The American man—Mr. Goodchild—accepted the marriage contract faster than a starving man reaches for bread. Desperation does that to people. He signed without blinking, sealing the fate of his only daughter for business with the Abduls. And as always, they would benefit the most.
His daughter, barely nineteen, wore white silk like a lie. The wedding was extravagant, over-decorated like their lives—meant to distract from the poverty of character. But whispers slithered through the air like snakes.
"She's black…"
"She's an infidel…"
"She just gave birth to a bastard…"
Yet none of that mattered to them—not her past, not her pain. Why? Because Hassan isn't really their son. He is merely the golden key to my bank vault, and she is just the next pawn. The Abduls do not care about skin or God—only money.
I expected nothing from the girl. Another fragile doll to be played with and discarded. But she surprised me.
On the third day after the wedding, I heard a knock. Not a servant. Not a greedy clan member. No—it was her.
She didn't know who I was, only that I spoke English. Her voice trembled, but her words were honest.
"Please, I… my breasts are in pain."
I blinked. "Why?"
With no shame, she confessed. "I just gave birth and left my child at his father's house before the wedding. I know it sounds terrible, but I had no other choice."
I looked at her—this stranger, this girl of the Western world—and something in me softened. Not pity, but familiarity. Pain recognizes pain. "Use warm cloths," I told her, "and massage gently. You're swollen from weaning too fast."
She thanked me and turned to leave, but then paused at the door. "By the way, I'm Sibrin Goodchild. I'm my father's only daughter."
She smiled awkwardly, assuming I was like the others.
"I'm Salma," I replied calmly, "Princess of Qatar, owner of oil reserves… and mother of Hassan."
Her face turned red, and she stammered, "Apologies, Mother-in-law."
"It's fine," I said. And I meant it.
After that day, I watched Sibrin with quiet curiosity. She was new to the ways of this house. She smiled politely. She obeyed. She asked no questions.
Until… she started falling for Hassan.
The same Hassan whose heart is made of marble. The lady killer. The charmer. The man who shares kisses but never commitments. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to say: "Child, don't waste your tears on someone whose soul is already sold." But it's better she learns on her own.
Let her touch fire. Then she'll understand heat.
My husband, suddenly concerned about "propriety," declared a rule: They shall not share a room. He claimed she was too young. But we all knew the truth. He didn't want her "blackness" to stain the purity of the Abdul name.
And according to them, she was "used goods"—so Hassan had full rights to explore other women. Arab culture, they claimed. But it was never about culture. It was about power and hypocrisy.
I watched from a distance. Would this daughter-in-law endure it? Or would she do what I once could not?
Days passed, and Hassan ignored her. No affection. No visits. No effort. Just as expected.
Then one morning, she came to me again. This time with fire in her voice.
"Mother, I'm American. I was young and foolish. My ex tricked me into sending all my family's money into his father's account. I ruined everything. I married your son because I thought maybe I could start over… make it right."
I listened.
But later that week, when her ex called to say her baby was sick, she packed her things. Quietly. Alone. Not a single Abdul raised a finger to stop her. Not even her husband. It was as if she never existed.
And then came the twist.
Her father, Mr. Goodchild, furious at the betrayal, broke the deal. His money stopped flowing. And suddenly the Abduls remembered she existed.
My husband—so absent in love, so present in greed—sent Hassan to fetch her back. To convince her. To apologize. To pretend.
Will she come back? I don't know.
She's young, yes. Naïve? Maybe.
But she's also wounded. And wounded people can either become prey… or wolves.
Either way, I know this:
The fire has already touched her.