Veil of thorns

I can’t breathe. The corset is too tight, the fabric too heavy, the veil too suffocating. Every breath feels like a betrayal, every step a march toward my own execution. I stare at the mirror, but the person reflected back isn’t me. It’s her. Zahra. The lace dress, the diamond tiara, the sheer veil—everything that was meant for my twin sister now clings to my body like a second skin, forcing me into a shape that isn’t mine. My jaw is sharper than hers was. My shoulders, slightly broader. But the makeup hides the differences, the veil softens the edges. If you don’t look too closely, I could be her. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? A knock at the door snaps me back to reality. My mother, Samira Al-Faris, steps inside, her silk gown whispering against the marble floor. She doesn’t meet my eyes as she adjusts the train of my dress. “Stand still,” she murmurs. I do as I’m told. I always do. When she finishes, she finally looks at me. Her dark eyes are unreadable, but I know what she sees—what she wants to see. Not her son. Not Zayd. Only Zahra. Only the daughter she lost. The daughter they sold. My stomach churns, the weight of it all pressing down on me. Today was supposed to be Zahra’s wedding day. But instead of walking down the aisle, she was found lifeless in her bedroom, her wrists slit open, her white bedsheets stained red. And now, because a contract is a contract, I’m here in her place. My father, Hassan Al-Faris, appears in the doorway, his gaze sharp as a blade. “It’s time.” My fingers curl into fists. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. The words barely leave my mouth before his hand grips my arm, hard enough to make me wince. His voice is low, lethal. “You will do this. Our family cannot afford scandal.” I want to scream at him. Tell him that Zahra is dead because of this—because of him. Because they treated her like property, because they sold her off to a man she didn’t love, because they never listened. But I don’t scream. I don’t fight. I just nod. Because I know what happens when you say no to Hassan Al-Faris. The Wedding Begins The Burj Al Arab is dazzling, golden chandeliers reflecting against marble floors, the scent of fresh roses thick in the air. Hundreds of guests are seated in the grand ballroom, murmuring in admiration as I step through the doors. I keep my eyes forward. If I look at them, I might see someone who knew Zahra well enough to notice the difference. I grip the bouquet tighter. My hands are shaking. The orchestra begins playing. My father’s hand presses against my back. “Walk,” he orders. So I do. The train of my dress glides behind me, the veil brushing against my face, but none of it feels real. The air is too thick. The world is too quiet. Every step takes me closer to the man waiting at the altar. Kareem Al-Mansour. I had never met him before today. Zahra had barely spoken about him, and now I understand why. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and composed, his black suit tailored to perfection. But it’s his eyes that unnerve me. Dark. Unreadable. Unshaken. Unlike the guests, he isn’t smiling. He isn’t watching with admiration or affection. He’s watching me. Like he knows. I force myself to keep walking. The officiant begins speaking in Arabic, his voice steady and practiced, welcoming the guests and blessing the union. My heartbeat drowns out most of it. Then, the moment comes. The question that seals my fate. The officiant turns to me, smiling. “Do you, Zahra Al-Faris, take Kareem Al-Mansour as your lawfully wedded husband?” I hesitate. Just for a second. I could stop this. I could rip off the veil, expose the lie, and run. But then what? My father’s gaze is burning into me, a silent warning. My mother’s lips are parted slightly, whispering a single plea: Please. And Kareem… Kareem is watching with quiet patience, as if he already knows what I’m about to say. My throat tightens. I feel like I’m drowning. “…I do.” The officiant turns to Kareem. “And do you, Kareem Al-Mansour, take Zahra Al-Faris as your lawfully wedded wife?” Silence. A second too long. I feel the weight of it, pressing down on my chest. Then, smoothly, Kareem tilts his head, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “I do.” Applause erupts. The ceremony is sealed. I am no longer Zayd. I am Zahra Al-Faris. And I am now Kareem Al-Mansour’s wife AFTER THE VOWS The reception is a haze. Smiling onlookers, congratulations never-ending, music, laughter. I sit beside Kareem at the head table, hands folded in my lap, barely skimming the food on my plate. My thoughts are still trapped at the altar, replaying his hesitation, his unresponsive face. A waiter leans down, refilling my glass. My hands tremble as I try to grab it. Then, under the table, Kareem's hand is wrapped around mine. I shut up. Not in shock, not even in fright, but at the pressure of his fingers on my skin—firm, unyielding. Deliberate. I glance at him. He raises his glass, gliding smoothly, easily, his face serene as if everything is normal. As if he is not holding my hand under the table. I swallow. My heart pounds in my ears. The warmth of his touch lingers long after he lets go. For the rest of the night, I feel it still. Not his hand, but him. Steady. Watchful. Unperturbed. And I find myself asking—is this what it feels like to be trapped?