Chapter Five
THE WHITE DRESS WAS pristine, graceful, and entirely not my choice—something born from the fantasies of little girls, twirling in tulle and lace in their bedrooms, who once believed love arrived with a prince on horseback, all light and sweetness and impossible promises.
I had never wanted any of that. My dreams had been smaller, quieter, realistic: the day I would move out, finally escape the gilded prison I’d been sentenced to for thirty-two years, and yet, here I was, on the brink of trading one confinement for another.
A man I barely knew, a man I could barely stand, was tied to me for eternity.
Not a charming prince, but a closed-off troll who held me captive with a glare and a word.
The last several days had blurred into a montage of nerves, banter, and convincing our families we were madly in love—which was difficult, because Khalifa was, by all measurable standards, the most difficult man alive.
Once my father had officially accepted him, everything moved with dizzying speed.
Suddenly there were flower arrangements, guest lists, and more opinions than oxygen.
It felt like the entire Lebanese community of Vancouver had been holding its breath, waiting for this union to happen just so it could collectively gossip about it.
First came the kitab ketab, the signing of the marriage contract.
Two families gathered in a living room scented with cardamom and coffee, the air thick with expectation and formality.
I sat across from Khalifa, my palms damp, my mother’s stare drilling into the side of my head like a warning not to ruin this.
The mehr discussion began politely enough—until Khalifa opened his mouth.
“So,” he said, leaning back like a man at an auction, “how much are we thinking here?”
I arched an eyebrow. “You’re the one paying. You tell me.”
He flicked his gaze around the room, then inched a little closer—a charming smile curving his mouth like he was saying something adorable just for our parents’ benefit.
“Weren’t you bragging about making more money than a history teacher?”
“And?” I countered, matching his whisper. “Your money is still my money. Besides, I’ve only been an OB for a few years. I’m still aggressively haunted by student loans.”
“I thought you got a full ride.”
“Yeah, for undergrad. Medical schools don’t offer full rides—only lifelong financial trauma.”
“Maybe they do, and the admissions committee wasn’t as dazzled by your ego as you are.”
My left eye twitched. For a brief, vivid second, I wondered if a quick slap across the face could pass as an affectionate, pre-marital gesture. Like a love tap. With intent.
“Don’t throw a hissy fit,” he said before I could test the theory. With exaggerated patience, he leaned over the paper and added two more zeroes, like he was feeding a feral animal and hoping it wouldn’t bite.
I plastered on a sugar-sweet grin anyway. “You’re too generous, habibi.”
His jaw worked like he wanted to respond, but then he remembered both our mothers were watching. He swallowed the retort and nodded stiffly, as though he hadn’t just been financially outmaneuvered by his future wife in front of his entire family.
We signed the paperwork under the approving gazes of everyone who thought this was love, or close enough to it. His hand brushed mine briefly as we passed the pen, and the smallest spark traveled up my arm—unwelcome, confusing, but quickly extinguished.
Then came the henna party—a blur of perfume and laughter, gold dust and noise.
The house pulsed with women’s voices I’d never met, singing ancient songs that somehow made the walls feel closer and my heart hammer louder.
My hands were propped in someone else’s lap while careful fingers painted vines along my skin, like they were giving my anxieties their own decorative trellis.
Everyone kept telling me I was glowing, which felt generous considering I was mostly just overheating and extremely overwhelmed.
I felt a little floaty, like I’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s life and was trying to be chill about it.
I smiled anyway because that’s what brides did—smiled and nodded and pretended that the shimmer in their eyes was joy, not suffocation.
I lifted my arms when they asked. Puckered my lips when the makeup artist said to. Laughed when people watched. Said yes when they expected me to. “Yes,” I’m happy. “Yes,” I’m in love. “Yes,” this is what I want. Every yes carved me smaller, every chuckle pushed me further from myself.
I thought of the girl I’d been before all this—the one who thought escape meant control, who believed a signature could buy her freedom. I wanted to reach for her, to shake her, to beg her not to do this. But she was already gone, and I was what remained.
The zeffah came next—drums, ululations, a flood of color and sound so relentless it swallowed me whole.
