The Secret Life of My Husband, The Professor ✔️

18| The Heartbreaks Of The Rules

I then look at his hand to find a ring on it, similar to the ring I found in the hospital that the nurse stated it belonged to me, "Ohh for crying out loud," He says frustrated, "We are married, Dory." He ceases.

Memories of a ceremony began to flood my mind as images of my Profesor danced around in my vision. Him and I as I appear in a white dress. Him and I eating a cake. The Professor in his bed. Me in his bed.

Ya Allah, What have I done? 

Present-day 

"Does your ears hear what your mouth is saying ?" I chuckle as he kept telling me the story of how I got married to him and how my father was miraculously alive, at first I thought it was a joke to lighten the mood, but he seemed serious.

"It is the truth, Ms.Muhammad," He insisted.

"You are sick," I quickly come back, "I don't know what happened in those twenty one days, but it isn't that,"  I say as I take the books of the ground and walk away from him.

He is deranged, isn't he?

"Ms Muhammad," he says, firmer this time. "You need a ride home." The inflexion is gone from his tone this time. It's not a question. Despite the cold, I feel my cheeks heat under his piercing gaze as I look at him. He's such a picture in contrasts.

Sometimes, in class when he looks at me, he's like a missile about to detonate. I'll be laughing at something one of the other students have said, and his face is barely hiding his fury. Other times when we are alone, he would surprise me with irrational thoughts and theories.

I knew that one night that happened, I remember a ceremony, but to recognise a father who I sow bleed to death in a basement, which my grandmother swear he died in a car accident.

It seemed more of a fiction made story than the real truth.

"Okay, I won't say anything more, just get in the car," he says, taking my books from my hand as he walks past me and I leave the book and run the opposite direction.

Suddenly, the Professor wraps a firm hand around my abdomen and tosses me over his shoulder. I scratch at his back, but he doesn't even seem flustered by my vain efforts. Just irritated.

"Let me down, Iet me down," I reply furiously.

"You will follow," He asks.

I nodded as he let me down.

I follow, because his voice does things to my insides that make me lose all coherent thought, and obviously because it's freezing and my many layers of clothing are not doing anything to alleviate that.

I find myself jogging to keep up with his long strides. When we reach a shiny silver Lamborghini parked across the street, he holds open the passenger door for me, and I slide in and belt up, immediately overwhelmed by his scent saturating the whole car.