The Princess Who Never Saw Light: A Story of Love, Deception, and Royal Destiny
Chapter 1: The Unwanted Daughter
In the ancient kingdom of Andalusia, where the morning sun painted the desert sands gold and the evening stars whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen, there lived a girl named Zainab who had never seen any of it. Born blind into the wealthy merchant family of Hakim Al-Rashid, she existed in a world of sounds, textures, and voices that ranged from kind to cruel—though the latter far outnumbered the former.
The Al-Rashid family was renowned throughout the kingdom for their beauty. Zainab’s mother, Fatima, had been celebrated as the most beautiful woman in three provinces, with eyes like emeralds and skin that seemed to glow from within. Her two older sisters, Layla and Amira, had inherited their mother’s striking features—tall, graceful, with thick black hair that cascaded down their backs like silk waterfalls.
And then there was Zainab.
Born three minutes after sunset on what the midwife later called “an unlucky night,” Zainab came into the world with eyes that would never open to see light. The midwife had whispered to Fatima that the child’s blindness was obvious immediately—her eyes were clouded, sealed shut as if Allah himself had decided she should live in perpetual darkness.
“She is beautiful in her own way,” Fatima had whispered to her husband, cradling the tiny infant against her chest. “Look at her perfect little hands, her sweet face. She may not see the world, but she will know love.”
For the first five years of Zainab’s life, this proved true. Fatima treated all three of her daughters with equal devotion, spending hours teaching Zainab to navigate the world through touch and sound. She would place Zainab’s small hands on flowers and describe their colors, let her feel the texture of silk and explain how it shimmered in sunlight, sing lullabies that painted pictures with words.
“The sky this morning is the color of your father’s best sapphires,” Fatima would say, guiding Zainab’s fingers across different fabrics. “And the clouds are like cotton, soft and white as lamb’s wool.”
Zainab learned to walk by following the sound of her mother’s voice, to eat by understanding the placement of food on her plate, to find joy in the stories her mother told and the songs they sang together. Her world was small but filled with love.
Everything changed the day Fatima died.
Zainab was five years old, sitting in the garden listening to her mother describe the orange blossoms that perfumed the air, when Fatima suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Zainab heard a strange sound—a gasp, then a soft thud as her mother collapsed beside her.
“Mama?” Zainab called, reaching out with small hands to find her mother’s still form. “Mama, why are you sleeping in the garden?”
The servants found them there an hour later—Zainab sitting beside her mother’s body, holding Fatima’s cold hand and singing a lullaby she thought might wake her up.
Fatima had died of a sudden fever that ravaged her body in a matter of hours. The kingdom mourned the loss of such beauty, such grace. But no one mourned more than Zainab, who had lost not just her mother but her advocate, her protector, her window to the world.
Hakim Al-Rashid, devastated by the loss of his beloved wife, seemed to age years in the span of days. But his grief soon curdled into something darker—resentment. Looking at his three daughters, he saw constant reminders of what he had lost. Layla and Amira reminded him of Fatima’s beauty, which was painful but bearable. Zainab reminded him of nothing but his failure to protect his family from fate’s cruelty.
“She is cursed,” he began saying to anyone who would listen. “Born blind on an unlucky night, and look what happened to her mother. The child brings nothing but misfortune.”
Within weeks of Fatima’s death, Zainab’s life transformed from one of love and inclusion to one of isolation and neglect. Hakim could no longer bear to look at her—though she could not see his expression, she could feel his discomfort in the way his voice changed when he spoke to her, the way he seemed to leave rooms when she entered them.
Her sisters, only seven and nine years old themselves, were dealing with their own grief and confusion. Without their mother’s guidance and their father’s growing coldness toward Zainab, they began to see their blind sister as an inconvenience, a burden that made their lives more complicated.
“Father doesn’t want you at dinner tonight,” ten-year-old Layla would tell eight-year-old Zainab. “He says you make too much noise when you eat.”
“The guests are coming tomorrow,” twelve-year-old Amira would announce. “Father says you have to stay in your room so you don’t embarrass the family.”
Gradually, Zainab’s world shrank from the entire house to just her small room on the third floor. Servants brought her meals on trays, leaving them by her door without a word. She spent her days feeling the pages of the few Braille books her mother had managed to acquire, running her fingers over the raised dots that formed words, stories, and poems.
Her father stopped calling her by name. To him, she became “that thing,” as if her blindness had stripped her of her humanity, her right to be acknowledged as his child.
“Where is that thing?” she would hear him ask servants when he needed to discuss her care. “Make sure that thing doesn’t come downstairs when the merchants visit.”
