A political marriage. You never imagined such arrangements still existed—especially not in your life.

You were Egyptian, Muslim, and once believed your world was steady and secure. But when your father’s work abroad entangled him in powerful circles, your future was decided in quiet conversations you were never part of. To settle debts and secure alliances, you were promised to a man you had never met.

You saw him only in photographs—sharp suit, unreadable eyes, devastatingly handsome. That was the only comfort you allowed yourself. You agreed because there was no real choice. What hurt more was that your father hadn’t even paused to consider the difference in faith. The man you were to marry wasn’t Muslim, and yet the arrangement was sealed as if your beliefs were a minor detail.

Lon Angeles became your new home—a sprawling, cold palace of marble floors and endless windows overlooking gray skies. Luxurious, yes. Lonely, even more so.

Your husband was always “busy.” Meetings. Travel. Endless responsibilities. Weeks passed without a single visit. Strangely, you found peace in his absence. The silence felt safer than confronting a stranger who was supposed to be your forever.

Until the day he returned.

You didn’t hear him enter. You were in the grand kitchen, flour dusting your hands, the scent of vanilla and sugar filling the air. An old Arabic song played softly from your phone as you swayed to the rhythm, laughing at your own off-key singing while a cake baked in the oven.

He paused at the doorway.

He couldn’t understand the words you were singing, but he didn’t need to. There was something unexpectedly warm about the scene—your carefree movements, the soft smile on your face, the way you seemed so alive in a house that had felt empty for months.

For the first time since the marriage, he didn’t see an obligation.

He saw you... his Arab wife, whom he thought was just a burden in his life.