Let Me Hate You

Marriage!

A day that is engraved deeply into one’s heart. For some people, it’s one of the best days of their lives; for some, it’s a new beginning. For some women, it’s a celebration of becoming someone’s ‘your’s forever,’ while for some, it means the union of soulmates—each perceiving the marital union as per their expectations. However, one thing that is common among them is love. Love for your would-be spouse or the love that is showered on them during the entire ritual.

It is believed a girl looks magnificent on her wedding day, which is evident in the way a groom cries seeing the woman he loves as his bride. 

This all would have been true for Asmaira if she had been married under normal circumstances. Although her wedding happened just the way she had imagined, in her small house with only her family witnessing one of her best moments of life, she was anything but happy. For her, all that was said about marriage or finding a soulmate was far from reality. There she was, alone and mourning. Mourning for what had happened and what would be happening in the future.

I do!

A shudder passed through her recollecting his voice during the ceremony; the thick tension she felt at the moment of vows still gave her chills. That voice she had never heard before yet could somehow feel that undesirable connection. The connection she never wished to form in the first place. 

She was more than content in her middle-class life before she came to know the truth that shattered her bliss. Marriage was supposed to fill her life with delight; instead of happiness, she was met with fear, emptiness, and restlessness. Instead of being surrounded by her family, she was surrounded by loneliness, and instead of thinking about her future filled with love for her husband, she was scared. 

Soulmates?

When her soul is filled with nothing but loathing for her husband, how would anyone even consider them soulmates?

A lone tear escaped her lowered eyes, recollecting the look on her family’s faces, especially her father. The thought that her father didn’t even meet her eyes or hadn’t even sent her off was threatening a sob to escape her throat. She clenched her palms together, finding her resolve gradually breaking down.

She doesn’t remember how long she sat on a couch or when her co-sisters escorted her to the devil’s den. If through any miracle, she could muster up the might, she would have denied even stepping into the room—the room of the devil she was not ready to face yet—to spend the wedding night. 

Any woman in the world would have killed to be in her place, but for Asmaira becoming Mrs. Hashmi was more of a torment than a fortune. Being married to the most eligible man of the city, many would have called her a gold digger, hailing from a nominal family, or calling her a bitch to seduce the man of the hour. Only if they knew, it was neither in her case. Only if they could know her truth. 

Asmaira sat rigid in her place. The silence in the room was so profound that at one point, she could hear her heart thrashing against her chest in fear. Afraid someone might be staring at her from the shadows of the dark room, she clutched her simple bridal wear and was conscious of not breathing loudly lest that shadow might get offended. Subconsciously she knew she was alone, but the absence of light in the room except for the table lamp beside the couch and the dread of meeting the person she wished never to see made it even more difficult for her to be rational. 

Anyone who knows Asmaira would also know she was invariably introverted all her life. Like her simple look, her soul, too, was basic. She neither had expectations from anyone or for the matters from life, nor was she bold enough to take control of her life. For her, the only dream she had since her childhood was to make her parents proud. Her sense of gratitude towards her parents was way above self-love. She would do anything within her scope or even leave anyone for her parent’s sake, something her parents were painfully aware of. No matter how much they ensured her to have a life of her own, she would never think about herself before her parents.

It was not that she was brought up with a stern upbringing, but she was hardwired like that in default. Not every human has the same personality and traits, and while we can’t blame people for being extroverts or even ambiverts, the same goes for introverts. Asmaira’s mother used to say this in her defense when asked about her reserved personality.

Unlike other girls, she never craved attention from anyone. On the contrary, she would lose her calm the moment she set off getting any attention, especially from the opposite gender. Another reason for her being under scrutiny was that she gets frantic when boys approach her or even make an attempt. She calls herself an old school when it comes to men and has been mocked numerous times for the same in her high school.

It was precisely this idealogy of hers that surprised people for agreeing to marry her husband. To a person who doesn’t know her, it would look like she was tempted by the influential name in the country—Hashmi’s— and the power that comes with it. Only if it was true. 

When her back burned from sitting rigidly on edge and keeping her head low for so long, she shifted in her place. A thought of relaxing her stiff muscle crossed her mind only to extinguish with the prospect of coming face to face with HIM, though he was now her husband. 

