I stood against the counter, scanning the empty room. We had no customers today, none at all. I sighed as I stared down at the business card that was beside the cash register. It was taunting me. It was as if Ibrahim knew I wouldn't have a choice, but to agree to him. It had been the second day after. I still had one more day before Ibrahim could destroy my parent's café.

"Tasneem?" asked my mother.

I snapped out of my thoughts, "Yes?"

She picked up the card before I could stop her. Oh crap, I thought. Her eyes examined the contents of the paper. Her eyes slowly widened. She gently put the card down and stared at me with a hard gaze, her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyebrows were furrowed. I felt sweat beads on my forehead as I imagined how this conversation would go.

"What is this?"

"Um... You see... well," I stammered, confused on how to explain.

"Spit it out. Now," she emphasized.

I gulped. She was scary.

"Tasneem, I'm waiting."

"Okay, this man offered to marry me in order to help our business," I said. I left out the part that I hated Ibrahim and he practically threatened me.

"That's great news!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "When is he going to come meet your father?"

"Who's meeting me?" my father joined the conversation. His beard was starting to gray and wrinkles started to form on his forehead.

"Tasneem got a proposal!"

My father's eyes strayed away from my mother's small frame and landed on me. His brown eyes narrowed. The frown on his lips deepened.

"From who?" he questioned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"A businessman."

My mother gave him the card and he examined the contents. "Ibrahim Tarkan," he tested his name on his tongue. "Tarkan is not a Bangladeshi name."

I nodded. "He's Turkish."

"Absolutely not!" my father slammed his palm on the counter. "You don't even know him!"

My mother held onto her husband's arm, worried. "Honey, careful. You'll hurt yourself."

My father shook his head, ignoring his wife. "I will not let my only daughter marry a man she doesn't even know!" he bellowed.

"Dad, I need to marry him," I pleaded. "He can help our financial troubles. This is good for us," I tried to reason.

My father was old and sick now. If our café shut down then we couldn't afford to help my father's health issues. I didn't want my parents to suffer even more than they already did for me. My whole life, my parents had tried to shield me away from their financial struggles. I still had tuition bills that needed to be paid and I didn't want to bury my parent's in debt. They deserved better than that.

"I don't care. You can get a job, we'll sell the store. We'll do anything. Just please, don't get married," he pleaded. His eyes filled with tears.

"I already tried to get a job!" I yelled with my hands in the air. "I had tried so many times, Dad. I keep trying and it just won't work. I don't have the time. We don't have the time."

"We can sell the café," he said softly. His voice was cracking as he spoke. "We will get through this trial together. You don't need to get married, Tasneem."

"I'm sorry, but I need to. Allah is offering us a solution to our problems, Dad. Ibrahim can ensure us the café," I said, refusing to look at my parents.

My mother sighed, "She's right, you know? We have one week before the bank closes us down. We're not even at one fourth of the amount of money we need."

I lifted my head to look at my father. His face was void of any emotions as he thought everything over. The tension in the room was thick. We stayed silent, letting my mother's word sink in. Finally, with shaking hands, my father gave me the business card.

"Call him and tell him to come for dinner," he demanded.

I mutely nodded as I watched my father walk away from me. I knew how hard this was for him. My parents wanted me to marry a Bengali man, but Allah had other plans. I was the only child my parents had. It must be extremely difficult for them to let me get married.

My mother placed a hand on my shoulder. "He'll be okay. Just give him some time to get used to you getting married," she gave me a reassuring smile that did not reach her eyes.

"I'm sorry if I angered either of you," I quietly said.

"Nonsense. It's time for you to get married. It's just... hard on us," she managed out.

Then she followed my father.

I took in a breath and quickly dialed the number on the card. As the phone rang, my heart beat faster in anticipation. Pick up, I chanted in my mind over and over again. After what seemed like an eternity, I was met with Ibrahim's sensual deep voice.

"Hello?"

"A-Assalamualaikum," I stuttered.

I could almost see him grinning at the other end of the line. "Waalaikumsalam. To what do I owe this surprise call?"

"I'll marry you," I said while completely ignoring his cocky tone.

"Really, now?"

I gritted my teeth, "Just come over for dinner."

"Your wish is my command, princess," he said. "What's your address?" he asked after a while.

I gave him my address and then hung up. My fingers still gripped the phone. Was I really ready for this? Marriage was a big step in life. In Islam, marriage completes half of one's deen (religion). I placed my head in my hands as I tried to ease the headache that was starting to form in my mind.

Ibrahim was so rude, arrogant, cocky, and extremely annoying. At the same time though, whenever he was near I felt... different. He made me feel things that no other man made me feel. He was certainly attractive, but that wasn't what lured me in.

It was his eyes. His dark brown eyes seemed to always beckon me towards him, tempt me to challenge him, begged me to find the secrets that he was privy to.

Although he threatened this marriage with me, there was a wild panic in his eyes. His lips moved with ease, but looking closer I could tell that he was afraid that I'd refuse. Why though?

My mind ran circles trying to figure him out. On one hand, I needed the money. I was the only daughter of this family, and with so little time, we had to pay off these loans. If not soon, then the interest would start to add, interest that is forbidden in Islam. I refused to partake in something that Allah told me to stay away from.

Some might call me extreme for it, but Allah knew what was best for us, and if Allah said to stay away, then we should stay away to the best of our abilities. This marriage could save more than just my student loans.

However, on the other hand, I was marrying a man of power and wealth, someone way out of my league. Sure, he made my mouth drool when I gazed at his dangerously handsome visage, but he was still a man who could destroy me with a snap of his fingers.

That was scary.

Marrying a man of such status only opened new doors of opportunities and heartache to me. I'd be exposed to social circles that would not favor me. I'd yield to the media that would try to shred me apart. I'd lose myself to a society that tried to define me.

If I wasn't strong enough, I'd fall victim to a lost cause, a failure to a man of nothing but success. Am I ready to face that?

Still, I couldn't shake the fact that there was more to Ibrahim than I knew. He was a perfect suitor. From all the information I gathered from local masjids he visited and people we both knew, he was practicing, generous, and a family man to those close to him. Aside from personal affairs, Ibrahim was a prominent businessman, one who had a reputation that knew no bounds.

He wasn't a womanizer, a cheat, or an immoral man, so what argument did I really have against marrying him? He was a perfect ten, almost too perfect.

Maybe I should research him more.