The wedding without a choice
608 Words
Chapter Two: The Wedding Without a Choice
He was gone.
Zoya stood still, staring at the door long after Burak Aslan disappeared behind it. Her heart pounded like a prisoner banging on her ribcage. Her fingers trembled as she wrapped her arms around herself.
Why me? Who is he? What does he want?
There were no answers. Just silence, rich furnishings, and the lingering scent of tobacco.
The door creaked again, but it wasn’t Burak. This time, it was a woman — maybe in her thirties — dressed in a neat black uniform. She entered slowly, respectfully.
"Kahvaltı ister misiniz?" she asked gently.
Zoya didn’t answer.
"Breakfast," the woman added in accented English. "Turkish breakfast."
Zoya shook her head, barely whispering, "No."
The woman bowed slightly and left.
Hours passed.
She stood by the window as the golden light faded into orange, then dusky purple. Boats drifted lazily along the Bosphorus. The world outside was moving, normal, beautiful — while hers stood still.
The door opened again.
Zoya turned.
Burak entered with slow, measured steps. He held something in his hand — white, flowing, delicate.
A wedding dress.
He tossed it on the bed like a challenge.
"Get ready."
Zoya's mouth parted, her eyes wide. "What?"
But he was already gone.
She stood frozen until three women entered behind him, holding jewelry boxes, brushes, and trays of makeup. Zoya ran toward the bathroom, but one of them — tall and strong — caught her by the wrist.
She pulled Zoya to the vanity chair and said something sharp in Turkish.
"Buradan çıkamazsın."
You can't leave.
Zoya understood. She didn’t argue. Her strength was gone. Her mind swirled.
They dressed her. Painted her face. Pinned her long dark hair into elegant curls. A heavy necklace wrapped around her neck like chains of silk.
She was shaking.
Then came a knock.
A bodyguard entered, his face unreadable.
"Time."
Zoya didn’t move. She stood beside the window again, heart trembling.
Without a word, they placed a blindfold over her eyes.
She couldn’t see anything. Just darkness.
Her feet were guided. Hallways. Stairs. Then the scent of perfume, flowers, and cigar smoke.
She was placed into a car.
A ride.
Then footsteps again.
When the blindfold was removed, Zoya blinked fast. She was standing at the bottom of a grand staircase inside a royal hotel, lights dripping from chandeliers, people staring down from balconies. The hall was filled with dangerous men in tailored suits and women in tight gowns and red lipstick, their smiles cruel and amused.
At the top of the staircase stood Burak Aslan — calm, powerful, untouchable.
She could feel a hundred eyes on her.
Running was not an option. Even her soul was held hostage.
She walked.
Each step up the staircase felt like a fall deeper into something she couldn't escape.
At the top, two gold-trimmed chairs faced each other beside a table covered in white roses. Behind the table sat the Nikah Adaleti — the officiator — in a dark red robe.
Zoya sat. Her hands trembled in her lap. Burak sat across from her, relaxed, smiling — like a man who had won a war.
The crowd gathered.
The music stopped.
The officiator looked at Burak.
"Burak Aslan Bey, do you agree to be married with Zoya Mirza?"
He smiled darkly. There was no hesitation.
"Evet."
Yes.
Then the man turned to Zoya.
"Zoya Mirza. Do you agree to marry Burak Aslan Bey?"
Her breath caught.
A thousand memories struck her at once. The class. The car. The needle. The window. The dress.
Her head spun.
And then — she collapsed.
Everything went black again
- Writer
