His Scandalous Bride

14: Now

Should he knock? He paced nervously in front of her door. Or should he just send her a message to meet in the living room? Which was less inconspicuous? Was he strange for wanting to see her? What does she do when she coops up in her room anyway? It was just nine. It's too early to assume her to be asleep, isn't it? He stared at her door and then at his phone in hesitation. He couldn't just go back to his room. Hiding in there hasn't done much for him but he has no excuse to intrude either and that's what has had him holding back in the last week.

Nevertheless, he doesn't think he could stop himself today. Aisha was in there and he was worried. Something has to give. What does she eat anyway? He has noticed she has stopped her late night snacking and it hadn't seem like she'd cooked in the kitchen; he has gone as much as inspecting the dustbins.

Today is Sunday. He hasn't gone anywhere since he returned home at 7pm on Friday evening after confirming that Zainab had been discharged; he had guessed as much when he didn't see his father's watchdogs at the gates, though her doctor had refused to elaborate on her condition. He had been monitoring to see if any flight might be booked by his family members and had relaxed when no movement was made. It has to be good news. If she wasn't better, his mother would have been on the next flight to Chennai as soon as she was discharged to see Dr. Sandeep Attawar. He is a famous cardiothoracic surgeon in India and the attending surgeon who treated Zainab eight years ago.

He raise his hand to knock biting down his hesitations but before he could do anything, the door opens and there she was, looking even better than she did the first day he saw her in a knee-length, straight fit; skimming the curves though not adding any definition around her shapely waist, denim brown pinafore with a white Short sleeved shirt. The skirt of the pinafore is not flared and the bodice is straight and mid-high, sitting an inch or two under her collar bone with straps that are mere inches wide holding the dress in place at her shoulders. Her face was bare of any make-up like always and her hair was let to flow unchecked with a pen caught between her teeth. And he lost it. His mind. Blank. His heart. Blank. His senses. Blank.

As their eyes meet, she had held them for moments undefined betraying nothing before she'd carefully tucked way the pen, placing it behind her ears as she perhaps waited for him to explain his presence. He didn't. And realizing he might never, her lips moved but the words didn't meet him. She tried again but it were as if he was out of his body. Her words aren't reaching him. All he could do was stare, openmouthed. Until he felt her hand on his shoulder shaking back to reality.

"Um. . .sorry," he began awkwardly suddenly conscious of his idiotism. What would she think of him now seeing how he was gawking shamelessly at her. He clears his throat, "Were you saying something?"

"Are you okay?" She asks sounding genuinely worried or at least that was how he thought she sounded to him; genuinely worried. For him. She was worried for him. And that was enough to loosen the knots of nervousness holding him captive and thus, his tongue.

"I came to check on your health," he ignored her question, not sure if he has any answer for her,"We haven't seen each other in days." His words coming out more pained and whiny that he would have liked but he doesn't let it bother him as he watch her.

She seem taken aback by his words. He wasn't sure if it was because he came to check on her health or because of his complaint.

"I'm okay now." She smiled encouragingly. "Thank you,"

Her smiles lacked warmth and was more like a shield and her gratitude sounded more like a dismissal but Saddiq still stood there refusing to budge. He has no reason to linger, yet still, he doesn't want to leave just yet.

"Is there something else?"

"Uhm. . .

His phone began ringing before he could think of anything to say. Slightly grateful, he gestures a minute before he looks at his caller.

Faysal Makama.

He picked up the call with immediate haste.

"You have to come home right this instant. It's Zainab. She. . .,"

And then nothing.

"Hello," he shrieked, "HELLO! FAYSAL? FAYSAL. TALK TO ME. ZAINAB WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED TO HER?" Nothing. No reply. He removes the device from his ears to redial the number since it was obvious he has lost connection only to realise his phone has died. He was out of battery.

He staggered and Aisha helped curtain his fall by holding him steady with her body as shield.

"Is everything alright, Saddiq?" She asks but he wasn't really listening to her. Zainab what? He doesn't want to think about it. He suddenly feels like he's out of breath with his heart racing hard. All of a sudden, he was choking and trembling as an intense sensation of unbridled fear sliced through him. It feels as if he was about to die. It was in this dangerous time that he hears her.

"Breathe, Saddiq," she cautioned gently,"Close your eyes and focus on your breathing, okay? Breathe in. . .slowly, deeply and gently as you can through your nose and breathe out slowly through your mouth."

He doesn't understand how she could get to him. He thought he was far gone. But he heard her and he did what she said. Breathe. And he did. Slowly. Deeply. Gently. And just as unexpected as it had began, he could feel it ebbing away.

"Are you alright?"

Was he alright? He considered that carefully as he opened his eyes feeling normalized with the earlier fear strangely contained and they fell on worried glowing, beautiful eyes and before he could stop himself, his lips seeks hers in a rather blinding quest for liberation only to end up losing himself completely in their sweetness. He couldn't stop himself. He couldn't help himself. He was kissing her. He was kissing Aisha. And it was the best feeling in the world.