She was only 19 years old. She had never been with a man and was married to a billionaire sheik who turned 75. On the night of the wedding, he only wanted to formalize the union. But what happened in that bedroom shocked the whole world.
She was only 19. And at that moment, she heard from her mother the words that changed her life forever. It was the only chance to save the family winery.
At first she thought it was some kind of nonsense, but her father’s look said it all without words. The offer was official, real, and had a price that no daughter had to pay. The elderly billionaire sheik was ready to cover all the debts of the family in exchange for a young bride.
Not a model, not an actress, but well-mannered, modest. A girl from a respected European family. He’s looking for someone like you, the lawyer said, pushing the documents across the table.
Everything looked solid. Gold seals, international stamps, terms in French and Arabic. But behind all this formality, there was an essence that she understood instantly.
She was given away for money. For the sake of business. For the sake of salvation.
For the sake of the future. She protested, cried, screamed, said she would run away, but the decision had already been made. It would be a purely symbolic marriage, my father insisted.
He’s old, he just needs company. She wanted to believe. Everything was processed through international lawyers.
The mediator was a representative from Morocco. The family immediately received financial protection. The debts were stopped, the winery was withdrawn from the auction, but it lost its freedom.
The flight to Marrakech was scheduled for the following Saturday. She left alone on a private jet, not knowing if a new chapter of her life was beginning or ending. The scariest thing came not from the sounds, but from the silence.
The silence of the contract. The silence of parents. And the silence that she carried within her.
Silence? A man who said yes, but in his heart he never wanted to. Upon arrival in Morocco, she was greeted with celebration. Black, armored car, driver without words, luxury hotel.
She has everything at her disposal. But none of this seemed like a gift. It was more like preparation.
Looking out the car window, she saw a lively city, children playing, bright tents, palm trees in the wind. And I thought, how can this world be so carefree while I’m marrying an old man? The evening before the ceremony, already at the Sheikh’s Palace, she heard from the maids. The gentleman is very much looking forward to meeting you.
She froze. Meetings? Which one? More meetings? Isn’t this just a formality? She froze. She thought that everything would be limited to paperwork, but no one guaranteed it to her.
No father, no lawyers, no contract. That night, alone in the room, she realized. She might have to lie down with him, and no one would come to save her.
At dawn, on the day of the wedding, the palace was shrouded in silence. But it was not a calm silence, but an oppressive one. She woke up early, barely sleeping.
The assistants came in with smiles, white dresses in their hands, and soft words that only increased her anxiety. Today is your special day, madam. A great day.
She wanted to laugh or scream. It took almost an hour to change clothes. Silk dress, pearls around her neck, a light fragrance behind her ears.
She barely recognized herself in the mirror. Outwardly, she was a bride, but inside she felt like a commodity. Everything was ready in the ceremony hall.
There were few guests, all in formal suits with cold faces. Ambassadors, lawyers, diplomats. There were no relatives, no one hugged her, no one looked at her as a daughter, as a person.
In the center of the hall was the groom Tariq ibn Rashid. He was dressed in traditional clothes, a dark turban and radiated confidence, strength, and dignity. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
But it wasn’t affection, it was possession. He was satisfied. I am happy that in a couple of hours I will receive what I have been striving for for a long time, a young, immaculate European spouse.
Past wives, all older than him, no longer aroused interest. Tariq was looking for freshness, youth, and submission. She swallowed the hosts of the ceremony, pronounced the official words in Arabic and French.
She answered only as needed, signed documents that she no longer read, accepted a ring, a blessing, and a new status. Now she has officially become a wife. After the ceremony, the sheik approached, bent down and kissed her hand.
She remained motionless, not even blinking. You’re even more beautiful than I was told, he said with a satisfied smile. She felt sick.
Later, toward sunset, she was led through a narrow corridor. They passed through heavy doors, thick curtains, and a silent courtyard. The maid stopped at the gilded door.
This is your wing, Mrs. A. Where is Mr. Tariq? she asked. He will appear later, as required by custom. The door closed, and she, left alone in the lavish room, lay down on a bed she had not chosen, with her heart pounding so fast that it was impossible to fall asleep, thinking only about one thing—would this night really take place? The room was spacious, but cold and too quiet.
The interior was rich but lifeless. Golden furniture, heavy curtains, and a large mirror in front of the bed. Everything seemed designed for demonstration or pressure.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her heart beating furiously, her legs frozen, her hands shaking in her lap. She wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go. Suddenly, the door opened, and two maids entered without looking up.
Without asking for permission, they said, you should take a bath and put on clothes prepared for the night. She didn’t answer or move, but the women knew what to do. They prepared a bathtub and placed a thin, almost transparent cloth in a prominent place.
It was not a dress, but a symbol of submission. Mr. Tarek will be arriving soon, one said expressionlessly. He prefers things to be done according to custom.
Customs, that’s what it was called. She went into the bathtub as if for a sacrificial rite, washed in silence, put on light, almost invisible clothes that accentuated her curves and revealed her legs. Returning to the room, she sat down on the bed again.
No sheets to hide the shame, no air to breathe. A few minutes later, he appeared. The sound of the knob turning echoed hollowly.
She tensed, though she remained motionless. Tarek entered slowly. He was wearing traditional clothes again.
His face was clean-shaven. The scent of the perfume was too pungent. His gaze bored into her hungrily.
He closed the door and approached the bed as if it were his own property. He stopped in front of her and smiled. You’re amazing.
She was silent. He tilted his head slightly. His voice was low and commanding.
Take off your clothes. Silence. Now I want to see what belongs to me.
