2| What An Absolute Jerk!

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The grand doors of the main hall loomed before her, their intricate carvings glinting under the warm glow of the chandeliers. Anaabiya hesitated, her pulse thrumming in her ears as the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation filtered through. She curled her fingers into fists, nails pressing into her palms, trying to steady the storm inside her.

Anger simmered beneath her skin, hot and unforgiving. How could her aunt do this to her? Out of all the men in the world, she had chosen him—a man whispered about in fear, a man whose very name sent shivers down the spines of even the most powerful. A man whose scarred face and unreadable eyes belonged more to a battlefield than a ballroom.

Yet, beneath the anger, a sharp pang of unease twisted in her stomach. What if he was here already? Watching? Waiting?

She exhaled shakily, lifting her chin as she stepped through the towering doors. The hall was as magnificent as ever—golden lights draped across the high ceilings, a sea of silk and jewels moving in effortless grace—but it all felt suffocating. The scent of expensive oud and fresh roses clung to the air, but even that did little to mask the tension coiling in her chest.

She scanned the room, searching, dreading. Would she know him at first glance? Or would she feel it—the weight of his presence, the suffocating intensity that men like him carried like a second skin?

Her aunt's voice rang out, all too cheerful, slicing through her frantic thoughts. "Ah, there she is! Come, my dear, someone is very eager to meet you."

Anaabiya's breath caught. Her pulse pounded against her ribs as she forced herself to move forward, each step heavier than the last.

How could she do this to me?

She wasn't sure if the tremor in her hands was from rage or fear.

Anaabiya had always known that her aunt harboured no great affection for her, but tonight, as she stood in the dazzling grandeur of the Great Hall, she realised just how masterfully the woman had camouflaged her disdain. With a smile so warm it could have fooled even the sharpest eyes, her aunt took her hand and led her forward, her grip just a tad too firm, her voice dripping with saccharine delight.

"There's someone I want you to meet, my dear," she said, her eyes glinting with something Anaabiya couldn't quite place.

And then, with an elegant wave of her henna-stained fingers, she introduced her to a woman standing nearby—a woman who bore none of her aunt's concealed contempt.

The lady was tall and striking, her presence commanding without being intimidating. Her deep green shawl draped gracefully over her shoulders, its embroidered gold detailing shimmering under the chandeliers. She had a kind face, her dark eyes warm with genuine excitement, and when she smiled, it was the kind of smile that reached her eyes, lighting up her entire expression.

"Oh, mashaAllah, you are even more beautiful than I imagined," the woman gushed, clasping Anaabiya's hands in hers. "I have heard so much about you, beta. I am Humza's mother."

Anaabiya felt something cold settle in the pit of her stomach.

Humza.

The name alone sent an unsettling chill down her spine.

For a moment, she could do nothing but stare at the woman—this mother, who seemed so gentle, so full of warmth. How could a man like him belong to a woman like her?

Anaabiya forced a polite smile, nodding as the older woman continued speaking, her voice filled with the kind of joy only a mother could have when meeting the girl meant for her son.

"Humza is with the other guests; he'll be here any moment," she said, her eyes gleaming as they scanned the crowd, likely searching for her son. "He's been so eager to meet you." She added.

Anaabiya's breath hitched. A pulse of unease rushed through her veins, but she kept her expression composed, though her heart pounded painfully against her ribs.

Her aunt let out a pleased chuckle. "See, Anaabiya? Everything is falling into place."

Falling into place.

Like a trap closing in.

She barely registered the small talk that followed, barely noticed the way Humza's mother squeezed her hands every now and then, so pleased, so hopeful. Anaabiya should have said something, should have smiled wider, should have played the part of the obedient, blushing bride-to-be or should have instead told the lady about her aunt's ulterior motives.

But all she could think about was the weight of the name hanging over her.

Then, before she had a chance to prepare herself, Humza's mother's face lit up as she glanced behind her, her voice laced with undeniable excitement.

"Humza!"

Anaabiya turned, her pulse stuttering in her throat, expecting—dreading—the moment their eyes would meet. But it never came.

