Emily Smith was nineteen years old and living in Napa Valley when her family’s winery was on the verge of going bankrupt.

Debts had accumulated dangerously, threatening to erase generations of hard work.

One night, her parents, John and Mary Smith, called her with faces marked by despair.

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—Emily, Tarek Ben Malik will pay off our debts, but in return he wants to marry you—Mary said, her voice trembling.

Tarek Ben Malik was seventy-five years old and a billionaire known for always getting what he wanted.

He wasn’t looking for a glamorous young woman, but a traditional, pure, and inexperienced American girl.

A lawyer slid a contract onto the table. The gold seals gleamed under the lamp.

“He has chosen you, Miss Smith,” he said indifferently, as Emily’s heart broke.

The contract was perfectly worded, with clauses in English and Arabic, but its essence was cruel: Emily was being sold.

She screamed, she begged them not to force her, her tears fell without ceasing, but the decision had already been made.

“It’s the only way to save the winery,” John said, his voice hollow.

Emily felt betrayed. The future was slipping through her fingers.

“It’s symbolic, my dear,” her father added, avoiding eye contact.

—He’s an older man, he probably just wants company… nothing more.

Emily clung to that fragile illusion, even though a cold anguish pressed on her chest.

Deep down, I knew it was a white lie.

The agreement was sealed by international lawyers, with a Moroccan intermediary finalizing every detail.

The debts were frozen, the auction was canceled overnight, but the price was Emily’s freedom.

A plane ticket to Marrakech awaited her. The flight was on Saturday.

She packed alone, her hands trembling. Every item in her suitcase reminded her of what she was leaving behind.

He boarded the plane in silence. The quiet cabin stifled his thoughts.

Was it a new beginning or the end of his life? No one could answer him as the plane crossed the ocean.

She didn’t feel like a wife, but like merchandise. Her heart was heavy with fear and resignation.

Upon arriving in Marrakech, a black armored car was waiting for her. The driver was stern and silent.

The city vibrated with life —children playing among colorful markets, palm trees swaying in the warm breeze— but for Emily it was a foreign world.

Her hotel, a fortress of marble and gold, was reserved just for her.

Every luxury, from the silk sheets to the scent of jasmine in the air, screamed confinement, not welcome.

She was taken to Tarek’s palace. She felt the weight of the majestic gates as she entered.

The marble halls gleamed, the chandeliers shone coldly, but everything lacked soul.

The servants moved with mechanical precision, forced smiles, and eyes that avoided his.

“This isn’t a home,” Emily thought, as her footsteps echoed in the empty hallways.

The night before the wedding, the maids came in with trays of tea and perfumed oils.

“He’s very eager to meet you, Miss Emily,” one said in a low voice.

Emily felt a knot in her stomach, her hands gripping the edge of the chair.

“Meet me? Isn’t this supposed to be just a formality?” she asked, her voice higher than she intended.

The maid lowered her gaze, uncomfortable.

“It’s tradition,” he murmured, leaving her alone with increasingly dark thoughts.

And then he understood: it wasn’t just a formality.

No one had promised her that she would be safe from Tarek’s desires.

The morning arrived laden with an oppressive silence in the palace, as if the building were holding its breath.

The maids arrived wearing white silk dresses, pearls, empty compliments, and quick, impersonal hands.

“Today is your big day, Miss Emily,” one of them said, as if it were a cause for celebration.

Emily wanted to scream, to tear her dress, but her body wouldn’t respond. She was paralyzed.

It took them an hour to dress her. Each layer tightened the knot on her chest.

In front of the mirror he saw a bride, but he felt like an object, wrapped up for the pleasure of another.

“Who am I now?” she whispered to her reflection, the perfume on the back of her neck like an indelible mark.

The maids withdrew, their work finished, leaving her alone to face the day.

The ceremony hall was enormous, its elegance icy and imposing.

Diplomats and lawyers occupied the seats, serious faces, devoid of human warmth.

Emily stood alone at the altar. The absence of her family hurt like an open wound.

“How could they leave me here?” she thought, clutching the fabric of her dress tightly.

Tarek Ben Malik dominated the scene. Dressed in traditional robes, his dark eyes shone.

At seventy-five, she exuded power. Her gaze showed no affection, only possession.

He saw her as just another trophy to add to his empire.

Emily tensed her neck, her hands trembling beneath her veil.

The officer spoke in Arabic and English, with a neutral and ceremonious voice.

Emily signed the documents without barely reading them, accepted a solid gold ring, and became Mrs. Ben Malik.

Her voice did not tremble, but her soul broke with every word.

The title felt like a chain tightened around the heart.

Tarek approached after the ceremony, with a smile as sharp as a knife.

“You are more beautiful than I was promised,” he said, kissing her hand, his lips lingering too long.

Emily forced a blank expression. Nausea rose in her throat.

