2 The invitation

Chapter Two

DEMONIC possession or was it split personality disorder, Asiya couldn't decide, however what she was certain of was her stepmother could have easily won an Oscar if she were to ever consider a profession as an actress.

Hissing softly, she glared at her stepmother who was busy lighting a rather sweet smelling musk fragrant incense stick in her father's room not quite feeling the need to hide her dissatisfaction. She couldn't remember when last she saw her in the room and now all of the sudden she had helped her bathe and dress her father, tidy up the room, changed the sheets, curtains and now she was scenting the room, just what in God's name was happening?

She wasn't as naïve as she let people think. Besides, she didn't need to have an high IQ to deduce that she must have an ulterior motive for her sudden altruism. It was quite obvious. Why else would she have minded when she was the same person whom had left them both out in the rains yesterday for nothing less than five hours? It was a miracle that her father had survived. For a moment there, she feared she had lost him.

"What are you standing there for?" Her stepmother's voice slit into her thoughts, "Go and get dressed."

Dressed? For what? "Are my grandparents visiting?"

"Of course not!" She quipped rather impatiently. It would appear her façade of jollity had began to wear off though for some reason she was still keeping it up.

"You said to get dressed-" So I naturally assumed my grandparents were visiting since it is the only time you treat us as humans.

"Please, Asiya, just do as I ask." She pleaded softly though her eyes held malice and impatience swimming abode. It was clear she wasn't really asking.

Recognizing a lost battle, Asiya turned and walked out of her father's room and headed to her room next door. There wasn't much to the room. There was just the queen sized bed and a bookshelf which stood above her reading chair. The room wasn't originally hers. She had moved in after her father's accident to help make less the burden of his care when he had been moved to one of the rooms downstairs. It was big enough, but not as big as her bedroom which her stepmother had shamelessly given to Fatiha, the eldest of her stepsisters.

There are five bedrooms upstairs and three downstairs. It was originally meant for her father, mother, her, Kabir and the baby her mother was pregnant with which was suppose to complete their happy family. But that's all in the past now.

Theirs is a home which correlates with the housing patterns of the rich and wealthy. Some call it a mansion even for its level of style and grandeur. To her, it was just a place which once danced with love and carefree laughter, a memory of what was and of what can never be again.

Shedding of her clothes, she stepped leisurely into the bathtub, flinching a bit as her bare toes touched the chilled ceramic floor. She turned on the shower at the press of a button, the perfect pressure and temperature, releasing thousands of lukewarm drops, darkening her hair, trickling down her back as she bathed her skin lightly, taking careful notice not to touch the bruises that littered her body.

After her shower was finished, she moved to the dressing room attached to the bathroom, skimming the closet for clothes to wear. She had barely settled on a butterscotch Empire-waist gown when someone had unlocked the door to the room and stepped in without asking for permission. The gown is simple with a high waistline just below the breast, yet trendy and give a royal look. It was a gift from her unconventional grandmother who has a thing for fashion.

She didn't need to look to know it must be Fatiha or Farida, her stepsisters. They seem to act as if they owned everything in the house even though they stood to inherit nothing from her father.

"Where is that red gown that your grandma brought for you last time she came visiting?" Her intruder demanded proudly.

It was Farida.

Asiya sighed, the exasperation clear in her tone. "Why are you asking?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She squished her face disdainfully, "I want to wear it."

Asiya ignored her as she loosened her braids with her dainty hands. She allowed her long, black hair to fall down her back as she searched for her comb. Farida knew, as does everyone in the household of her dislike at sharing her clothes. She has a rather sensitive skin which easily get an irritation

"I'm talking to you, Asiya, stop wasting my time."

"You know my clothes are off limits," She murmured as she dragged the Denman brush across her wet hair. It is her go-to comb whenever she needed to separate and detangle knots from her hair effectively.

"How is that any of my concern?" She huffed impatiently

She acted as if she didn't hear her. Her stepsisters never ask for her things, so why was today any different? What was happening today anyway? Why all the fuss around the house? Who was coming? There must be a reason why everyone was acting crazy today.

"Asi-

"It's in the first row dresser," She gave in deciding she didn't have the energy to argue anymore. Whatever was going on, she would find out soon enough. If there was something she was certain of, it wasn't her grandparents. Her stepsister wouldn't ask for the gown if it were them visiting.

Pulling open the six door dresser with dark walnut finish, she grabbed the said gown, a red circular skirt gown sewn to fit at the waist but the skirt is very flared. It was a gift from her grandmother's trip to Paris. And without as much as a glance, she stepped out of the room leaving the drawer open.

Not minding her rudeness, Asiya closed shut the chest of drawer and quickly dressed up deciding she had neglected her father enough. She might not know what the fuss was all about, but she was certain it wasn't something that would benefit her or her father. She just wished for the day to be over as soon as possible. It was obviously going to a long day.

Stepping out of the room however, she found herself stopping in her tracks as a voice she had desperately prayed never to have grace her ears trickle down her ears. Not wanting to believe she was actually listening to the voice and hoping it was merely a figment of her imagination, she made her way to the living room with her heart drumming at a rather alarming frequency.

Luck was however not on her side as the found herself staring at the tall, broad shouldered man with undeniable fine features dressed casually in jeans and an untucked shirt. There was no doubt. It was him.