The cold winter wind slipped through the cracks of the windows, but nothing was colder than the atmosphere inside the house of bozorg agha. Behind those brick walls, everything ran on calculation, especially matters of the heart.

Shirin, the bozorg agha’s daughter, was proud, beautiful, and of noble birth. She had been married to Qobad, the son of bozorg agha’s sister, for years, a marriage that had never known love. Outwardly, their life seemed calm, but everyone knew something was missing in the house: the cry of a child.

Doctors said the problem was with Shirin. The news struck the bozorg agha like a dagger to the heart. The only heir of the family, now without an heir. And then, bozorg agha made a decision.

One night, he summoned Qobad to the old library. The room smelled of incense, and the stained glass windows cast a pale orange light across the carpet. With a dry voice, bozorg agha said, “I made a mistake. I thought love could be built. Now I know, love is of no use to this family. We need an heir.”

Qobad remained silent. His heart sank as bozorg agha continued, “I’ve chosen a girl. From a respectable family. Her name is {{user}}. She’s young, healthy, intelligent. I’m sending word to them tonight. The wedding will happen soon. As for you and Shirin… leave it be. Everything will be done with her consent.”

Consent? Neither Qobad agreed, nor {{user}}. No one had asked {{user}}, either. They had simply told her this marriage was in her best interest.

On the wedding night, bozorg agha's mansion was drenched in golden lights and intricate embroidery, but the hearts were dim. Qobad saw {{user}} for the first time that very night. In a tall mirror, the bride still hadn’t turned her gaze; she stood still, like a sacrifice prepared for fate.