Zainab learned to make herself invisible, to move through the house like a ghost, to speak only when spoken to and often not even then. She discovered that silence was safer than speech, that stillness drew less attention than movement.
But in the quiet darkness of her room, she nurtured dreams that no one could take from her. She imagined traveling to distant lands described in her books, meeting people who would see her heart instead of her blindness, finding a place where she belonged.
She also dreamed of love—not the passionate, dramatic love described in the poetry books, but the simple, steady love her mother had shown her. Someone who would speak to her gently, who would take time to describe the world’s beauty, who would value her thoughts and feelings.
These dreams sustained her through years of loneliness, but they also felt increasingly impossible as she grew from a child into a young woman. Who would love a blind girl whom even her own father saw as a burden?
The answer to that question would come in the most unexpected way, from the most unlikely person, and would change not just Zainab’s life but the fate of an entire kingdom.
Chapter 2: The Arrangement
Zainab had just turned twenty-one when her father made the decision that would alter the course of her life forever. She was sitting in her room on a hot afternoon in late summer, her fingers tracing the familiar patterns of a poem about desert roses, when she heard his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs.
Hakim rarely visited her room anymore. When he needed to communicate something to her, he usually sent a servant with a message. So when she heard his steps stop outside her door, followed by the creak of hinges as he entered, Zainab felt a flutter of both hope and fear.
“Father?” she said softly, setting down her book.
Hakim didn’t respond immediately. She could hear him breathing, could sense him looking around her sparse room—the narrow bed, the small table where she kept her books, the single chair by the window that she couldn’t see out of but liked to sit in because she could feel the warmth of sunlight.
Finally, he spoke. “You’re twenty-one now.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Most girls your age are married with children of their own.”
Zainab’s heart began to race. Was he planning to find her a husband? After years of treating her like she was invisible, was he finally going to help her build a life outside these walls?
“I have found someone willing to marry you,” he continued, his voice flat and emotionless.
Zainab felt a surge of joy so powerful it nearly took her breath away. Marriage meant freedom, companionship, perhaps even love. It meant a home where she might be wanted rather than tolerated.
“Who is he, Father? When will I meet him?”
Hakim was quiet for a moment, and in that silence, Zainab began to sense that something was wrong. When he spoke again, his voice carried a cruel satisfaction that made her blood run cold.
“He is a beggar who sits outside the Grand Mosque. He has nothing—no money, no property, no family. But he is willing to take you in exchange for a small dowry.”
The words hit Zainab like physical blows. A beggar. Her father was marrying her to a beggar—not because he thought they would be happy together, not because he wanted her to have a good life, but because he wanted to be rid of her in the cheapest, most expedient way possible.
“A beggar?” she whispered.
“You are blind. He is poor. It seems appropriate.” Hakim’s voice held no emotion, as if he were discussing the sale of a lame horse. “You will marry him tomorrow morning. I have already made the arrangements.”
“Tomorrow?” Zainab’s voice cracked. “But Father, I don’t know anything about him. What is his name? What kind of man is he?”
“His name is Yusha. Beyond that, what does it matter? You are in no position to be particular about your circumstances.”
“Please, Father. Could I at least meet him first? Could you tell me something about his character, his—”
“You will meet him at the wedding ceremony. That will be sufficient.”
Hakim moved toward the door, then stopped. When he spoke again, his voice carried a finality that crushed any hope Zainab might have harbored.
“I am done caring for you. This beggar will become your responsibility, and you will become his. Do not expect to return to this house after tomorrow.”
After he left, Zainab sat in stunned silence for a long time. She had dreamed of marriage, but not like this. Not as a transaction designed to dispose of an unwanted burden. Not to a stranger her father had found on the streets.
She tried to imagine what this Yusha might be like. Was he old or young? Kind or cruel? Would he treat her gently, or would he see her as just another misfortune in a life already full of hardship?
That night, she lay awake listening to the sounds of the house—her sisters’ laughter drifting up from the garden, servants preparing for the next day’s meals, her father’s voice giving instructions about business matters. Soon, these familiar sounds would be replaced by… what? The sounds of poverty? Of desperation?
She tried to find comfort in the thought that anything might be better than her current existence. At least with this beggar—this Yusha—she might have some purpose, some role to play beyond being the family’s shameful secret.
But as she fingered the few possessions she would be allowed to take with her—a change of clothes, her mother’s prayer beads, two of her precious books—she couldn’t shake the feeling that her father was sending her to a fate worse than the loneliness she had known.
The next morning came too quickly. Zainab woke to find a servant laying out a simple dress—not white, not beautiful, just clean and appropriate for a poor woman’s wedding.
“Your father says to be ready in one hour,” the servant said without meeting Zainab’s unseeing eyes.
