The Palestinian Wedding
"As a bridesmaid at her cousin's Ramallah wedding, Layla never expected to fall for the best man—especially not her cousin's ex-boyfriend's brother."
The Palestinian Wedding
The henna night was chaos—women ululating, hands being painted in intricate patterns, her cousin Rana glowing in red and gold. Layla smiled until her face ached, performed her bridesmaid duties, and counted the hours until she could escape.
"You look like you're planning a prison break."
She turned to find a man at the edge of the celebration—handsome, amused, distinctly not supposed to be here during the women-only event.
"Men aren't allowed until tomorrow."
"I'm checking the catering. I'm Fadi." He extended his hand. "Best man."
"I know who you are." Everyone did. Fadi was the brother of Rana's ex—the one who'd broken her heart before Rana found her current fiancé. His presence was controversial at best.
"Then you know I shouldn't be talking to you."
"No." He smiled anyway. "But I never was good at 'should.'"
They kept finding each other throughout the three-day celebration. At the men's party. During the church ceremony. Through the endless rounds of food and toasts at the reception.
"Your family looks at me like I'm carrying a disease," Fadi observed, dancing with her during a rare slow song.
"Your brother broke Rana's heart."
"My brother is an idiot. I told him that at the time." His hand was warm on her back. "That doesn't make me guilty by association."
"Tell that to Arab families."
"I'm trying to tell it to you."
The chemistry was undeniable, inappropriate, inconvenient. Layla told herself to ignore it. But when Fadi appeared at her hotel room door at midnight, she couldn't pretend anymore.
"This is a terrible idea," she said, not closing the door.
"I know."
"My mother will disown me."
"Mine too, probably."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you." His voice was raw. "And I think you feel it too."
She pulled him inside.
They came together desperately, three days of tension exploding. Fadi kissed her like he was drowning and she was air, his hands fumbling with her dress while she tore at his suit.
"Ya Allah," he groaned against her throat. "Finally—"
"Don't talk." She pulled him toward the bed. "Just—"
He silenced her with a kiss, then showed her what he'd been imagining. His mouth trailed fire down her body while his hands memorized every curve.
"Helwa," he breathed against her thigh. "Inti kteer helwa."
"Fadi—please—"
He entered her with a groan that she muffled with another kiss, too aware of the thin walls, the family members sleeping nearby. They moved together in desperate rhythm, chasing pleasure that felt forbidden and inevitable.
"I'm close—"
"Look at me." His eyes locked on hers. "I want to see you."
She came with his name on her lips, and he followed her into oblivion.
"What do we do now?" Layla asked, tangled in hotel sheets.
"We could pretend this never happened."
"Could we?"
"No." Fadi kissed her forehead. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. And I don't want to."
"The families—"
"Will survive." He propped himself up. "I'm not my brother, Layla. And you're not Rana. We get to write our own story."
"It'll be a scandal."
"Palestinian weddings always have scandals. Might as well give them something good to talk about." His smile was reckless. "Let me take you to dinner. Officially. Where people can see."
"Tomorrow? After everything?"
"Especially after everything." He kissed her again. "I want to do this right. I want to earn you."
Layla thought of the drama, the whispers, the inevitable confrontations. Then she looked at Fadi—earnest, beautiful, offering something that felt like the start of everything.
"Na'am," she said. "But you're explaining to my mother."
His laugh was worth every complication to come.
"Deal. Now come here. We have until morning."
Outside, Ramallah celebrated the wedding that had brought them together. Inside, a different love story was beginning—complicated, controversial, and completely unstoppable.