His Scandalous Bride

PROLOGUE

There was no none quite like her.

Aisha Mamman Shehu.

Shrewd golden eyes, a heart of gold, recurring nightmares and;

"You can't fix me, Saddiq. But thanks for trying anyway."

. . .an unattainable dream.

Moaning, Saddiq reached for his phone on the bedside drawer next to the lamp stand whose fluorescence swarm the room in a stream much like the blazing sun and tried not to wince as the light hits his almost lifeless eyes which was no easy feat; red and swollen, as they were, littered with too much despair it hurts—not that there was any part of him which fared any differently. His head hurts. His throat hurts. His stomach hurts. His lungs hurts. His heart. . .

No new messages.

. . .is in shatters.

He'd heard a beep but it would seem he was wrong, again. The message ding was all in his head, again, and from all indications, mere seconds after the last. What was wrong with him? He wonders as he lets off the device on the drawer in thickening despair and buried his face, again, beneath a woolly peach duvet with his senses desperately clinging to a soft floral scent which was fast fading absently wondering why he wasn't turning off the lights which was clearly a bother. But there wasn't a part of him strong enough to do anything but shatter, again and again, in this hopelessly spacious room with its hopelessly large bed and hopelessly tall windows obscured by the skin of the night whose wrist stretches far, and wide, and beyond. There was nothing wrong with the room of course. It is a fine room; modern,  impressive. . .though to his utter disappointment, empty. Yet everything was wrong. It was clear he was slowly losing his mind, but what sanity can survive hours of waiting, and praying, and waiting? He stood no chance.

Yet he couldn't deny a lingering resentment seeding its roots either.

". . .We keep missing each other. It's strange. It shouldn't bother me considering the only energy I could muster lately is focused on breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Yet I noticed. I noticed your consistency. I noticed your persistence. I use to know a stranger who was exactly like you. Consistent. Persistent. I didn't know why. I couldn't understand why. And for a moment, for a measly moment, I wondered (or rather hoped) you were him;  the stranger who got away. But you can't be. You shouldn't be. I lost him to silence and frankly, I still don't know how to win against silence. But we keep missing each other and I can't help but wonder sometimes; what's it going to be? Not that it matters. I made a promise. We made a promise. But for what it's worth, you were a comfort. And for awhile, it was enough. You were enough, Saddiq."

He was enough but she'd disappeared anyway. His eyes burns with tears he refuses to shed, again. It's been three days of nothing but pain, emptiness and loss. Yet what can he say? What should he say? He had been abandoned. He had loved her, completely, but she'd left him. It was his greatest fear. He'd told her. He'd begged her, but she'd left him. Yet he was missing her, a lot, too much. It's strange.

"I have headaches," She'd confessed to him in what feels like a lifetime ago even if it was barely three days in that her soft, melodic voice with her eyes staring eternities into his heart, "The head splitting kind strong enough to yank me from sleep into utter helplessness. I would lay for hours feeling nothing but pain having the strength to do naught but pray. Not that my daytime is any better. Some days, I spend every waking hour navigating between pain, and more pain, and the urge to forsake & disappear but not now. Not when I'm with you. So yes, I love you too, Saddiq Ibrahim Musa."

How can she love him if she'd left him merely hours of professing such love? That too without even the decency to say it to his face? What was going on in her head when she'd written him a letter and left in the dead of the night? Was he suppose to hurt less because according to her 'he was enough'? What was she expecting of him? But a letter, he finds himself grinding his teeth in outcry, who does that? He didn't even know people still wrote that. But Aisha had always been different that way; she'd always chosen methods and paths he'd kindly thought were baloney. It was like that when she'd stolen her way into his world. It was like that the day they had met for the first time. It was like that the day she had left. Consistent. Persistent. He wonders if she weren't referring rather to herself.

The stranger who got away? Who the hell was he? Does she love him more? Did she runaway to be with him? Where was she? Is she safe? Would she ever come back? CAN he find her?

On hindsight —a rather curious word, he wonders if he wasn't the one who's mental. He'd always known her eccentricities; her flair for the dramatic and reckless impulses. So, why, pray tell, would he let her take from him as much as he had? Why? He couldn't deny knowing, can he? He'd known on the very first day they met which thinking back, wasn't exactly a good day even if there was nothing about that day a year ago he couldn't remember;

The pitless March sun as he made his way to the restaurant. His determination. Her stiff and upright posture as he made his way to her—she had her back to the entrance. The way her eyes had took him in, slowly, almost sloppily and held his menacing glance with an ease that had him questioning the panic he'd glimpse after their eyes had met and held for the first time—he could swear he caught a glimpse of hesitation but it felt almost like an imagination as her eyes reverted into a coldness he had quickly hated on her.

They were beautiful, her eyes, and he had wanted badly for those eyes to appreciate him like so many had before them. They didn't. She had sat across him with icy yet beautiful eyes sprouting a load of nonsense on him and he had sat there, like a schoolboy, listening, and for an even stranger reason he had find himself accepting it like it were the weather they were discussing and not his marriage. To her.

Saddiq never understood the reasoning that led him to meet her. She was basically a stalker, a very rude and arrogant stalker, and it was six months of having her claw her way, mercilessly, into his world with a determination rivaled only, if he dared, by a mother's grip. Yet, he had been forced to relent after she had asked to meet. What else was he supposed to do after enduring months of bedeviling shadowing? He was beginning to have nightmares from her persistence and catching glimpses of loitering ghosts anywhere and everywhere; driving him insane during those endlessly terrifying days when he didn't know how or why she was creeping into his life, and he would have done just about anything to have her stay the hell away.

Anything.

"And why would I do that?" He'd asked in awe of her audacity.

"No reason," she had admitted easily, shrugging. He had waited for her to say more; to shed more light on her crazy request but apart from the defiance littering her eyes and the determination holding her shoulders, he got nothing.

"You have to do more than 'no reason'" he'd hissed, slightly pissed. What the hell! He was beginning to feel stupid.

"You're a businessman, an investor to be precise, and one of the best in the world. I just want you to invest in me for a year."

"Why would I want to do that?" He had reiterated his question. He needed to understand. He needed to know.

"It's just for a year," She whined in petulance as if she couldn't understand why he was being difficult.

"Is that suppose to be a why?" Is she for real? What in the world would possess him to marry her, a stranger, and that too for a year? Did she think him easy because he came today? Did he appear stupid to her?

"No! It is a please."

It's a please.

He couldn't understand why she had risked a lot for a year with him but he must admit he admired her resilience and determination. She had practically forced him to meet her, a feat no one had ever even dared and because she dared, strictly because she dared, he had agreed to meet her. And even if it was beyond insane, he had invested a year on her because of a 'please'. A 'please' mired in so much arrogance and defiance yet full of hope it hurts. Yet, it's been a year and he was still nowhere close to the answers he had about her. Why him? Why a year? And what had made her so certain he would accept her beyond absurd proposal?

However he had.

It was his choice and he had chosen her.

And like she had promised, she had vanished into thin air a year later.

"I want nothing. Just your name for a year." And he'd given her that, and more, and now God help him, he want her back and. . .

He wanted her as his wife.

And this time no games.