Zainab dressed slowly, her hands shaking as she braided her long black hair. She had imagined her wedding day countless times during her years of isolation, but never like this. In her fantasies, she had worn her mother’s wedding dress, had been surrounded by family who celebrated her happiness, had married a man who chose her out of love rather than necessity.
When she was ready, the servant led her downstairs—the first time she had been in the main part of the house in years. She could smell incense burning, could hear the low murmur of male voices. The wedding party was small, she realized. Just her father, a few male relatives, the imam who would perform the ceremony, and presumably the groom.
“Here she is,” her father announced as they entered the room. His voice held neither pride nor affection, just a desire to complete an unpleasant transaction as quickly as possible.
Zainab stood frozen in the doorway, knowing that somewhere in this room was the man who would become her husband. She strained her ears, trying to identify which voice belonged to Yusha, but the men were speaking in low tones about business matters, seemingly ignoring the bride’s arrival.
The ceremony itself was brief and impersonal. Zainab spoke her vows in a voice barely above a whisper, agreeing to honor and obey a man she had never seen and knew nothing about. When the imam asked Yusha for his vows, she heard a voice she hadn’t noticed before—quiet, steady, and surprisingly gentle.
“I promise to care for her, to protect her, and to treat her with respect,” Yusha said.
The words were simple, but something in his tone made Zainab look up in surprise, even though she couldn’t see his face. There had been sincerity in his voice, perhaps even kindness.
After the brief ceremony, her father handed her a small bag containing her possessions and steered her toward the man who was now her husband.
“She is your responsibility now,” Hakim said, his voice holding relief and finality. “I wash my hands of her.”
Zainab felt a gentle touch on her arm—larger hands than she was used to, calloused but not rough.
“Come,” Yusha said quietly. “It is time to go.”
As they walked away from the only home she had ever known, Zainab heard her father close the door behind them with what sounded like satisfaction. She was no longer his problem.
She was now entirely at the mercy of a stranger.
Chapter 3: The Beggar’s Hut
The walk to Yusha’s home felt endless to Zainab. She clung to his arm as he guided her through unfamiliar streets, her other hand gripping the small bag that contained everything she owned. Around them, she could hear the sounds of the marketplace—vendors calling out their wares, children running and laughing, the clip-clop of donkeys carrying heavy loads.
“Watch the step here,” Yusha said softly, his voice the first kindness she had heard that day.
They seemed to walk for a very long time, gradually leaving behind the busy sounds of the town center. The air began to smell different—less of spices and cooking food, more of dust and wildflowers. Zainab realized they were moving to the outskirts of the village, where the poorest families lived.
Finally, they stopped.
“We are here,” Yusha said.
Zainab could smell wood smoke and hear the distant sound of a stream. The air was cooler here, with a breeze that carried the scent of herbs and growing things.
“It is not much,” Yusha continued, and she could hear embarrassment in his voice. “But it is clean, and it is safe.”
He guided her forward, helping her duck slightly to enter what she realized was a very small dwelling. The floor beneath her feet was packed earth, and when she reached out, her hands found walls made of mud brick and timber.
“Sit here,” Yusha said, guiding her to what felt like a woven mat. “You must be tired from the walk.”
Zainab lowered herself carefully onto the mat, setting her bag beside her. She could hear Yusha moving around the small space, and soon she smelled tea brewing.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I have bread, and some dates.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, though her stomach was too tight with nervousness to feel hunger.
As Yusha prepared food, Zainab tried to understand her new environment through her other senses. The hut was small—she could tell by the way sounds echoed. There seemed to be just one room, with a cooking area near what must be the entrance. She could hear wind whistling through small gaps in the walls, and somewhere water was dripping slowly, as if the roof leaked.
This was her new home. This tiny, humble dwelling where she would spend the rest of her life with a man she had known for less than three hours.
When Yusha brought her tea, his fingers briefly touched hers as he handed her the cup. His hands were warm and steady, and she noticed again that while they were calloused from work, his touch was gentle.
“Thank you,” she said again.
They sat in silence for a while, drinking tea and eating the simple meal Yusha had prepared. Zainab tried to think of something to say, but what conversation could she make with this stranger who was now her husband?
Finally, Yusha spoke. “Your father told me very little about you. Only that you were… that you cannot see, and that you needed a husband.”
“There is not much to tell,” Zainab replied quietly. “I have lived in my father’s house for twenty-one years. I read, when I can find books. I… I have not had much experience with the world.”
“What kind of books do you like?”
The question surprised her. No one had asked her about her interests in years.
“Poetry, mostly. Stories about distant places. I have some books written in the raised writing for those who cannot see.”
“What is your favorite poem?”