I stood at the center of it, surrounded by celebration, by a happiness that didn’t belong to me.
My cheeks ached from grinning, my throat tight from pretending I could exhale beneath the pressure.
Every gesture was practiced, rehearsed to perfection, my body moving through the choreography while my mind lingered elsewhere.
The weight of it all, the vast, inescapable truth of what I’d agreed to crashed over me all at once. My chest constricted under layers of silk and lace, lungs refusing to obey. Each inhale snagged, fragile and uneven, as though the air itself had turned against me.
My fingers found the corset, clawing desperately at the seams. The lace bit into my skin, but I couldn’t stop. If I just pulled hard enough, I could undo everything—the life waiting to be lived, the promise I’d made to become someone else.
The door behind me burst open. I spun around, pulse hammering, expecting my mother, Sarah, anyone—but not him.
Khalifa stood in the threshold, his usual controlled composure shaken just enough to make him seem impossibly close, impossibly present, impossibly human. His dark gaze swept over me—calm, unreadable—and for a moment the room shrank until it was just the two of us and my wildly unhelpful heartbeat.
“Making a run for it?” he asked, stepping inside.
“What?”
“You look like you’re about to bolt,” he said, walking toward me. “Your hands are shaking.”
A tightness bloomed beneath my ribs, not just from the dress or this day, but from him observing me, already knowing me too well, and daring me to admit what I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
“I’m not,” I said briskly. “And even if I wanted to, I can’t. I’m already your wife.”
He tilted his head slightly, the tension in his stance betraying a hint of disbelief.
“You could still disappear. You already have my money, my ring on your finger. Maybe this was what you meant when you said you wanted freedom,” he murmured, closer now, close enough that I could see the faint pulse at his temple, the subtle clench of his jaw.
I hated him for making me feel so exposed, for making my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with anger, and everything to do with proximity, with the weight of him so near.
“I’m not the nicest person in the world,” I said finally, “but I’m not that mean.”
A faint curve touched his mouth—half smile, half challenge. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
He lingered on me a second longer, his voice dropping low. “Good. Because it’s too late to run now.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but his tone shifted—gentler, resigned. “It’s just one more night, Lillian. One more performance. And then we live separate lives. You’ll get the freedom you want, and my mother can rest in peace thinking I’m happy and in love.”
His words, pointed and uncomfortable, were oddly...comforting. One more day, one final act, and then the world would return to its carefully maintained distance, the pretense we’d agreed to.
I tried to anchor myself in that thought.
This was the last thing my mother would get to control.
The last outfit she’d force over my head under the guise of tradition, the last meal she could criticize in front of a room full of people, the last time her opinion would have the power to make me feel like I’d failed at being a daughter, at being a woman.
After today, the grip she’d had on me—on my body, my choices, my future—would finally loosen.
And yet, standing here in a dress I hadn’t chosen, corseted and choking, I felt like I was still that little girl, being dressed and presented and judged. My hands ached to tear at the fabric again, to rip free.
Khalifa’s words echoed in my head—one more day, one more performance—like a mantra, a lifeline. If I could just get through this, just keep smiling, just keep breathing, it would be over.
THE WEDDING FLEW BY in a blur after that. The only thing Khalifa and I had asked of my mother was no first dance. She’d agreed, reluctantly, and I’d felt a flicker of elation at that small victory.
By the time the last song played, the crowd of guests had thinned to murmurs and laughter, everyone funneling toward the exit, toward their cars, toward the normalcy waiting outside.
My shoes clicked against the pavement, each step a reminder that the day was truly over, that we had survived, that we were—somehow—married.
My mother hugged me before I left. It was a gesture that should have been warm, intimate, a mother’s pride shining through.
But instead it felt cold and performative, rather than affectionate.
I held the embrace a moment longer than necessary, just to convince myself it meant something, even though I knew it didn’t.
Sarah hugged me as well, but her eyes lingered a minute too long. I held her gaze and tried to speak without moving my mouth. See me. Please see what’s actually happening. This isn’t what it looks like. I didn’t choose this the way it seems. I think I made a mistake.