I can't speak.
His question hangs heavy in the air, but my throat locks shut.
I want to tell him the truth. That I am. That no one has touched me before. That the closest I've come to intimacy before were a few stolen, awkward kisses with school crushes. But no words come.
I just lie there, trembling, too numb to respond.
Alhaji's eyes stay on me, cold and suspicious, scanning my body for proof. I swallow hard, terrified that if I don't answer, he'll hit me again. Or worse.
Then I see it.
A small, dark stain on the white sheet beneath me.
Proof.
Alhaji sees it too. He exhales sharply, the tension in his face easing. Relief flickers in his eyes, and for a terrifying moment, I think he might smile. Instead, he mutters, "So, you were. Good."
I should feel relief. Maybe if the blood weren't there, if he thought I'd given myself to another man, he would have killed me. But instead of safety, all I feel is emptiness.
And then, disgust.
"You weren't even as sweet as I imagined." His voice drips with disappointment.
I flinch but don't dare respond.
He stands, adjusting his kaftan with slow, deliberate movements. The warmth he showed me earlier—fake as it was—is gone.
"You will never mention becoming a doctor in this house again," he says, final and sharp. "Your place is in my bed, attending to my needs."
My stomach clenches.
He steps closer, towering over me. "Your duty is to give me children. That's the only thing you need to think about."
I nod slowly. I don't trust my voice.
"If you understand what's good for you, you'll learn quickly."
And just like that, it's over.
Without another glance, he walks to the door, his footsteps heavy against the marble. The soft click as it shuts behind him leaves behind a deafening silence.
I don't cry. I can barely even afford to, as it requires energy which I am currently lacking.
I lie there, naked, staring at the ceiling. His words echo in my head: Your place is in my bed.
When I finally move, it's as if I'm no longer inside my own body. I slide off the bed, wincing at the sharp pain between my legs, and stagger toward the bathroom.
The mirror catches my reflection. I barely recognize the girl staring back. Wide, hollow eyes. Lips cracked from biting back screams. His fingerprints on my neck.
I grab a towel, scrubbing between my legs, trying to erase the pain, the memory. But it clings to me like a shadow.
A sudden knock makes me freeze.
Cold panic floods my veins. He back.
My legs shake as I wrap the towel around myself and force my feet toward the door.
I open it slowly.
It's not him. Allah be praised.
A middle-aged woman in a pale blue hijab stands there, a fresh set of sheets in her hands.
"Alhaji sent me," she says quietly, stepping inside.
I move aside, gripping my towel tighter as she strips the stained sheet, replacing it with smooth, golden fabric. Flawless, as if nothing happened.
I want to ask if this is normal. If she used to do this for the other wives. If the ache will ever go away.
But I already know the answer.
When she finishes, she turns to leave. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest moment. Something flickers there—pity.
It vanishes just as quickly.
"Rest," she says, soft but distant. "You'll need your strength."
And then she's gone.
I'm alone again.
I stare at the golden sheet. All I can see is the stain that was there before. A reminder that nothing will ever be the same.
I want to disappear into it, melt into the cold marble and never feel anything again.
But fate has other plans.
Another knock echoes through the room.
Sharp and insistent.
Anger surges through me.
"Leave me alone!" I scream, voice hoarse. "I don't care who you are, just go away!"
The door slides open anyway.
I clench my jaw, ready to yell again—until I see her.
Uwar Gida.
She steps inside with practiced grace, dressed in deep maroon lace. She moves toward me with quiet authority, lowering herself onto the floor beside me.
She doesn't speak right away. She just watches me, scanning my tear-streaked face.
"It gets better with time," she says softly.
I don't respond.
How could this ever get better?
Uwar shifts. "He's not always so cruel," she tries again. "Once you give him what he wants, things become… easier."
The word easier makes my stomach twist.
I drop my head against my knees, hoping silence will make her leave. But she doesn't.
Instead, she stays, asking if I need anything. If I'm in pain. If I want tea.
I barely hear her. My body aches too much. My heart feels broken in a way I can't describe.
After a long silence, she sighs.
"Well," she murmurs, pushing herself to her feet, "I'll leave you to rest. You'll need your strength."
The words echo the maid's, and for some reason, that makes the ache in my chest worse.
I should let her go. But something inside me, some desperate need for an answer, forces me to speak.
"How long?"
Uwar pauses, confusion building in her dark eyes.
"How long before it gets better?" My voice comes out small. Fragile.
She opens her mouth but hesitates. As if searching for the right words. As if they exist.
Her silence is enough.
The truth hangs heavy between us—there is no timeline for relief. No guarantee it ever will get better.
Before she can come up with an answer, her phone buzzes inside the folds of her wrapper. She ignores it at first, but when it rings again, louder, more insistent—she sighs and pulls it out.
"Later," she says briskly. "I'm busy."
Whoever is on the other end says something urgent. Her face changes. Her spine stiffens.
Something is wrong.
"What is it?" I ask, exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
She doesn't answer immediately. She rushes to the door, her movements swift and tense. But just before disappearing into the hallway, she turns back to me.
"It's Sisi's maid," she says, her voice tight with worry. "Sisi is dying."