Jamal stood in front of the mirror in a tailored black suit, the finest piece of clothing he had ever worn. It fit him well, hugging his shoulders and narrowing at the waist, but it felt like borrowed armor, a disguise more than a garment. He adjusted his tie with fingers that betrayed no tremble, but inside he was far from calm.
The hotel room around him was quiet, too quiet as if holding its breath. There were no groomsmen, no laughter, no rush of preparations. Only silence and the ticking of an expensive clock on the wall.
The ride to the courthouse was brief and conducted in silence. The same driver as before picked him up in the same sleek limousine, his expression unchanged, unreadable. The car moved smoothly through the city, bypassing traffic with uncanny ease.
No one had told Jamal what to expect, and he hadn’t dared to ask. When they arrived, the building loomed like a mausoleum, gray and unremarkable, the kind of place where things were buried, not celebrated. Inside, a clerk led him through narrow corridors to a small chamber with worn chairs, a desk, and a dull floral arrangement that had long since given up on impressing anyone.
The justice of the piece stood at the front, already rifling through papers. There were no guests, no decorations, no music. Just Margaret.
She was already there, standing quietly by the window with her back to him. When she turned, Jamal’s breath caught, not from beauty but from the stark reality of who she was. Her face was pale and marked with scars that ran from her jaw to her neck.
One side of her mouth was slightly misshapen, and a thin veil hung loosely over her hair, doing little to conceal her features. Her eyes, though, were sharp, alert, watching him with something between curiosity and dread. She didn’t speak, and neither did he.
They stood across from each other, strangers in every possible way, joined by ink and obligation. When asked if they took each other in marriage, they both nodded. No rings, no vows beyond the legal minimum.
The justice stamped the papers, smiled mechanically, and handed them the certificate. That was it. Margaret looked at him for a moment longer, then turned back toward the window.
The car is waiting, she said, her voice low but even. They left through the back exit, avoiding the main hall. As they stepped into the parking lot, a gust of wind lifted her veil slightly, revealing more of the scars.
Jamal tried not to stare. He told himself not to care. He told himself this was just a transaction.
But something about the way she held herself, rigid, proud, despite it all, stirred something in him that he didn’t yet understand. The limousine idled near the curb. A driver opened the door, and they climbed in, a silence between them thicker than the leather seats.
As the vehicle pulled into traffic, Jamal exhaled slowly. He felt a strange pressure in his chest, like the air was getting thinner. Then the first bullet hit the windshield.
Glass spiderwebbed in an instant, and the driver slammed on the brakes. Jamal was thrown forward, catching himself on the divider. Another shot rang out, this one puncturing the back window.
The driver yelled something unintelligible and threw the car into reverse. Tires screeched. A third shot tore through the passenger door, inches from Margaret’s shoulder.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t even duck. Her eyes went wide, her breath caught, but she didn’t move.
Jamal lunged across the seat and pulled her down, shielding her with his body. The driver spun the wheel, and the limo careened into a side street. More shots followed, echoing like firecrackers.
Jamal heard the engine groan, felt the car shudder, and then everything went still. Out. The driver barked.
He had a gun in his hand now, eyes scanning the rooftops. We’re compromised. Move.
Jamal pushed open the door, dragging Margaret with him. They stumbled into a narrow alley behind a row of warehouses. The driver ushered them into a waiting SUV, where another man in black sat behind the wheel.
Doors slammed, tires peeled. Within seconds, they were gone. Jamal leaned back in the seat, adrenaline coursing through him, heart pounding.
Margaret sat beside him, her veil gone, her face pale but composed. She didn’t look at him. She stared straight ahead.
What the hell was that? Jamal finally asked, his voice hoarse. No one answered. The SUV drove for over an hour, taking turns seemingly at random, zigzagging through industrial zones and wooded roads until they reached a large, gated estate hidden deep in the countryside.
Armed guards let them through. The house that rose before them was massive but cold, all steel and stone, like a fortress masquerading as a mansion. Inside, they were led to a guest suite.
The walls were bare, the furniture expensive but impersonal. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it did nothing to warm the atmosphere. The driver spoke at last.
You’ll be safe here for now. Don’t leave the grounds. We’ll be in touch.
He left without another word. Jamal sat on the edge of the couch, still stunned. Margaret stood near the window again, her posture unchanged.
You okay? He asked after a moment. She turned to him slowly. This was bound to happen.
What does that mean? It means, she said evenly, that you married into a war. Jamal stared. A war with who? I don’t know exactly, she said, but I’ve been a target since I was nine.
She walked to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled out a bottle of water. Her hands shook slightly as she twisted the cap, but her face remained composed. My father doesn’t talk about it.
He just moves me around, hires new guards, builds new walls. But they always find me. Jamal leaned forward.
Then why did he set this up? Why get you married? She sat across from him, her eyes suddenly weary. To make me someone else’s problem, I think. There was no bitterness in her voice, just resignation.
Jamal didn’t respond. He had no words. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for.
A cold marriage, maybe? A strange arrangement, sure. But bullets? Hunted targets? A life on the run? He looked at her again. Really looked.
The scars were deep, but not fresh. Her left eyebrow arched slightly higher than the right. Her hands were delicate, her shoulders narrow, but her spine was straight.
She wasn’t beautiful by any standard, he knew. But there was something arresting about her presence. Something fierce.
I didn’t know, he said quietly. None of this. Your father didn’t tell me anything.
Of course not, she replied. He never tells anyone anything. Silence fell again.
The fire crackled. Eventually, she stood. There are separate bedrooms.
Use whichever you want. I’ll take the one at the end of the hall. She walked out without waiting for a response.
Jamal stayed by the fire, staring into the flames, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His thoughts raced. Who had attacked them? What did they want? And why did Peter Holt think marrying his daughter off to a stranger would solve anything? He wanted to run.
To call his mother. To wake up and find this had all been a twisted dream. But the heat of the bullet holes in the limousine and the sound of shattering glass still echoed in his bones.
Hours passed. He didn’t move. Sometime past midnight, he walked down the hall and paused outside the last door.
He didn’t knock. Just listened. Inside, silence.
He turned and entered the opposite room, the guest bedroom. The sheets were crisp, the bed too large, the air too still. Jamal lay awake until dawn, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling, knowing that nothing in his life would ever be simple again.
The following morning arrived quietly, with pale sunlight streaming through the tall windows and falling onto the stone floors like fragile ribbons of warmth. Jamal hadn’t slept. His body had shut down.
Yes, at some point in the hours before dawn he had closed his eyes, but his mind had remained active, working through the shock, the confusion, and the unease that now knotted deep in his chest. When he finally sat up in bed, his limbs were stiff and his thoughts just as tangled as they’d been the night before. He found the house eerily silent.
There were no guards visible, no noise from the outside, no sign of the driver or the man in black who had brought them here. The place felt like a dream, or a prison. Everything in it was too perfect, too polished, designed for comfort but devoid of soul.
In the kitchen he discovered a fully stocked refrigerator and a note on the marble counter. It simply read, Eat, rest, stay inside. No signature, no explanation.
He made a cup of coffee and stood by the window, staring out at the high hedges that bordered the estate. Beyond them were trees, and beyond the trees, Jamal assumed, was the world, the real world. But right now they were cut off from it, sealed in this antiseptic pocket of safety with no understanding of who wanted them, dead, or why.