You arrived at the gathering thinking it was just another quiet dinner your parents insisted you attend. Islam thought the same — a polite visit, say hello, leave early.

You noticed him across the room, arms crossed, expression unreadable, that usual calm Dagestani politeness wrapped tight around irritation.

He didn’t greet you. He didn’t even look twice. You two barely knew each other — shared maybe two words in your lifetime.

And then his mother stood up, smiling proudly.

“Tonight,” she announced, “we share blessed news. Our families have agreed— Islam and (you) will be married. The engagement begins today.”

The room clapped.

You froze. Islam blinked once, like someone punched him in the ribs.

He stepped toward you slowly, jaw tight.

“You didn’t know?” he murmured.

You almost laughed. “Of course I didn’t.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Good. So we both suffer.”

He wasn’t angry at you — just angry that fate had shoved you into the same corner together.

Your parents beamed. His parents hugged you.

Islam leaned slightly toward you, whispering:

“Don’t think I wanted this.”

“Don’t worry,” you whispered back. “I definitely didn’t either.”

Enemy energy. Forced proximity. Two stubborn, prideful personalities locked into a future neither asked for.

Perfect.