17 Nasrin

17

Nasrin

“You look beautiful, Nasrin,” Zain’s grandmother cooed when Zara, dressed in a gorgeous red gown, draped a golden colored lace over my head, my dainty gold earrings glinting in the sunlight.

“You look like a queen,” Zara smiled brightly, the staff asking to take pictures with me. Zara frowned at them when she asked what #SultanRoyalWedding meant.

I had forgotten that she had never used social media in her life.

“Thank you, jadati. Thank you, Zara. I am excited for the cake more than the wedding,” I grinned, my stomach tight with the anticipation of marrying the Sultan of Azmia.

The wedding gown, jewelry, my clothes, handbags, shoes and absolutely everything else had been bought and gifted to me by Zain and his family as a part of our marriage ceremony mahr, which we would sign during katb Al-kitaab. It was a small ceremony of the payment which the groom must provide to the bride, out of love and respect.

I tried to ignore all the luxuries that came with being Zain’s wife-