Zainab felt a flutter of something that might have been hope. This man—this beggar—was asking about her thoughts, her preferences. When had anyone last cared about such things?
“There is one about a garden,” she said hesitantly. “About how every flower has its own beauty, even if it grows in shadow.”
“That sounds lovely. Would you… would you recite it for me sometime?”
“You would want to hear it?”
“Very much.”
As darkness fell—though Zainab experienced it only as a gradual cooling of the air and change in the sounds around them—Yusha made up a bed for her using his own blanket and pillow.
“You take the sleeping area,” he said. “I will rest by the door.”
“By the door? But this is your home.”
“You are my wife now. Your comfort is more important than mine.”
Zainab lay down on the surprisingly soft bedding, pulling the blanket up to her chin. It smelled of wood smoke and something else—a scent that was clean and masculine and not unpleasant.
“Yusha?” she said into the darkness.
“Yes?”
“Why did you agree to marry me? My father must have told you about my… condition.”
There was a long pause. When Yusha answered, his voice was thoughtful.
“Perhaps we both needed someone to care for. Perhaps Allah brought us together for reasons we do not yet understand.”
“Are you disappointed? That I am… the way I am?”
“Are you disappointed that I am poor?”
Zainab considered the question. “No. I think kindness matters more than money.”
“And I think a good heart matters more than perfect sight.”
For the first time since her mother’s death, Zainab fell asleep feeling that she might not be entirely alone in the world.
Chapter 4: Unexpected Kindness
Zainab woke the next morning to the sound of Yusha moving quietly around the hut, trying not to disturb her. She could smell bread baking and tea brewing, and realized he had risen early to prepare breakfast.
“Good morning,” she said softly, sitting up on her makeshift bed.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
It was true. Despite her anxiety about her new circumstances, she had slept more peacefully than she had in years. There was something about Yusha’s presence that felt safe, protective.
Over the next few days, Zainab began to understand the rhythm of their life together. Yusha would leave early in the morning for what she assumed was his begging, though he never spoke of it directly. He would return in the afternoon with food and small necessities, and they would spend the evenings talking quietly over simple meals.
But gradually, she began to notice things that didn’t quite fit with what she understood about beggars.
For one thing, the food Yusha brought was better quality than she would have expected. Not luxurious, but fresh bread, good vegetables, sometimes even meat. When she commented on a particularly delicious meal, he would say he had been fortunate that day, or that someone had been generous.
More puzzling was the way he spoke. Yusha’s voice carried an education that seemed unusual for someone who had grown up in poverty. His vocabulary was sophisticated, his grammar perfect, his knowledge of literature and history extensive.
“How do you know so much about poetry?” she asked one evening after he had quoted several verses from memory.
“I… I had some education when I was younger,” he said evasively. “Before my circumstances changed.”
“What happened to change them?”
“Perhaps I will tell you that story someday,” he said gently. “When we know each other better.”
Most remarkably, Yusha treated her with a respect and consideration she had never experienced. He asked her opinions about everything from how to prepare meals to what route to take when they walked to the market together. He described the world around them in vivid detail, painting pictures with words that made her feel as if she could see.
“The sky today is the color of your mother’s sapphires,” he told her one morning as they sat outside the hut. “And there are clouds like white flowers scattered across it. The olive tree by our door has tiny green buds that will become fruit later in the year.”
He never grew impatient with her questions or her need for guidance in unfamiliar places. When she bumped into things or moved slowly, he simply adjusted his pace to match hers. When she wanted to help with cooking or cleaning, he patiently showed her where everything was and how things were arranged.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” she told him one afternoon as he guided her hand to show her where he kept the cooking pots.
“We take care of each other,” he replied. “That is what marriage should be.”
But perhaps most wonderful of all, Yusha talked to her as if her thoughts and feelings mattered. He asked about her dreams, her fears, her memories of her mother. He listened to her recite poetry and told her stories about places he had traveled and people he had known.
“Have you really been to all these places?” she asked after he described the bustling markets of Cairo and the snow-capped mountains of the north.
“Some of them,” he said. “Others I have only heard about. But I hope to travel more someday. Perhaps we could travel together.”
“You would want to travel with me? Even though I would slow you down?”
“Zainab, you would not slow me down. You would give me someone to share the journey with.”
Three weeks into their marriage, Zainab realized that something impossible was happening to her. She was falling in love with her husband.
It wasn’t the dramatic, passionate love described in romance poetry. It was something quieter but deeper—a growing affection built on daily kindnesses, shared conversations, and the comfort of being truly seen and accepted for the first time in her life.
