Chapter Forty-Seven
THE CAR WHIRRED AROUND us, sunlight spilling in through the windshield and painting Khalifa’s face in gold. He had that stupidly calm expression on—the one that always meant he was enjoying torturing me.
“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” I asked, for what had to be the thirty-seventh time.
“Nope,” he said simply, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel like a man completely at peace with my suffering.
“You know,” I said, crossing my arms, “this is technically kidnapping. Pregnant woman, no idea where she’s being taken, possible risk of snack deprivation.”
He smirked. “Any kidnapper who took you would return you by nightfall.”
“Excuse me?”
“They’d probably drive you back themselves, apologizing the whole way.”
“You’re hilarious, truly,” I said flatly. “You get one concussion, and suddenly you’re a comedian.”
“Just saying. You don’t really handle mystery well.”
“I handle mystery fine,” I said, indignant. “I just prefer when it comes with an itinerary.”
“You’re already more demanding than a UN delegation,” he said. “I’m honestly impressed by your commitment.”
I leaned toward him, squinting skeptically. “Are we going somewhere romantic or somewhere involving bodily fluids? Because the last time you said trust me, we ended up at a birthing class and I had to watch you practice breathing techniques with a plastic pelvis.”
He laughed. “I’ll have you know, I was an excellent breathing partner.”
“You hyperventilated.”
“I was empathizing.”
“You almost passed out.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Love makes people do stupid things.”
I sighed dramatically, resting my hand on my belly. “Hear that, Noor? Baba thinks passing out is romantic. You’d better lower your standards now.”
He reached over, resting his palm over mine. His thumb brushed against my fingers. “If she’s anything like you, her standards will be impossible.”
My heart did that ridiculous fluttering. “Flattery won’t distract me from the fact that I’m being held hostage,” I said, even though my voice betrayed a smile.
He chuckled under his breath. “You talk too much when you’re not in control.”
“And you talk too little when you are. It’s very suspicious.”
“Patience, Doctor,” he murmured, turning onto a winding road that disappeared into trees.
I groaned. “If this is another nature thing, I swear—”
“It’s not.”
“Or a pregnancy photoshoot thing.”
“No cameras involved.”
“Or a weirdly specific bonding exercise you learned in therapy?”
He grinned. “Define weirdly specific.”
“Khalifa.”
He laughed again, and the sound filled the car. “You’ll see soon enough.”
I sank back into the seat. The baby kicked once, like she was in on his secret.
“Great,” I muttered. “Now you’ve got her on your side.”
“Smart girl,” he said, eyes flicking to me. “Takes after her mother.”
Warmth tightened behind my ribs, and before I could look away, he added, “I’m sorry for making you call your mom.”
A smile small quirked at my mouth. “It’s cute that you think you’re capable of making me do anything.”
He huffed out a breath. “I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
“How someone could not love you.”
The words landed gently, like they didn’t realize how devastating they were.
I swallowed, pulse thrumming, then shrugged in what I hoped passed for casual.
“It’s okay. I don’t feel like I’m missing out anymore.
Besides,” I said, “you were right. I did need to call her. Not for Noor, though. For myself.”
We crested a stretch of road and arrived at Horseshoe Bay Lookout—a wooden platform perched just off Horseshoe Bay Drive with sweeping views of Howe Sound and distant islands, blue water kissed gold by the setting sun.
The car was parked beside the railing, and the few steps it took to reach the edge felt like walking into a painting.
“This,” he said, gesturing toward the glowing horizon, “is one of the best places to watch the sunset in Vancouver.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You know I was born and raised here, right? I’ve obviously been here before. Several times.”
He leaned back against the seat, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Not with me, you haven’t.”
And damn it, he was right—because somehow, with him sitting beside me, even the familiar felt brand new. The view wasn’t just a view anymore. It was a beginning disguised as an ordinary evening.
The sky blazed like it had caught fire—liquid gold melting into violet, clouds catching the light until they looked almost holy. I exhaled, my heart settling somewhere between my ribs and the horizon. “It’s so pretty,” I murmured.
“It is,” he agreed.
But when I glanced over, he wasn’t looking at the sunset. He was looking at me, the wind teasing my hijab, the sun dipping low behind me like a spotlight I definitely didn’t ask for.
“It’s been incredible to watch,” he added, thumb sweeping once more over my knuckles.
“Watch what?”
“The Tariq Postpartum Institute. It’s doing amazing.”
Heat climbed up my neck, fast and embarrassing. “Yeah, it is. Thank God.” I tried for breezy and failed spectacularly. “And I know you’ve been keeping track. We got an anonymous donation that had Khalifa Nasser written all over it.”
His mouth tipped into a laugh. “I just wanted to support you. I’ll always support you. I’m so proud of you, Lillian.”
I kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Are you proud?”
I froze for a moment, letting the weight of the question sink in. Then I nodded slowly, a shy, genuine smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah. I am.”
He kept staring intensely, and after a few seconds too long, I squinted at him. “What?” I asked. “Do I have powdered sugar on my face from the donuts? Or hot sauce from the burrito? Or—?”
“Your face is perfect,” he said. “And free of food droppings.”
“Then why are you staring?”
His eyes softened. “Thank you.”
My brows pinched. “For what?”
“After my brother died and my mom got sick,” he said, “I convinced myself that holding everything together was the only version of me that mattered. I kept trying to be what everyone needed—reliable, unshakeable, fine—until I accidentally mistook that performance for a personality.” He breathed out a small, shaky exhale.
“But after we got married, someone else started bubbling up. This other me—one who laughs too loud at your stupid jokes, who smiles without asking permission, who feels light instead of obligated. And somewhere in the middle of all that, it occurred to me that maybe the man I built out of duty wasn’t me at all.
Maybe the real me—the one who’s messy and hopeful and actually enjoys things—is the one who showed up with you.
The one you somehow make feel is worth existing. ”
I reached out and cupped his face between both hands, feeling the warmth of him, the vulnerability he was letting me see.
“You don’t have to thank me for loving you, Khalifa,” I whispered. “Not ever.”
He smiled, and his hands came up, gently covering mine, easing them down from his cheeks but not letting go.
My stomach did a weird flip—some acrobatic stunt it definitely did not train for—and then promptly flung itself into the abyss. “I can already feel a cheesy request brewing.”
“Your spidey senses stand corrected.” He took a breath.
“Lillian, we did this all wrong,” he began, his voice rough with tenderness, “and I want to do things right before our baby comes. When we first met, I called you rude, arrogant, and unfit to be anyone’s wife.
Only two out of those three things turned out to be true. ”
I tried not to smile, but it slipped through anyway. “When we first met, I called you a lot of things. All of them turned out to be true.”
He grinned a small, lopsided thing. “We got married for convenience,” he said, “but somewhere between pretending to love you and realizing I actually did, I forgot where the act ended, and the truth began. Somehow loving you became the most inconvenient thing I’ve ever done because now I can’t remember how to want a life that doesn’t have you in it.
” My chest ached in that sweet, unbearable way only he could manage.
He took my hands again, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a promise.
“So what do you say we start a new marriage?”
I blinked, my throat tight. “I don’t think that’s legally a thing. Or Islamically.”
“I know,” he said. “I want to do it for us.”
“Okay.”
He looked at me, eyes catching the last of the light. “I love you, Doctor Lillian Tariq. Will you marry me?”
I tilted my head. “Under one condition.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You can’t fall out of love with me.”
His laughter was deep and certain, and when he stroked his thumb against my cheek, I leaned into it like it was home. “Have you met yourself?” he asked. “Not a chance.”