The man in front of her exuded an aura of power, confidence, and undeniable allure as he walked towards them. His chiseled features were carved to perfection—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes that smoulder with an intensity that could set the world ablaze. His dark, tousled hair was effortlessly styled, adding to his enigmatic charm, while his neatly groomed beard enhances his rugged, masculine appeal.

The scar on the side of his eye was a jagged, pale streak against his otherwise flawless skin—a mark of battles fought, a whisper of danger that lingers in his gaze. It runs from just above his brow, slicing down to the edge of his cheekbone, its uneven texture hinting at a past wound that was deep, perhaps brutal.

It does not diminish his striking beauty; rather, it enhances it, adding an air of mystery and danger to his already formidable presence.

This scar is not just a wound—it is a signature, a permanent testament to the darkness that lingers beneath his smooth, controlled exterior. It is the reason they call him 'Scarface,' a name that drips with fear, spoken in hushed voices by those who know better than to cross him. It makes him more than just handsome; it makes him untouchable, a man whose mere presence is enough to send a chill down the spine of anyone who dares to look too long.

Draped in a luxurious, impeccably tailored black three-piece suit, he carried himself with the poise of a man who commands every room he enters. The fabric clings to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, accentuating his sculpted physique. A crisp white shirt and a sleek black tie complete his ensemble, elevating his already formidable presence. His watch, glinting subtly beneath the dim candlelight, is a testament to his refined taste and attention to detail and that scar, that single imperfection, only makes him more perfect.

Humza walked in with the air of a man who commanded attention without having to ask for it. The hall seemed to still, as if the very walls recognised the weight of his presence. Yet, he didn't even glance her way. His sharp gaze was locked onto his mother, his expression thunderous, his jaw tight with barely restrained anger.

His mother, however, didn't flinch. She met his glare with quiet pleading in her eyes, a silent exchange passing between them—one Anaabiya had no way of deciphering.

The room felt smaller, suffocating even, as he made his way forward. Most of the guests watched with thinly veiled fascination or with lingering fear, while some women—especially the younger ones—couldn't seem to tear their eyes away. A few whispered among themselves, their admiration all too evident, yet he remained utterly indifferent to their attention.

And then, just behind him, she caught sight of another figure—Huzaifa, the same guy who had escorted her in mere moments ago. She hadn't even noticed when he had slipped away. But now, she was certain—he had already told Humza how she had mocked his looks.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, his sharp eyes fixed on her as if he knew something she didn't, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. He walked a few steps behind Humza, his gait casual, but the smugness in his expression made her stomach coil with unease.

Why was he smirking?

The contrast between the two men was stark. Where Huzaifa seemed amused, entertained even, Humza looked a bit furious.

When he finally reached them, he didn't offer a greeting. No Salam. No words.

His glare on his mother lingered a second longer before he exhaled sharply, as if forcing himself to tolerate the situation. Then, with practiced ease, he shifted his attention to Anaabiya's aunt and gave a curt nod—acknowledgment without warmth.

And then, finally, he looked at her and the moment her eyes met his, a wave of nervousness crashed over her, tightening around her throat like an invisible noose. She had heard of him long before this moment—whispers drenched in fear, stories laced with blood and cruelty. They spoke of his merciless nature, the sharpness of his gaze, the scar that ran like a brutal reminder of the darkness he carried. She had loathed him before ever meeting him, had built him up in her mind as a monster in human skin. And standing before him now, she knew she had been right.

And yet... why did her breath hitch?

The hatred still burned inside her, coiled tight and unwavering, but it did nothing to stop her treacherous eyes from drinking him in. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair, his chiseled features carved with the precision of something untouchable. The scar that should have made him fearsome only heightened the dark allure that radiated from him, making him look like something out of a dangerous dream.

She wanted to despise him. She should despise him. But her heart betrayed her with its unsteady rhythm, and her fingers twitched as if they ached to trace the very scar that made him infamous.

You stupid fool! What are you even thinking?

She clenched her fists instead, forcing herself to remember who he was—what he was.

Still, as his piercing eyes locked onto hers, unblinking and all-consuming, she realised with a quiet, horrifying certainty that no matter how much she hated him... she would never be able to ignore him.

His face was unreadable, his expression betraying nothing. But his eyes... they held her in place, dark and piercing, stripping away every ounce of false composure she tried to maintain.