She swallowed her saliva. With trembling hands, she untied the silk. The fabric slipped off her shoulders and lay on the bed.
She was standing naked, with her eyes downcast. Get on the bed, he ordered. Legs wide, as they should be.
To my wife on the first night. And don’t make me repeat it. She slowly lay down, turning her face to the wall.
My heart was constricted with horror. Tarek watched her in silence. His breathing became heavy.
Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. He slowly lay down next to her. The mattress sagged under his weight.
He approached and spoke. Now I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. She held her breath.
The pain will be intense. You won’t move, you won’t shrink, you won’t scream. Bite the sheet if you want, but once I start, I won’t stop.
A silent tear rolled down her cheek. But she didn’t blink. His face remained turned away, although his muscles were trembling.
Tarek leaned closer, talking to her. Right in my ear. His voice was full of lust and power.
You’re going to let this happen. You will open up without resistance, without a struggle. You’re meant to be.
That’s why you’ll endure everything to the end. Anya tried to say something, but her body was covered with cold. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling.
It was as if the soul had left the body. Tarek lowered himself between her legs, bent down, pressed his face against her neck, inhaled her scent deeply and whispered in a raspy voice. Hurry up.
I want to possess you as soon as possible. But at that moment, before he could do anything, he stopped. His breathing hitched, his eyes widened, then rolled back, as if the light inside had gone out.
His body tensed at first, then froze, and the next second went limp heavily. Lifeless, as if something inside had suddenly shut down. She remained motionless.
She felt the weight of his body, his head resting on her shoulder, his hand thrown on her stomach. A breath that was fading. Tarek, she whispered almost without a sound.
There was no response. She tried to push him away, but he was too heavy. She only managed to move his body a little.
She was suffocated by the touch, by the fear that was happening. Help, she screamed with all her might in her last breath. The door swung open.
The maids ran in and screamed. Two guards followed. One abruptly dragged the sheik’s body away, the other covered him with a sheet.
The room turned into a commotion. The doctors were called. There were orders in Arabic, rapid footsteps, and strained voices in the corridor.
She was taken to another room, still wrapped in a sheet, pale, in complete shock. She couldn’t cry or say a word. I just felt a terrible emptiness, as if reality had disappeared.
A few hours later, she was informed of the truth. Tarek suffered a severe and irreversible stroke. He fell into a coma, was connected to the machines, was unresponsive, and recovery was impossible.
For three months, she lived in the palace, unable to leave, without contact with the outside world, as if everything still belonged to him, even in his unconscious state. Until one day, on a stuffy morning, the maid came in and said. Mr. Tarek passed away last night.
There was an envelope on the table. The will. His wife, with whom he never reunited, was listed as a partial heir.
And no one mentioned that night anymore, and she never talked about it either, because that night never happened. The funeral was held modestly, without cameras or words. Just a short ceremony, accompanied by guards and complete silence.
She was allowed to attend, despite the fact that she was his legal wife and widow. The next day, the Sheikh’s lawyer arrived at the palace, wearing a dark suit, carrying a folder and a serious expression on his face. The will was opened this morning, he said bluntly, and you are listed in it.
She didn’t even react, didn’t know if it was a reward or a curse. According to the marriage contract, the union had to be completed in order for the inheritance rights to take effect. But no one knew exactly what happened that night, and Tarek left no explanation.
He chose silence. A silence that could mean everything or nothing. But no one expected the next one.
The Sheikh placed a personal order in which she received part of his property, real estate, shares and a lifetime allowance, all according to the laws of inheritance in Morocco. It was a personal, carefully considered and final decision, a gift or a trap. Perhaps it was his way of saying, you will bear my last name, yes, with or without love, willingly or not.
And the whole world will know about it. But for the Sheikh’s children, it became a real insult. On the same day, the attacks began.
Leaks of information to the press, articles questioning her origin, rumors of magic, seduction and greed, as if she had lured an influential man to get his wealth. The headlines screamed. A young Spanish woman, a millionaire widow in just three months.
She remained silent, made no comments, and avoided publicity, but that didn’t save her from becoming a target. The Sheikh’s family hired lawyers and initiated a process to revoke the will, claiming that he was ill, weak under pressure and that she took advantage of his vulnerability. The main thing is that the marriage clause has not been fulfilled.
This is not an inheritance, it’s a disgrace, one of the older daughters said on a Dubai TV channel. This woman stole what was rightfully ours. But nothing caused more tension than the news that came two weeks later.
Zahir was coming back. The youngest son, a graduate of the Faculty of International Law at the University of London, who has been missing for more than five years. Cunning, silent and dangerous.
He won’t stop until he clears his father’s name, they said. She heard it on TV, sitting on the couch in a room with the windows closed, in a world crumbling before her eyes. She already understood that this would not just be a trial, it would be a personal battle.
And she was the target again. Seven years have passed, and she has disappeared. Not according to documents, but from reality.
She now lived in southern Spain, in an old house among the hills of Cádiz. White walls, thick curtains, a modest garden with a fence. I woke up at six every morning, drank tea, read, and walked in silence.
No parties, no press, no interviews. No one knew about the inheritance. The court closed the case due to lack of evidence of pressure.
But her name was never justified. Some considered her cold and calculating, others, an intelligent victim. But no one knew what happened that night.
She never talked about marriage, death, or a will. She had a small group of guards, dedicated, humble men, whom she hired to protect herself from the outside world, journalists, and the curious. She lived as if there was a ghost constantly next to her, with an anxious look and a tired soul.
She spent her days in silence, tending the garden or sitting on the veranda, watching the wind shake the branches of olive trees. She tried to forget, but her body remembered everything. The trembling in the darkness did not disappear.