—Thank you —she barely whispered, fearing what would come next.

He leaned closer, his warm breath in her ear.

“We begin tonight,” she said, her eyes shining with intent.

The phrase chilled Emily to the bone, confirming her worst fears.

She froze, knowing exactly what he meant, her heart pounding.

Night fell, and the maids led her through the palace labyrinths.

Heavy doors, thick curtains, and silent gardens disappeared until they reached a golden door.

“This is your wing, Mrs. Ben Malik,” said a woman, bowing deeply.

“Where is Tarek?” Emily asked, her voice trembling with fear.

“She will come later, as tradition dictates,” replied the maid, closing the door with a sharp thud.

Emily sat on the bed, her heart pounding in the spacious golden room, stifled by the heavy curtains.

The large mirror in front of her reflected back the image of a stranger: trapped and alone.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered, but there was no escape.

Two maids returned with oils and a translucent garment that could hardly be called clothing.

“You must take a bath,” said one, in a mechanical voice, handing him the fine fabric.

“Tarek respects traditions,” the other woman added, avoiding looking at her.

Emily tensed her neck. That garment was a symbol of submission, not a nightgown.

She went into the bathroom. The hot water did not calm her fear.

Her body obeyed, but her mind screamed, feeling like a victim on the verge of sacrifice.

The maids worked in silence, their hands moving swiftly as if following an ancient script.

Emily stared at the tiled wall, wishing she could disappear.

Dressed in that tight garment, she sat on the bed, barefoot and with every curve exposed.

No blanket could hide her vulnerability, nor could any breath calm her racing heart.

The wait felt endless; every second weighed like an unbearable burden.

She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms, prepared for the inevitable.

The door handle swung, sharp in the silence, like a gunshot in the dark.

Tarek entered, his robes billowing, and his cologne was heavy and oppressive.

His eyes fixed on her, hungry and relentless, as she closed the door.

“You are beautiful,” he said softly, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Take off your clothes,” Tarek ordered, approaching, his tone allowing no argument.

Emily’s trembling hands unbuttoned the silk, letting it fall, her body exposed to his gaze.

“Now I want to see what’s mine,” he said, with a sharp smile, snatching away the last shred of dignity from her.

She froze, her gaze lowered, shame burning inside her.

“Lie down on the bed,” Tarek ordered, his voice sharp and cutting through the thick air.

—Legs open, as a wife should on her first night.

Emily submitted, moving mechanically, her face turned towards the wall to avoid his gaze.

Her heart was pounding, despair was consuming her as the mattress sank beneath her weight.

“It will hurt,” Tarek said, leaning close, his warm breath on her neck.

—Don’t move, don’t scream, bite the sheets if necessary.

A silent tear rolled down Emily’s cheek, her body rigid with fear.

He positioned himself, his hands firm on the bed, ready to claim her.

“You will survive,” Tarek whispered, his voice hoarse from waiting.

Emily prepared herself, her mind traveling to a distant place, her body cold and numb.

But then Tarek stopped, his eyes wide open in surprise.

He was breathless, his body tense as if something inside him had broken.

He collapsed, heavy and limp, crushing her under his weight.

Her head rested on his shoulder, her arm hanging limply over her chest.

“Tarek?” she whispered, her voice trembling, almost inaudible.

Panic erupted as she pushed his motionless body, his strength giving way beneath his weight.

“Help!” Emily shouted, her hoarse voice breaking the silence of the room.

The doors flew open, the maids screamed, and the guards rushed in, their eyes wide.

One of them tore Tarek’s body away, another threw a blanket over him, while chaos erupted around them.

Emily stood up, hugging a blanket to her chest, her mind blank from shock.

The corridor was filled with shouted orders in Arabic, footsteps echoed through the marble halls.

Emily was quickly taken to another room, wrapped in a blanket, her body shaking uncontrollably.

She couldn’t speak, nor cry, she just stared at the wall, pale and bare.

 

The world seemed to have stopped, but it was spinning wildly, out of control.

Hours later, a maid entered, her face pale and her voice barely a whisper.

“Mr. Ben Malik suffered a massive stroke,” he said, looking at the ground.

—He is in a coma, on life support, and the doctors do not expect him to wake up.

Emily nodded, her face blank, a strange mixture of relief and fear swirling inside her.

The palace became a fortress of whispers and hurried footsteps.

Emily was locked in a new room, the luxury a cruel mockery of her imprisonment.

She sat there, still wrapped in a blanket, unable to cry or speak.

The silence was heavier than ever, his thoughts trapped in the chaos of that night.

For three months, Emily lived like a prisoner in Tarek’s palace.

She was not allowed to leave, isolated from the world, despite being his wife, even though he lay unconscious.

The maids brought her food and clothes, avoiding her gaze as if she were under a curse.

She wondered if she would ever be able to escape from that gilded cage.

