THE BEGINNING

AMINAH'S POV:

I've always known that love, the real love is not just about the emotion– it's about devotion, patience, and purity that is based on the love for the Almighty. The purity that doesn't waver, no matter the temptation. I've always spent all my live living by this notion.

The way I dress, my prayer, every fast, every act–i try as much as possible to make it only for Him. The one who created me, the One that bestowed me the heart to only beat for His pleasure.

But then, Malik Haroon came into my life.

It wasn't like I've not encountered many handsome men. But he stands out in way, from the first time we met. Tall, strikingly handsome, with eyes that seemed to look straight through me. Maybe it's because of the way he made feel seen in a way that no one ever had before, as if I mattered more than anything else in his world.

But, i should have been cautious, kept my distance, stayed focused on my faith. But tell me how do you guard your heart when it feels like it's been set on fire by the warmth of someone else's affection? I tried. Wallai I tried so hard. Allah knows i did.

But it's hard to hold on to your convictions when someone like Malik loves you so completely. And even harder when you begin to question if the purity of your faith is worth sacrificing for a love that feels as if it's written in the stars. Oh! How he loved me!

Walai, it wasn't supposed turn out like this. I wasn't supposed to fall this deep. "You cannot keep letting him do this to you," a voice of reason chastised in my head. Yet as I watched him smile across the room, as his voice whispered promises of forever in my ear, voice of reason long forgotten, i couldn't help but wonder– how much longer should i keep fighting this?

If I can't resist, would i still be worthy of my Lord's mercy?

AMINAH'S POV:

I sat cross-legged on the large Persian rug in the corner of my room,flipping through the pages of a novel I'm reading. I am glad i decided to chose this particular room after packing out of the one my parents chose for us when we were younger in order to be able to keep an eye on me and my siblings. My room is at the far end of the second floor, mostly quiet. Just the way I loved it. I had the walls repainted to a calm shade of cream. On the walls are pictures of me, my siblings and my parents. In front of my bed is one of my most treasured calligraphy drawing in a frame displaying Lailaha illa llah–There is no God but Allah– in arabic.

Somewhere downstairs, my siblings, Aysha and Bilal's laughter and playful arguments echoed through the house. Aysha, always the mischievous one, was likely trying to convince Bilal to join her in one of her crazy schemes.

A wooden vanity table stood against one wall, with delicate carvings, holding my prayer beads and a few family heirlooms. My bookshelves lined another wall, filled with novels, Islamic texts, and journals. The scent of my favorite incense gave the room a calm atmosphere.

The simplicity of the room was a stark contrast to the grandeur of the house outside, but it was my haven. A place where I could think, pray, and simply breathe. My sanctuary.

Our house was a two-story mansion in the heart of Lagos, its white marble façade gleaming in the sunlight. Tall columns framed the grand double doors, opening to a foyer with polished travertine floors that reflected the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.

The air inside was always cool, the rooms spacious and filled with soft lighting that created an elegant, almost regal atmosphere. Upstairs, the rooms were filled with rich wooden furniture and tapestries, while the large windows looked out onto the sprawling garden. Every corner of the house spoke of my father's successful business he built from ground up– an empire of luxury event halls scattered across Lagos and beyond, each a symbol of his hard work and vision.

Unlike most rich family's daughter who attend luxury events, showcasing and living their life extravagantly, i prefer to stay low key. My faith was my priority. The life my father had worked so hard to build wasn't mine to flaunt. My focus is on my calligraphy business that is considerably gaining attention.

"Come on, Amina!" Maryam voice sliced through my thoughts. She was sitting at the foot of my bed, her arms crossed as she pouted dramatically. "You need to start living a little! Stop hiding away in this house all the time. It's just a wedding. You won't even know anyone there, it'll be fine," she said, knowing fully well i won't be recognized as the first daughter of the famous Lambo family but just as a normal person. Something i'm immensely greatful for.

I groaned, trying to hide my frustration. Maryam never really understood why I wasn't like the other girls. She understands my devotion to my faith and respects it. But sometimes, she argues the fact that Islam doesn't stop a woman from living her life as long as she's not being promiscuous.

"I'm not interested in going to some random wedding," I muttered, standing up to sit on my bed.

"Oh, please," she huffed. "Sometimes, you can be too serious. This one is different o. Everyone will be there—everyone who matters, anyway. And the bride is my client. So, I don't know a soul except for you. Do you want me to be stranded all night, forced to make awkward small talk with strangers?"

"You'll be fine," I said, leaning back on my pillows. "You love talking to strangers."

She rolled her eyes, sitting up on her knees. "Not when you're my backup. Come on, it'll be fun. You might even meet someone."

"Stop." I shot her a look. "You know I'm not interested in all that."

"Fine, fine," she said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. Then, with a sly grin, she added,

"But you're not staying cooped up in this house forever, you know. One day, someone's going to come along and turn your whole world upside down."

I snorted. "Dramatic much?"

"Mark my words." She leaned in, her grin widening. "And when it happens, I'll say, 'I told you so."'

Her words lingered as she bounced off the bed, her excitement enough to sweep me along despite myself. Against my better judgment, I found myself agreeing. "Fine," I muttered, closing the book. "But only because you won't leave me alone."

"You won't regret this," she squealed, pulling me into a hug. "This will be the best decision of your life."

"Mama go and sit down jor," i laughed

I had no idea that, at this wedding, I would meet someone who would turn my world upside down. Someone who would challenge everything I thought I knew about myself—and about love.

MALIK'S POV:

I glanced at the clock—7:37 p.m. I have to be at the wedding in less than an hour, and I still wasn't fully dressed. My tie was hanging off my neck, and my jacket was sprawled on the back of the chair.

"You can't miss this one too o, oga," Seun called from the door, his voice a little too insistent for my liking. "Everyone will notice."

I chuckled and ran a hand through my hair.

"Everyone always notices." My phone pinged.

I reached for my phone and saw a message from my mother:

'You must be there, Malik. And make sure you find a good girl. There will be plenty of eligible young women—make sure you talk to them!'

I couldn't help but shake my head. Of course, she was thinking about marriage again. Every family gathering was just another chance for her to play matchmaker. Honestly, it was one of the things that had me dreading these events, despite the business connections I had to make.

I typed a quick reply:

'Insha'Allah, I'll do my best, Mum.'

Satisfied with my response, I looked at the clock again. The adhan would start soon. I took a brief moment to pray, knowing it would clear my head before the madness of the evening. Five minutes, but enough to remind myself where my priorities really lay.

Seun knocked again, louder this time. "If we don't leave now, you'll miss the whole thing."

"Alright, alright, I can't afford to be too late for my cousin's wedding" I muttered, adjusting my tie and grabbing my jacket. I took one last look in the mirror. Not bad. Not perfect either, but good enough.

"Let's go," I said, heading for the door.

I climbed into the back of the car and stared out the window. The traffic in Lagos was already picking up, the usual chaos of people rushing from one place to the next. My mind wandered for a moment—business, family, what my mother would think of the women I met tonight. But I knew it was useless to dwell on it. I'd just have to play along, like always, and see where the night took me.