The heavy ironed silk of the Rahimi bridal gown rustles against the floor, a sound like falling sand in the midnight hush of the Savoy. Noor stands before the vanity mirror, her fingers trembling as she reaches for the gold pins anchoring her veil. Behind her, the reflection of the Mayfair skyline is a cold, glittering grid beyond the arched window. She is a wife now, bound to a man who was a stranger until the contract was signed in her mother’s drawing room.
Dariush Tehrani does not look like a groom. He stands by the window, his charcoal sherwani cutting a jagged silhouette against the city lights. He hasn't touched her, hasn't even looked at her since they entered the suite. The scent of cardamom and expensive tobacco clings to him, a sharp contrast to the soft rosewater on her skin. She waits for the traditional words, the gentle reach of a husband, but he remains a statue of controlled, dangerous silence.
He finally moves, his boots silent on the plush carpet. He does not reach for her waist or her hand. Instead, he produces something from his inner pocket, his jaw tight with a secret he has carried through the entire ceremony. Dariush’s hand slides a thick, wax-sealed envelope across the vanity glass toward her.