There was no eagerness in them despite what was told by his mother.

No interest.

Just that same heavy silence that made her skin prickle with the realisation—

She had no idea what she had just walked into.

Humza was the exact opposite of what Anaabiya had imagined.

She had expected someone terrifying, someone with a face carved by the horrors of his reputation. A man hardened by crime, with cruel eyes and a presence that suffocated. A monster who looked the part.

But he looked nothing like a monster.

If anything, he was dangerously handsome.

The kind of handsome that made people stare a second too long, made conversations falter, made women lose their train of thought.

Even as anger flickered across his features, making his jaw tighten and his expression darken, it did nothing to taint his appeal. If anything, it only made him look more intense, more powerful.

And that realisation unsettled her.

Because no one had warned her about this.

They had warned her about his ruthlessness, his name whispered like a curse among those who feared him. They had warned her about his power, about the darkness that followed in his wake.

But no one had warned her that the devil himself could look this good.

Standing before him, Anaabiya felt like a fool.

The contrast between them was almost laughable. He looked like he belonged in a world of power and perfection, his presence effortlessly commanding, his tailored suit fitting him like it was made to worship his frame. And then there was her—a girl wrapped in layers of silk and nervous energy, standing in the shadow of someone who looked like he had been carved from stone.

Not that she wanted this to be a match.

It wasn't. It never could be.

But even so, the stark difference between them pressed against her insecurities like an old, familiar weight. She was not vain—humble, if anything—but in that moment, she couldn't ignore how mismatched they seemed.

Her dress was beautiful, at least by everyone else's standards. A deep shade of emerald green, the fabric shimmered under the dim lighting, embroidered with delicate gold threads that traced intricate patterns along the hem and sleeves. Her hijab, wrapped neatly around her head, cascaded down one shoulder, soft and elegant.

Yet, despite how well it suited her, she couldn't bring herself to admire it.

She was tall—something she had never been fond of. Not towering, but tall enough that it set her apart in a way she didn't like. She wasn't rail-thin, nor was she curvy; she was somewhere in between, never quite fitting into the delicate mold society often admired.

Her features were a battle of contradictions in her mind. She had large, expressive eyes—eyes that people always complimented, but to her, they felt too big, too revealing, as if they gave away everything she tried to hide. Her lips, full and soft, carried a natural pout that she found bothersome, while others called it graceful. And her nose—she had always thought it was slightly off, though no one had ever agreed with her.

But standing there, under the weight of Humza's unreadable gaze, none of that mattered.

Because this wasn't just about looks.

This was about the fact that she had been thrown into something far greater than herself. A storm she had no interest in being a part of. A man whose world was built on fear and power.

And a moment that made her realise—this was no match at all.

Humza's mother smiled warmly as she turned to Anaabiya, her excitement barely contained.

"Anaabiya, this is my son, Humza," she said, her voice filled with pride.

Steeling herself, she offered a small but polite smile and said softly, "Salam."

This was basic manners.

She waited.

And waited.

But Humza said nothing.

He only stared at her, his face unreadable, his expression as cold as the winter wind.

His mother, clearly flustered, nudged his arm lightly. "Humza, at least respond," she urged, her voice carrying both embarrassment and warning.

Still, he said nothing.

Instead, his dark eyes stayed locked onto Anaabiya, studying her with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, the silence stretching longer than it should.

Then, just as she was about to look away, he spoke.

But not to her.

Without breaking eye contact, he addressed his mother in a low, impassive tone.

"She will do."

The words hit her like a slap.

Before anyone could react, before she could even fully register what he had just said, Humza turned around and walked away.

Just like that.

His mother called after him, her voice laced with urgency. "Humza, wait—"

But he didn't stop. He didn't turn back. He just kept walking, as if the entire interaction was nothing more than a business deal that had already been settled.

Anaabiya felt anger rise inside her so fast it nearly choked her.

Every single ounce of admiration she had unwillingly felt for his looks flew straight out the window.

What a self-absorbed, arrogant, insufferable—

Her jaw clenched, her fists tightening at her sides as she fumed.

She had thought he would at least have basic manners, but no. He had the worst personality she had ever come across.

What an absolute jerk!

E D I T E D on 8.02.2025