I sat on the bench, smiling for the cameras. The red lehenga (traditional Bengali wedding garments) glittered. Flashing lights were at every corner of my vision. This attention on me was so unreal.

Voices muffled over one another. I wasn't sure what anyone was saying. I saw teenage girls cooing at my outfit and makeup. I couldn't help the blush that placed itself upon my cheeks. Blood rushed into my ears as I felt my anxiety act up.

Deep breaths, relax, I kept reminding myself.

I was never one to be extremely social. If anything I was a hardcore introvert. I hated going out to desi parties or big gatherings. I hated too much attention on me. I hated not knowing what others were thinking of me at that moment. I knew the Bangladeshi community would be judging me for marrying out of our culture. I knew the Turkish community was disappointed that I was Ibrahim's wife. I wasn't Turkish.

This was our cultural barrier. We were two completely different people who didn't belong together in the eyes of society. It hurt to know that people would never be okay with Ibrahim and I. It shouldn't bother me, but as I watched the fake smiles plastered on their faces I realized the inner thoughts they all had. The hushed whispers as the elderly ladies looked at me.

My eyes dropped to the ground. Was it really that much of a shock that he married me? We'd only just signed the marriage contract this morning. I stiffened when a body sat down next to mine.

"It's okay," a feminine voice whispered. Her voice was frail. She spoke as if she were speaking to a scared child. "Those people don't matter."

I looked up. "What?"

Ibrahim's grandmother smiled at me. "You're thinking about the judgment from people about your marriage aren't you?" she asked me as her head tilted to the side in curiosity.

I nodded.

"Don't think about them," she took my henna stained hands into her frail ones. "Those people don't determine the outcome of your marriage to my grandson."

"It's just hard," I admitted as I stared into the endless mass of people.

"I hope what others say don't influence your behavior with my grandson," her voice was clipped with a hint of anger.

I frantically shook my head, "Of course not!"

"Good. Ibrahim has been through enough in his lifetime. He doesn't need a wife who will not treat him right," she spoke with a gentle softness when she spoke of Ibrahim.

Will he treat me right?

It was as if she could read my thoughts. She lightly slapped my shoulder and grinned, "Don't you worry, child. Ibrahim will give you his heart and soul if you can bear with him for some time."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She sighed. "He's had a rough past. A past that none of us talk about," her eyes glazed over and she furiously wiped at them. "He's a really good boy, Tasneem. Please take care of him," she begged me.

"I promise I'll try my best," I reassured her.

"That boy will get diamonds for you if it would keep you happy. He's a really good boy."

I stifled a laugh. I couldn't imagine Ibrahim being the romantic type. He was always so serious and uptight. It scared me. I wondered if he ever had any fun in his life. Did he even have a childhood full of joy?

"When do I get to meet my mother and father-in-law?" I questioned as I scanned the room. I'd only met his grandparents and his brother. Where was the rest of his family?

Instantly the mood shifted and his grandmother's lower lip trembled. I held her shoulders in panic, rubbing circles on her back in an effort to soothe her.

"I'm sorry if I said something wrong. I swear I didn't know," I rambled.

She sniffled. "It's okay. You didn't know."

Guilt ate at me. "I swear I didn't," I softly said.

"H-His parents died a l-long time ago," she whispered, brokenly.

My blood ran cold. Ibrahim's parents had died. I felt shame cover me. I'm such an idiot!

I asked about his parents and made his grandmother cry. I hid my face in the palms of my hand. I can't believe I was so insensitive. Of course his parents wouldn't be in his life or else they would have met me when Ibrahim proposed. Oh my Allah, I am so stupid. I cringed from my inner thoughts.

"Grandma, what did you do to my bride?" a teasing voice asked from behind.

I turned around and there stood Ibrahim. He was wearing a black suit with a red tie. I've noticed that Ibrahim loved wearing his suits. I hadn't seen him wear casual clothes at all. It was either a suit coat over a dress shirt or just a plain white dress shirt. The suit fitted his body perfectly, molding to the hard edges and planes sculpted across his chest and arms.

His beard was trimmed, the small hairs grazing his cheeks and chin. His hair was in his usual slicked back professional style. If anything it looked like he was here for a business deal instead of his wedding.

He took a seat besides his grandmother and frowned, "I didn't know I came to a funeral."

"I just miss your parents. They'd be so proud of you," she cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead before standing up. Her black abaya flowed with her. She pushed stray gray hairs back into her hijab as she said, "I'll let you two catch up."

She left, leaving Ibrahim and I alone. Silence engulfed us. I stole glances at him. What type of childhood did you live? Is it the reason for your cold heart? Questions filled my mind, yet I knew it was too soon to get answers. He would tell me when he was ready. I shouldn't force it.

His jaw clenched, "She told you about my parents, right?"

I mutely nodded, looking away from him. I flinched as he moved closer. He froze from my movement.

"Are you afraid of me?"

I shook my head.

My body was alert of his presence. My heart hammered against my chest. I felt his large hand brush against my small ones. His fingers came closer to my own. He was giving me time to move away. I stayed still. I could hear his breathing. The warmth of his body radiated towards me. Slowly, Ibrahim interlocked our hands together.

I stared down at our hands. They fit perfectly in one another. It was like our bodies were made for each other. His palm felt so rough and calloused. They were the complete opposite of my softer hands. It was an unusual, yet satisfying feeling. The minute we touched, I felt an electrifying feeling run through my veins. I forced my gaze to meet his.

His deep dark brown eyes stared at me. They were trained on my light brown eyes. I found myself getting lost in his dark swirls. Had he always been this handsome?

So many hidden emotions, so much he was trying to express, all in one look at me. The world around us was forgotten. At that moment it felt as though the judgmental stares and whispers no longer mattered. This was our time. It was just us and no one else. He was mine as I was his.

His gaze dropped to my lips. I bit down on my lower lip. They were stained in red lipstick. Ibrahim squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and his fingers tightened around my hand.

He softly groaned, "Don't do that."

I gave him a puzzled expression.

His other hand stroked my cheek, lovingly as he moved closer until we were hip to hip with each other. "You're so innocent," he murmured. His eyes were dilated. "It drives me crazy."

I couldn't stop the blush from covering my cheeks.

"Damon, look how cute they are!" a familiar voice exclaimed.

We broke away from each other. Our heads snapped up to meet the amusing gaze from our favorite couple, Damon and Amira. Ibrahim let go of my cheek and hand. He looked away from me. I was still embarrassed from his previous words to even react.

Damon chuckled, "Sweetheart, I think you just ruined their wedding with that one comment."

"I secretly knew they would marry," she teased. Her brown eyes glinting with amusement.

Ibrahim crossed his arms over his chest. A frown found its way onto his lips. "I really shouldn't have invited you two," he grumbled from beside me.

Amira stuck her tongue out at him.

"Damon, control your wife," said Ibrahim.

Damon wrapped an arm around her slim waist. She was wearing a navy blue hijab which matched with her blue gown. He kissed her cheek and I smiled at them. I desperately hoped my marriage would be as perfect as theirs.

That itself would turn out to be a lie. I married Ibrahim to help my family not from love. Ibrahim wasn't carefree as Damon. He was strict and cold. He was the thorns on a rose, dangerous to touch yet enticing at the same time.

"Ew," Ibrahim cringed, momentarily breaking me from my thoughts.

"That will be you in less than two weeks," smirked Damon. "Love does dangerous things to people."

It was as if Damon knew what was going on between Ibrahim and I. He grinned knowingly at us before escorting his wife to the food table. I glanced at Ibrahim. He was deep in thought. Love, I thought. Yeah, right.