She began to look forward to Yusha’s return each afternoon, to the sound of his voice calling her name as he approached the hut. She treasured their evening conversations and the gentle way he helped her navigate challenges without making her feel helpless.
But even as her feelings deepened, questions about Yusha continued to multiply. His knowledge, his manners, his way of speaking—none of it matched what she knew about people who lived in poverty. And sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t listening, she heard him talking to visitors who came to the hut, speaking in tones that sounded almost… authoritative.
One afternoon, as she was walking to the market alone—a journey Yusha had helped her memorize step by step—she encountered her sister Amira.
“Zainab?” Amira’s voice was sharp with surprise and disdain. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here now,” Zainab replied quietly, trying to keep walking.
But Amira grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop. “I heard Father married you off to some beggar. I see you’re learning to live like one.”
“I am fine, Amira. I am happy.”
Amira laughed cruelly. “Happy? Look at you. Your clothes are plain, your hands are rough from work. This is what you call happiness?”
“Yes,” Zainab said firmly. “I have someone who cares for me, who treats me with kindness. That is more than I ever had in Father’s house.”
“Someone who cares for you?” Amira’s voice was mocking. “Sister, you are more naive than I thought. Do you even know who you really married?”
“What do you mean?”
Amira leaned closer, her voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “He’s not what he seems, Zainab. Your precious husband has been lying to you about everything.”
Before Zainab could ask what she meant, Amira was gone, leaving her standing in the marketplace with her heart pounding and her mind racing with new questions.
What had Amira meant? What lies had Yusha been telling her?
That evening, as they shared their usual quiet dinner, Zainab studied Yusha’s voice, his mannerisms, his way of moving through their small space. Now that she was looking for it, she could sense something beneath his humble demeanor—a confidence, an ease that spoke of someone accustomed to having his words listened to and his wishes respected.
“Yusha,” she said carefully, “tell me about your family. Where did you grow up?”
There was a pause—just a moment’s hesitation, but she caught it.
“Why do you ask?”
“I want to know more about the man I married. Is that so strange?”
“My family… my family is gone,” he said finally. “There is nothing worth discussing.”
But Zainab heard something in his voice that sounded like evasion rather than grief.
For the first time since their marriage, she wondered if the man she was falling in love with was hiding something that could change everything between them.
Chapter 5: The Truth Revealed
The conversation with Amira haunted Zainab for days. She found herself listening more carefully to Yusha’s speech patterns, paying attention to inconsistencies in his stories, noting the way servants and shopkeepers seemed to treat him with unusual deference for a man of his supposed station.
One evening, as they were preparing for bed, Zainab decided she could no longer bear the uncertainty.
“Yusha,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. “I need you to tell me the truth about who you are.”
She heard him freeze in his movements across the small hut.
“What do you mean?” he asked, but his voice carried a wariness that confirmed her suspicions.
“I mean that nothing about you matches what I know about beggars or poor men. Your education, your manner of speaking, the way people treat you at the market. Even the food you bring home—it’s too good, too much for someone who depends on charity.”
Yusha was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft and filled with something that might have been relief.
“You are very observant.”
“So I’m right? You’ve been lying to me?”
“Not lying. Concealing the truth. There is a difference.”
Zainab felt her world begin to shift around her. “What truth?”
She heard Yusha move closer, then felt him kneel beside where she sat on the edge of their sleeping mat.
“Zainab, what I am about to tell you may change how you feel about me, about our marriage, about everything. Are you sure you want to know?”
“I have to know. I can’t build a life with someone who isn’t honest with me.”
Yusha took her hands in his—those gentle, calloused hands that had become so familiar to her.
“I am not a beggar,” he said quietly. “I am Prince Yusha ibn Abdullah, second son of Emir Rashid ibn Malik, ruler of this kingdom.”
The words hit Zainab like physical blows. Prince. Emir. Kingdom. The room seemed to spin around her as she tried to process what he was telling her.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered.
“It is true. I am second in line to the throne. The hut we live in, the simple life we’ve been living—it’s all a disguise I adopted to escape the palace and find…”
“Find what?”
“Find someone who could love me for myself, not for my title or my wealth.”
Zainab pulled her hands free from his and stood up unsteadily. “You’re telling me that I’m married to a prince? That all of this—” she gestured around the humble hut “—has been a lie?”
“Not a lie. A test.”
“A test?” Her voice rose with anger and hurt. “You tested me? Like I was some kind of… of servant applying for a position?”
“Zainab, please, let me explain—”
“Explain? How do you explain lying to someone for weeks? How do you explain letting me believe I had married a beggar when I had actually married royalty?”
Yusha stood and moved toward her, but she stepped back.
