“Zainab,” your father says, voice thick with disgust.
“You little curse.”
Your lungs seize.
The safe house suddenly feels too small for your past and your present to fit inside.
You whisper, “Baba…” and the word tastes like ash.
Your father steps closer, and you smell sweat and cheap tobacco.
“Ibrahim is generous,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “He said if I bring you back, he’ll forgive my debts.”
Your stomach turns.
Yusha’s voice goes deadly calm. “Touch her and you die,” he says.
Your father laughs.
“A beggar threatening me,” he mocks.
Then he leans toward you, voice low. “You think you found love? You found a trap.”
He spits the words: “Give her to me.”
You tremble, but you do something you’ve never done.
You step forward.
Your cane taps the floor, and the sound is small but powerful, like a gavel.
“No,” you say.
Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t break.
“No more.”
Your father goes quiet, shocked by your refusal.
“You don’t talk to me like that,” he snarls.
You lift your chin. “You stopped being my father the day you called me ‘that thing,’” you say.
Your words come out sharper than you knew you had. “I don’t belong to you.”
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Ibrahim’s voice slides into the room like smoke.
“Touching,” he says. “Very touching.”
Your skin crawls as you feel his presence, even without sight.
He walks closer, and you smell that expensive cologne again.
“So this is the blind wife,” he murmurs. “The one who can’t see the knives coming.”
Yusha’s body stiffens beside you.
Ibrahim laughs softly. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not here to harm her.”
Then his tone changes. “I’m here to harm you.”
