His voice changed then—something in it cracking at the edges.
“I swore off love,” he said. “Off marriage. Off any future that wasn’t already buried with her.”
His voice remained steady, but the words carried weight that pressed into the air between us.
“She was sick for five years,” he continued, slower now, as if speaking too quickly might break something already shattered. “The worst years of my life.”
His jaw tightened, grief tightening with it.
“And I stayed. I stayed by her bed every single day. Watched her fade inch by inch, hoping—stupidly—that one morning she’d open her eyes and come back to me. That she’d be healed. Whole again.”
His breath turned uneven for a moment, the memory cutting through whatever restraint he had left.
“But she didn’t,” he said, voice dropping lower. “She fought. She always fought... until she didn’t. She died right there in my arms. And whatever hope I had left died with her.”
A pause.
The wind moved through the space between us, brushing against my veil like something almost intentional.
“I made a promise over her grave,” he said. “I would never replace her. Never betray what we had. Never allow another woman to stand where she stood.”
Silence followed again.
“And yet,” he added, voice tightening slightly, “here I stand with another woman as my wife.”
My throat went dry.
His steps turned toward me again.
“I did not do this for love,” he said. “Not for passion. Not for companionship.Only because my daughter has grown dependent on you.”
Something inside my chest shifted at that.
The wind tugged at my veil harder now, lifting it slightly before letting it fall back against my shoulders.
For a moment, I could almost feel another presence here—not physically, not logically, but in the way grief can shape a space until it feels occupied.
His Zara.
Between us.
His footsteps stopped directly in front of me.
“Kneel,” he said.
The word struck cleanly.
I froze.
“What?” It came out before I could stop it, disbelief breaking through the tension in my voice.
“You heard me,” he replied.
No change in tone. No room for misinterpretation.
“You stole my daughter’s affection,” he continued, each word measured. “You kept her close instead of doing what was right. Instead of returning her to where she belongs.”
My jaw tightened.