Each day blended into the next; the opulence of the palace suffocated her.

Emily paced her room, gazing at the vibrant skyline of Marrakech, a world she could not touch.

“Am I still me?” he asked into the empty air, his voice echoing off the marble walls.

The silence offered no answers, only more questions.

One sweltering morning, a maid entered with a solemn expression.

“Tarek died last night,” he said, placing an envelope on the table.

It was her will — Emily was named as a partial heir.

The news felt like a new chain, binding her to a man she never chose.

The funeral was quick, secret, with guards and no cameras.

Emily was not allowed to attend, left alone in her room, the weight of her title crushing her.

“Mrs. Ben Malik,” he murmured bitterly, words that tasted like ash.

He stared at the walls, dreading what the will might mean.

Tarek’s lawyer arrived the next day, his face expressionless, a thick file in his hand.

“You’re in the will,” he said directly, showing pages of legal text.

—Property, stock, lifetime maintenance—it’s all yours, Mrs. Ben Malik.

Emily looked around, her mind racing, wondering if it was freedom or a deeper trap.

The marriage contract was explicit: the inheritance required consummation.

Nobody knew what had happened that night — Tarek never spoke, and his silence became Emily’s shield.

The will was ratified, a final act of control that marked it as his even in death.

For his children, it was an unforgivable betrayal.

The attacks began that same day, swift and violent.

Leaks to the press filled the headlines: “American widow inherits millions after a mysterious night.”

Rumors of greed, seduction, and even witchcraft circulated, painting Emily as an intriguer.

She remained silent, refusing interviews, but the world labeled her the villain.

Tarek’s daughters, Sara and Lila Ben Malik, spearheaded the offensive, hiring elite lawyers to contest the will.

They claimed that Tarek was sick, manipulated, and that the marriage was never consummated.

“It’s a disgrace to our father’s legacy,” Sara declared on a Dubai channel, her voice filled with anger.

Emily’s name became a target of attacks, her every move monitored.

The palace seemed colder, its walls echoing with whispers of betrayal.

Emily overheard the maids whispering, “She cheated on him, that American girl.”

She wanted to shout her truth, but silence was safer.

Every day she felt more like a ghost, living a life she didn’t choose.

Then came the news that changed everything: Zain Ben Malik was returning.

Tarek’s youngest son, a brilliant lawyer who had been absent for years, was returning to Marrakech.

“He will clear his father’s name,” the family assured, their voices full of conviction.

Emily heard it on television, with the windows closed, feeling the world closing in around her.

Zain Ben Malik was thirty-five years old, a sharp lawyer trained at the University of London.

He was fluent in five languages ​​and possessed the intensity of his father, but without his cruelty, with dark eyes that were always inquisitive.

He had been away for years, avoiding family drama, but the will had brought him back.

“She won’t stop until she uncovers the truth,” said a cousin, and Emily felt the weight of her arrival.

Emily was in her room in the palace, the television was announcing the news of Zain’s return.

The windows were closed, but he felt the world closing in around him.

“He’s not just a lawyer,” he thought, “he’s a hunter,” his heart racing at the thought of facing Tarek’s son.

I knew it wasn’t just a trial; it was a personal war against her.

Seven years later, Emily had disappeared from the public eye, taking refuge in a quiet house in Napa Valley.

His life was simple — tea at dawn, tending the garden, solitary walks among the hills.

The guards protected her from the press, but the past lingered like a shadow.

The inheritance remained a secret, the legal battle faded away, but peace eluded him.

Her eyes remained wary, her soul heavy with memories that refused to fade away.

At night, her body trembled, remembering the weight of Tarek’s fall.

“Will I ever be free?” he whispered in the darkness, a question without an answer.

She lived as if she carried a ghost, always prepared for its return.

One serene morning, a black car pulled up in front of her door in Napa Valley.

Zain Ben Malik came down, elegant in a white shirt, with a penetrating and implacable gaze.

“I’m here to see Emily,” he said to the guard, in a clear and authoritative tone.

“She doesn’t receive visitors,” the guard replied.

But Zain’s name weighed heavily on her and made her hesitate.

“I am Zain Ben Malik,” he replied firmly, refusing to discuss the matter.

The guard made a quick call, but Emily refused to see him, her heart pounding behind closed doors.

Zain nodded and left in the car, but he did not leave Napa, staying at a nearby hotel.

She was there to get answers and she wouldn’t stop until she got them.

Zain remained in Napa, following her at a distance, his presence a silent shadow.

He observed her routines — morning tea, walks in the garden, visits to the local bakery — every detail was a piece of her observed life.

She lived alone, her isolation evident, her movements careful.

“What is he hiding?” she wondered, her curiosity turning into something deeper.

Emily could feel it, his penetrating gaze even when he remained hidden.

He saw him in the store, pretending to look, with those dark eyes that glared at him.

