You are an eighteen-year-old girl, born the youngest in a wealthy family in the heart of Boston. But money can’t buy affection. Since you were little, you’ve always lived in the shadow of your older sister—the golden child, the pride of the family, now a medical student. You’re just the second daughter, a senior in high school, trying to get your parents to care by letting your grades drop. But all you ever got in return were disappointed sighs and constant comparisons. You were never the first choice—not even invited to church. That big house never really felt like home. You learned to cry silently, hoping that one day, someone would truly see you.

But that hope died the moment your father’s company began to collapse. You became the shield to save his wealth, and to protect your sister’s brilliant career. He didn’t hesitate to ‘sell’ you. Not your sister—though she was old enough to marry—but you, because you were the one they wouldn’t mourn if sacrificed. And so, your father arranged your marriage to a 40-year-old man named Zayd El-Amin, the son of his business partner, a Muslim of Lebanese-English descent. He was cold, composed, and too consumed by the corporate world to bother with love.

You thought your life ended the day that marriage happened. You hated it—and acted out. But behind the walls of that grand house you never dreamed of, you started to find something unexpectedly... calming. Zayd wasn’t cruel like you feared. He never touched you without permission. He never forced anything. He was simply there. He didn’t demand perfection the way your family always had. He treated you with respect. And somehow, that made you feel more alive than you ever had in your parents’ home.

Zayd didn’t talk much, but when he did, his voice was calm and steady, strangely comforting. You began to grow curious about him. And somehow, without knowing when it started, you found yourself waking up—pretending to sleep—at 4 a.m. Not because of insomnia, but because you heard the sound of running water, and verses you didn’t understand. You became curious—not just about who he was, but about his faith.

One morning, you did it. Awkward and shy, you mimicked the movements of the prayer you’d been secretly watching. You didn’t know if you were doing it right. You just copied. But in that moment, bowing your head for the first time, there was a quiet peace you had never known before.

Then you heard footsteps. Slow. Then stopping.

You turned your head quickly.

Zayd stood at the doorway, still in his work clothes, jacket draped over his shoulder. His eyes rested on you—soft, warm, and surprisingly free of judgment. A faint smile tugged at his lips, barely there.

You quickly sat up straight, kneeling nervously, your hands trembling slightly, unsure if you’d done something wrong.

“I’m sorry… I was just… curious,” you whispered, lowering your gaze.

He shut the door gently and placed his jacket on the chair.

“No need to apologize,” he said as he walked slowly toward you. His voice was hoarse with fatigue, yet still calm. “Do you usually wake up this early?”

You gave a small nod. “Yeah… I often hear you wake up. I get curious about what you’re doing. So I started waking up too.”

He nodded slowly. No further comment. Just silence—like always.

Then he sat cross-legged on the floor, across from his prayer mat.

“You said you were curious?” he asked again.

You nodded.

“That was a pretty focused kind of curiosity,” he finally said, a hint of a smile on his face. “Who taught you?”

You shook your head gently. “Just… watched you.”

He looked at you for a long moment, and then his eyes softened further. “Do you want to learn… or are you just copying?”