“I had been engaged three times,” he said urgently. “Three different women, all from noble families, all beautiful, all accomplished. And all of them were in love with the idea of being a princess, not with the man they would marry. They cared about jewels and palaces and servants, not about building a life with someone they actually cared for.”
“So you decided to trick me instead?”
“I decided to find someone who would see my character before my crown. Someone whose love wouldn’t be bought or influenced by wealth and status.”
Zainab felt tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. “And you thought a blind girl would be perfect for that? Someone so desperate for kindness that she’d fall in love with anyone who treated her gently?”
“No!” Yusha’s voice was sharp with pain. “Zainab, that’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it is. You took advantage of my isolation, my loneliness, my gratitude for basic human decency. You let me fall in love with a fiction.”
“You fell in love with me. The real me. Everything between us has been genuine except for my circumstances.”
“Your circumstances? Yusha, you’re a prince! That’s not a small detail about your life—that’s who you are!”
“It’s what I am, not who I am. Who I am is the man who has spent every day for the past month trying to make you happy, trying to build a life with you based on mutual respect and affection.”
Zainab sank back down onto the sleeping mat, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she was learning.
“My father,” she said slowly. “He doesn’t know, does he? He really thought he was marrying me off to a beggar.”
“He doesn’t know. I approached him in disguise, offering to take you as a wife in exchange for a small dowry. He was so eager to be rid of you that he didn’t ask many questions.”
The cruelty of it hit her anew. Her father had been so desperate to dispose of her that he had handed her over to a stranger without even bothering to verify the man’s identity or character.
“So what happens now?” she asked quietly. “Do you take me back to your palace? Do I become a princess? Do we pretend that this month of deception never happened?”
“That depends on you.”
“On me?”
“On whether you can forgive me for the way this began. On whether you believe that what has grown between us is real, regardless of how it started.”
Zainab thought about the past month—the kindness, the conversation, the sense of being valued and cherished that she had never experienced before. Had all of that been genuine, or had she been in love with a performance?
“How do I know what’s real?” she asked. “How do I know that the man I fell in love with actually exists?”
“Because he’s sitting right here,” Yusha said softly. “Because every conversation we’ve had, every moment we’ve shared, every feeling I’ve expressed—all of it has been true. The only lie was my name and my background.”
“Those are rather significant lies.”
“Yes, they are. And I’m sorry for them. But Zainab, if I had approached you as a prince, would you have married me for love or for status?”
“I would never have had the chance to marry you at all. Princes don’t marry blind merchant’s daughters.”
“This prince does.”
The simple statement hung in the air between them. Zainab felt her anger warring with her love, her hurt battling with her hope.
“What kind of life would we have?” she asked. “If I forgave you, if we stayed married, what would that mean? Would I live in a palace? Would I be expected to be a princess?”
“You would be whatever you wanted to be. We could live quietly, or you could take your place at court. We could travel, or we could stay here. Zainab, I have wealth and power enough to build whatever life would make you happy.”
“And your family? The royal court? They would accept a blind commoner as your wife?”
“They would accept whoever I chose to marry. And if they didn’t…” Yusha paused. “If they didn’t, we would make our own way in the world.”
Zainab sat in silence for a long time, trying to sort through the chaos of emotions and revelations. Finally, she spoke.
“I need time to think about this. I need time to understand what this all means.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
“But Yusha? No more lies. No more tests. If we’re going to build something real, it has to be based on complete honesty.”
“I promise. No more deception.”
As they settled down to sleep that night—Yusha still taking his place by the door, respecting the distance she needed—Zainab lay awake staring into the darkness that was her perpetual world.
She was married to a prince. Her life of isolation and rejection had somehow led her to royalty. It seemed impossible, like something from the fairy tales her mother used to tell her.
But fairy tales, she knew, didn’t always have happy endings. And real life was far more complicated than stories.
The question now was whether love built on deception could transform into something genuine and lasting, or whether the lies at the foundation would eventually destroy everything they had built together.
Chapter 6: The Palace
The next morning, Zainab woke to find that their humble hut had been transformed. She could hear the sounds of many people moving around outside—horses, carriages, voices speaking in the formal tones of servants addressing nobility.
“What’s happening?” she asked as Yusha helped her sit up.
“My royal guard has arrived,” he said quietly. “Word reached the palace yesterday that I had revealed my identity. They’ve come to escort us back to the palace.”
Zainab felt her stomach clench with anxiety. “How did word reach the palace?”
“I sent a message last night, after our conversation. I wanted to give you the choice of how to proceed, but I also needed to inform my family that I was ready to return.”
“And if I choose not to go with you?”
“Then I will send them away and remain here with you, as a commoner.”
The weight of that statement settled over Zainab. He was offering to give up his birthright, his throne, his entire identity for her.