Her heart was beating fast, but she said nothing, neither to the guards nor to herself.

“He’s here to destroy me,” he thought, “but his persistence caused him an inexplicable unease.”

Weeks later, Zain knocked on her door, impeccably dressed in a gray blazer, his voice firm.

“I’m not here for revenge, Emily,” he said.

—Ten minutes, no accusations —just the truth.

The guard closed the door, the rejection echoing, but Zain returned the next day, unyielding.

Her determination eroded her resistance, a crack in the walls she had carefully built.

Emily wondered if she was seeking justice or just to annoy her.

She remained silent, but her presence made her extremely aware; her routine was no longer a refuge.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” she murmured, watering the lavender, her hands trembling.

Each encounter, however brief, made one doubt his own silence.

One afternoon, Zain appeared in her garden while she was tending to the plants.

—Beautiful flowers—he said, pointing, in an almost casual tone.

Emily ignored it, focused on the roots, but her pulse quickened.

“I just want to understand,” she added, more sweetly, searching for a spark of truth in his eyes.

He stopped the sprinkler, his gaze meeting for a moment.

“What do you want to know?” she asked, her voice reserved, barely concealing her fear.

Zain took another step closer to the fence, an imposing but restrained presence.

“Was there something between you and my father?” he asked, his words cutting through the hot air.

The question hung in the air, her eyes fixed on Emily’s, searching for a crack.

“Did you have a romantic relationship with my father?” she insisted, her voice firm but intense.

Emily’s face turned to stone, the silence a perfected shield.

She turned to water, the pipe an anchor in her trembling hands.

“Did it touch you?” Zain asked, his tone higher, as he approached the fence.

Emily gasped, but didn’t look at him, concentrating on the lavender.

“What does it matter now?” he finally replied, in a low voice, dodging the question.

The doubt remained, unanswered, fueling the suspicion.

Zain exhaled, barely containing his frustration.

“The will, Emily—was it your idea?” he asked, words that were a silent challenge.

She dropped the tube, her eyes flashing towards his for an instant, sharpened by the confrontation.

“Are you finished?” he said, turning towards the house with determined steps.

“That’s enough for today,” Zain replied, his voice calm but firm, watching her walk away.

He withdrew, leaving the garden, but his mind was full of doubts.

Emily’s silence wasn’t just defensive—it was deliberate, hiding something he couldn’t yet understand.

“It’s not as they say,” he thought, but the truth seemed unattainable.

A few days later, a basket appeared on Emily’s doorstep—fruit, mint tea, a handwritten note.

—I don’t want to scare you.

“I want to understand what my father saw in you,” Zain wrote.

Emily looked at the note, her heart torn between fear and curiosity.

She put the basket away, but didn’t answer; silence was a fortress.

Their encounters increased—greetings from a distance, brief comments about the weather, looks that lingered too long.

Zain saw the pain in Emily, not the greed that her family attributed to her, and that disturbed him.

Her cautious movements, the way she held the teacup with both hands, suggested an unnamed wound.

Each encounter made him doubt his own quest, the anger transforming into something else.

Emily’s routine seemed fragile, Zain’s presence a constant buzz beneath the calm.

She watered the garden, prepared the tea, but her hands trembled when she felt him near.

His visits —brief, deliberate— aroused in her a mixture of fear and defiance.

“He won’t stop until he destroys me,” she thought, but a part of her wondered what he was really after.

Zain watched her from afar, her hotel room filled with notes about her habits.

He saw no greed in her quiet life, only a woman carrying a heavy past.

“She’s not the bad person they say she is,” he murmured, but the terms of the will haunted him, demanding answers.

In San Francisco, while dealing with legal matters, Zain overheard hotel staff whispering.

“She was never touched,” said a waitress.

—The nurse who cared for Tarek said his body was clean.

The words hit Zain like a jolt, redefining his doubts about that night.

He drove back to Napa, with renewed determination, resolved to confront Emily directly.

He arrived early at her door, his voice firm.

“I need to talk to her,” he said to the guard, his gaze unwavering.

Emily, against her will, let him in, finding him in the garden.

She held a cup of tea, her posture rigid, as Zain approached.

“Is it true?” he asked in a low voice.

—Did nothing happen to my father?

Emily sipped her tea, her gaze steady but cautious.

“What does it matter now?” he replied with calculated calm.

“It matters a lot,” Zain replied, approaching, his gaze penetrating.

“Are you saying the marriage was consummated?” he insisted, searching for any crack in her facade.

He stood up, his voice firm.

“Yes, I swear,” she said, looking him in the eyes, a blush rising up her neck.

Zain saw the flash of fear, the slight trembling in her hands.

“Prove it,” he challenged, his tone sharp but with a spark of doubt.

Emily froze, her breath coming in short gasps, the silence louder than any response.