I do! 

His voice filled with venom when he was asked about his acceptance of the marriage. 

Asmaira knew about his hatred for her and wasn’t oblivious to his contempt during the entire event. If that was not all, he left as soon as he signed the marriage certificate earning many raised eyebrows, especially his mother’s. 

Overwhelmed with emotions, Asmaira couldn’t put the finger on what she was actually scared of. Was it about living in a strange mansion, given that she never stayed away from her house, or the thought of living in the same room with her devil of a husband?

Was it the failure to not achieve what she came into the mansion in the first place or her introverted personality that makes it difficult to survive in the absurd circumstance? 

Earlier, whenever she was in such a situation, one person would always come to her rescue. She closed her eyes, remembered that familiar face, and murmured, “Where are you? Why are you not here? Please come and tell me that you will figure out the problem for me as always.”

Another lone tear fell from her eye, which she wiped with the back of her hand. She has been crying since the day she said yes to the marriage, yet she couldn’t stop herself from crying further. It was her decision wholly and solely to get entangled in this marriage whose foundation was founded on nothing but hate.

Taking a deep inhale, she opened her eyes and conjured up the courage before raising her head. She knew there was no going back for her, and the quicker she accepted the reality, the less complicated it would be. 

She glanced around, trying to find any similarity in the room decor. Pushing her black glasses over her nose, she peeked for a switch to turn on the light. Adjusting her simple bridal dress and the veil over her head, she rose from the couch. After a few minutes of looking around, she found the switch. As soon as the lights were on, she gaped in astonishment. 

To her expectation, the room was decorated with class and luxury. Every corner screams money and the taste of the room’s owner. The room was spacious enough to hold a 2 BHK apartment and designed with contemporary furniture. Each corner had a lavender plant making them stand out against the white background. One wall holds a floor-length bookshelf with a recliner and a modern styled floor lamp making it a haven for book lovers. 

‘Just like she always wanted,’ a smile adorned her face for the first time in many months.

Asmaira slowly glances around in amazement observing the room, her fear taking a back seat for the time being. Every bit and every corner of the room was a reminder about ‘her.’ 

What caught her attention was a wall just opposite the king-size bed covered with many pictures of a couple. Just by the look of it, anyone could say they are so much in love, beaming with the brightest of smiles. The girl’s smile was so contagious that Asmaira automatically smiled, remembering how charismatic she was. 

For a moment, seeing her picture, Asmaira forgot her misery. The emptiness was quickly filled with all the endearing memories of her. Subconsciously she raised her hand to touch her picture, to feel her as if she was there with her, protecting her like a shield.

Lost in reminiscing, what Asmaira failed to notice was someone else’s presence. While walking toward the photograph, she didn’t hear the door opening before a shadow fell on the ground. She failed to see the snarl appearing on the visitor’s face witnessing her in the room. In her daze, she was about to touch the picture when an arm came and caught her wrist with an intense force. Startled, she turned around only to freeze in her spot. What stood before her was the same person she had dreaded meeting. 

His face was grim and gloomy, while his eyes were filled with so much hatred that she had to lower her eyes feeling his glare. She winced but couldn’t struggle to get out of his hold. As if his glimmer shattered the remnant of her rationality. If anyone witnessed the scene, they would assume it was not their first meeting; however, it was their first time seeing each other. He was not around during or after the wedding, much to Asmaira’s relief. 

Yes, she hated him with every cell in her body, but it was also a fact that he topped the list of people she was frightened of. Although they never met, much less talked, they were connected due to rooted hatred for each other. 

Something about his expression made her think she wouldn’t be safer with him, not when he looked ready to shred her to pieces. She flinched when a low growl broke the eerie silence, and she saw him giving her wedding dress once over in disgust. 

She was scared of him at that moment would have been an understatement.

Intuitively her gaze fell on the man in the picture and back on the one hurting her wrist. He was the same man from the picture, but without any emotions. She choked, realizing how the same smiling face could now look so cold. The devil, who, for her, was the leading cause of her misery.

Amaan Hashmi, the one she hates and is sacred at the same time, her HUSBAND!