Before she could respond, there was a respectful knock at the door.
“Your Highness,” came a formal voice from outside. “The carriage is prepared when you are ready.”
Yusha squeezed her hand. “The choice is yours, Zainab. We can leave now, we can wait, or we can stay here forever. I will follow your lead.”
Zainab thought about her options. She could remain in this hut, living a simple life with a man who had chosen love over power. She could return to her father’s house and beg for forgiveness, though she knew none would come. Or she could step into a world she had never imagined, as the wife of a prince.
“If we go to the palace,” she said slowly, “what would be expected of me?”
“Nothing you cannot handle. You would be my wife, my partner. You would have servants to help you navigate new spaces, teachers to help you learn court customs if you wished. But Zainab, you would never be expected to be anything other than exactly who you are.”
“A blind woman who knows nothing of royal life?”
“A intelligent, kind, strong woman who has survived years of neglect and emerged with her heart intact. A woman who taught a prince what real love could be.”
Zainab stood up, smoothing her simple dress. “Then let us go. Let us see what this new life holds.”
The journey to the palace was unlike anything Zainab had ever experienced. She rode in a cushioned carriage that moved so smoothly she could barely feel the road beneath them. Yusha sat beside her, describing the landscape they passed—olive groves and vineyards, villages where people stopped their work to wave at the royal carriage, mountains that rose like purple shadows in the distance.
“Are you afraid?” he asked as they neared the palace.
“Terrified,” she admitted. “But also… curious. For twenty-one years, I lived in one small room. Now I’m about to see a palace.”
“You won’t see it,” Yusha said gently. “But you’ll experience it in ways that others cannot. You’ll hear the fountains in the courtyards, feel the coolness of marble floors, smell the jasmine in the gardens.”
When they arrived, Zainab heard the sounds of a great household—dozens of people moving with purpose, the splash of fountains, the clip-clop of horses, voices calling in multiple languages.
“Your Highness,” said a woman’s voice as they stepped down from the carriage. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Farah,” Yusha replied. “This is my wife, Princess Zainab. Please see that rooms are prepared for us, and that she has everything she needs to be comfortable.”
Princess Zainab. The title sounded impossible in Zainab’s ears.
“Of course, Your Highness. Your Majesty,” the woman—Farah—said, and Zainab realized she was being addressed with a royal title.
“Please, just call me Zainab,” she said quickly.
“As you wish, Princess Zainab.”
As they walked through the palace, Yusha guided her with the same gentle care he had shown in their humble hut. He described each room they passed, warning her of steps, helping her understand the layout of their new home.
“The throne room is here,” he said as they passed a space that echoed with vast emptiness. “This hallway leads to the private family quarters. Our rooms are at the end of this corridor, with windows that face the garden.”
Their rooms were a suite of chambers larger than her father’s entire house had been. Yusha showed her where everything was placed—the bed carved from sandalwood, the sitting area with cushions and low tables, the private bathroom with a tub large enough for swimming.
“It’s overwhelming,” Zainab admitted, sitting on the edge of the enormous bed.
“We can change anything you like. Move furniture, bring in different pieces, arrange everything to suit you.”
“And your family? When will I meet them?”
“Tomorrow, if you’re ready. My father will want to meet his new daughter-in-law, and my mother… well, she may have questions.”
That evening, as they dined in their private chambers, servants bringing course after course of elaborate food, Zainab tried to adjust to her new reality.
“Yusha,” she said as they finished their meal, “I want you to know that I forgive you for the deception.”
He looked up sharply. “You do?”
“I understand why you did it. And I understand that everything between us—the kindness, the conversation, the affection—all of that was real.”
“It was. Zainab, these past weeks with you have been the happiest of my life.”
“Mine too. But I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me that we’ll always remember what we learned in that little hut. That love is built on daily kindnesses, on seeing each other clearly, on choosing each other again and again. Don’t let the wealth and ceremony make us forget what really matters.”
“I promise,” Yusha said, taking her hands in his. “And Zainab? There’s something else I want you to know.”
“What?”
“I never want you to feel like you have to earn your place here. You belong in this palace not because you married a prince, but because you are worthy of love, respect, and honor. You always have been.”
For the first time in her life, Zainab believed it might be true.
Epilogue: The Garden of Shadows
Two years later, Zainab sat in the palace garden, her fingers moving over the pages of a book written in Braille. The garden had become her favorite place in the palace—she could hear the fountains and feel the sun on her face, could smell the roses and jasmine that grew in careful abundance.
Beside her sat her young sister-in-law, Princess Maryam, who was learning to read Braille so they could share books.
“Tell me again about the poem,” Maryam said. “The one about flowers growing in shadow.”
