supported her mother, guiding her carefully across the platform.
But the car waiting for them made her stop cold.
Modest. Faded paint. Dust on the dashboard. Not the gleaming black machine she’d imagined. Not the vehicle of a billionaire.
Her stomach dropped. This can’t be right.
The knot twisted deeper as they drove. Maybe Uncle Sam had lied. Maybe there was no billionaire. Maybe this was all a cruel trick to get her out of the way, to sell the ranch, claim the horses, erase her father’s legacy.
She blinked fast, fists tight in her lap. No. Not here. Not in front of her mother.
Her mother’s hand slid into hers, cold, fragile, but steady.
“Huda… we still have time. We can say no. You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” Huda said. “It’s my choice.”
Whether it was the truth or just survival, she didn’t know.
The streets outside glowed with life. Jazz floated from a street corner. A couple laughed beneath hanging café lights. A painter flung color onto canvas, a crowd circling. The city dazzled and for a brief moment, she let it.
The man still unnamed drove gently. He checked if her mother was comfortable, adjusted the air, pointed out landmarks with a soft, respectful tone.
When they reached the apartment, he carried the bags, supported her mother, and led them up three flights of stairs. No elevator. No complaints.
The apartment was warm, simple, elegant. Two bedrooms. Wooden floors. A vase of fresh lilies on the counter. The fridge was stocked. Someone had thought of everything.
Huda stood in the middle of the living room, heart thudding.
Not what she imagined. But safe. Clean. Kind.
The man lingered near the door, offering a small smile.
“Goodnight, ma’am. I’ll leave you to rest. Mr. Hawthorne wanted to ensure everything was ready for your arrival.” He extended a hand. “I’m John, by the way. His driver.”
Huda blinked. “Wait! you’re not Edward Hawthorne?”
John looked mildly amused. “Oh no, ma’am. Mr. Hawthorne will meet you tomorrow in person. He wanted everything to be perfect.”
Her breath caught. The world tilted. Her mind rewound every assumption, every beat of panic, every judgment.
So the real Edward Hawthorne was still out there.
And everything she thought she knew?
Had just changed again.
- Writer