Zainab smiled. “Every flower has its own beauty, even if it grows in shadow. For the gardener who tends with love can help any bloom flourish, and those who grow in darkness often have the strongest roots.”
“I like that one,” Maryam said. “It reminds me of you.”
“How so?”
“Because you grew up in shadow, but look how you’ve flourished here. Father says you’ve changed Yusha, made him happier and more thoughtful than he ever was before.”
It was true that their marriage had settled into something beautiful and strong. Yusha had kept his promise about honesty, and Zainab had learned to trust not just his words but his actions, his daily choices to put their relationship above convenience or political advantage.
She had also discovered that being a princess was more complex and more rewarding than she had imagined. She spent her mornings working with the palace teachers, learning to read documents in Braille so she could help Yusha with administrative work. Her afternoons were often devoted to meeting with women from the kingdom who brought their concerns and requests directly to her.
“Princess Zainab always listens,” she had overheard one woman tell another. “She understands what it’s like to need help.”
She had also maintained a relationship with her sisters, though not with her father. Layla and Amira had been stunned by her transformation from rejected daughter to beloved princess, and had gradually begun to seek reconciliation.
“We’re sorry,” Amira had said during one awkward but important conversation. “We didn’t understand then what Father was doing to you. We were children too, but that’s no excuse for how we treated you.”
“I forgive you,” Zainab had replied. “We were all products of a house without love. Now we can choose to do better.”
As for her father, he had attempted to claim connection to his newly royal daughter, but Zainab had politely declined his overtures. Some wounds, she had learned, were too deep for forgiveness, though she bore no active ill will toward the man who had given her life and then made it miserable.
“Princess Zainab?” came Farah’s voice from the garden entrance. “His Highness is asking for you in the study.”
Zainab rose and made her way through the palace to Yusha’s private study, where he spent his mornings handling the business of the kingdom. She knew the way by heart now, could navigate the corridors as easily as she had once moved through her small childhood room.
“You sent for me?” she said, entering the study.
“I have news,” Yusha said, and she could hear excitement in his voice.
“What kind of news?”
“My father has decided to step down from the throne next year. He wants to travel, to see the world while he’s still healthy enough to enjoy it.”
Zainab felt her heart skip. “Which means…”
“Which means I will become Emir. And you will become the queen.”
Queen. The word felt impossible, even after two years of princess lessons and royal responsibilities.
“Are you ready for that?” she asked.
“With you beside me? I’m ready for anything.”
Zainab moved closer to where Yusha sat behind his desk, and he reached for her hands.
“There’s something else,” he said. “I’ve been working on a project, something I wanted to surprise you with.”
“What kind of project?”
“A school. For children who cannot see, and for children who struggle with learning in other ways. A place where they can get an education that serves their needs, where they can learn trades and skills that will let them support themselves.”
Zainab felt tears spring to her eyes. “Yusha…”
“I want to call it the Fatima School, after your mother. And I want you to help me design it, to make sure it becomes everything it should be.”
“You would do that? Create a school for children like me?”
“Children like you grow up to become queens,” Yusha said softly. “But they shouldn’t have to survive what you survived to reach their potential.”
That evening, as they sat in their private chambers, Zainab reflected on the incredible journey that had brought her from her father’s rejection to this place of love and purpose.
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had met differently?” she asked Yusha. “If you had approached me as a prince from the beginning?”
“Sometimes. But I think we met exactly as we were meant to. You needed to know that someone could love you for yourself, and I needed to learn what real love looked like.”
“And now?”
“Now we get to spend the rest of our lives building something together. A kingdom where people are valued for who they are, not just what they can see or do. A family based on choice and commitment rather than obligation.”
Zainab smiled, thinking of the children who would someday attend the school that bore her mother’s name, the women who would continue to seek her counsel, the kingdom that would benefit from having leaders who understood both privilege and hardship.
She had been born into darkness, but she had found her way to light. Not the light of physical sight, which had always been denied to her, but the light of love, purpose, and the knowledge that every person—no matter how the world might judge them—had the potential for greatness.
Her father had married her to a beggar because he saw her as worthless. But the beggar had turned out to be a prince, and the worthless daughter had become a queen.
Sometimes, the greatest transformations began with what seemed like the cruelest rejections.
And sometimes, love could bloom most beautifully in the shadows, tended by hands that understood both darkness and the patient work of growing toward the light.
The End
What would you have done if you’d discovered that your spouse had been lying about their identity from the beginning? Would you have been able to forgive deception that was motivated by love? Sometimes the greatest love stories begin with the greatest misconceptions, and sometimes the people society deems worthless turn out to be the most precious of all.
