Chapter Five: The Shopping Spree
For the second night running, A'isha lay awake under the chilly metal of Amara's bunk, her cousin's soft snores floating down like they were taunting her sleeplessness. The uncertainty of what was to come stretched the hours, but weariness crept in, weighing down on her eyelids, and she clung to the fading hope of finding some shut-eye tonight.
As sleep finally began to take hold, the cramped cabin melted away, and Amara's snores twisted into a chillingly familiar sound: rain slamming on asphalt. An uninvited memory flickered to life—a dimly lit street during one of Alexandria's fiercest storm.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound, a lifeline, yanked her from the maw of that nightmare. As she sat upright, heart pounding, she realised it was the hallway door. And Marik's distinct knocks. Was it morning already, or just his messed-up sense of it?
Staggering from her bed to the door, she remembered it was locked from the outside. "What d'you want?" she called out, bracing herself for his BS.
The door swung open, and in strode Marik, again with the immaculate self-presentation of a real-life Narcissus. He leaned against the free-standing closet, the door wide open behind him. Typical. "It's morning," he said casually. "I trust you've reached a decision."
The reminder jolted her awake. His proposition! She straightened up, shoving back the sleep-deprivation. "I have a condition. Agree to it, and I'll agree to your"—her nose crinkled—"dinner of torture." But with a little luck, he'd be dining behind prison bars by then.
Marik raised an eyebrow, urging her to go on.
"We demand a shopping spree," she asserted—not a request, but a requirement.
Daylight seeped through the curtains, illuminating his unchanging expression. She scanned his face for any hint of his thoughts: a brow twitch, a tightening jaw, a glimmer in his eyes. But his poker face was impeccable. Finally, he said, "Elaborate."
A'isha chose her words carefully. "We need an actual outing. Clothes, boredom busters, snacks, all on you." Their best chance of escape hinged on them returning to solid ground. "And I doubt this"—she gestured to her outfit: a top, cardigan, jeans and chucks—"will suit whatever fancy schmancy dinner venue you have in mind."
A contemplative look crossed Marik's face as he cupped his chin. Was he genuinely considering her demand, or just toying with her?
Then, a muffled squeal erupted from the top bunk. "Sorry," Amara said, behind a pillow that utterly failed to mute her excitement. "Just excited about the shopping spree."
A'isha rolled her eyes, mentally noting to address Amara's skewed priorities once they were home.
Marik's gaze shifted to Amara, and A'isha swore she glimpsed the Millennium Rod flash briefly. Was he probing Amara's thoughts? Or even her own?
Finally, he turned back to her, and she held her breath, her hope for a successful escape balancing on a razor's edge. "I can arrange a shopping trip," he began, though her relief was short-lived as a sly smile crept onto his lips. "But I have one condition."
A'isha adjusted Marik's "one condition"—Clark Kent glasses, probably the lamest attempt at incognito ever. Meanwhile, Amara got to rock a cute beret. Marik was just mocking her, wasn't he? Well, how would he like to swap his snug jeans and shiny bling for a prison jumpsuit? Orange definitely wasn't his colour, but she'd love to see him try it on.
They were at some place called Kings Avenue Mall, the shopping centre dripping with luxury—from its trendy boutiques to the gleaming marble floors. When A'isha mentioned needing new underwear, the lingerie store Marik steered them into was no exception, radiating sophistication with its soft lighting and velvet furnishings. Colourful rows of lace and silk tempted fellow shoppers, all clueless of the kidnapping right under their noses.
Marik shadowed her closely as she picked the most unflattering, granny-like pieces she could find in his disgusting presence. Could he not look away for even a second?
"Iiiiish," came Amara's plaintive cry from a nearby fitting room, while Odion sat sentry outside. Of course, Marik had assigned Odion to watch over her cousin, keeping his 'dear fiancée' all to himself. "I need your opinion, Ish!" Amara called out in Arabic, their required language for the day—Marik's idea to keep their conversation private in Cyprus.
"What's your question?" A'isha called back.
"Do my boobs look small in this?"
Glancing back at her unwelcome shadow, A'isha shrugged before leaving the shop floor and passing the rows of fitting rooms to join Amara in hers. Her cousin, posing in a scarlet push-up bra, was all about her reflection. "Hey, Ish!" She puffed out her chest. "What do you think? Do the ladies look full and perky?"
A'isha's face likely spelt her thoughts, but she voiced them anyway. "Seriously? We're kidnapped and you're worried about your boobs?"
"But looking good never hurts, right?" Amara countered, puffing out her chest again.
A'isha lowered her voice, gripping her cousin's shoulders. "Listen, I have a plan—"
"Are you gonna flash him?" Amara's question was alarmingly earnest. "It could work. He's totally into you."
"What?" A'isha squeaked. The last thing she wanted was a strategy involving her assets. "No, I—"
"A'isha?" Marik's voice floated in. It sounded like he was still on the shop floor, not in the wider fitting area. He hadn't followed her - probably because Odion was right outside - but he'd barge on in if he thought they were up to something.
Suppressing a groan, A'isha whispered, "I'm going to make a scene." The opposite, actually, but if Marik was in Amara's head, maybe this would throw him off. "Just keep cool, okay?"
Leaving Amara's fitting room, she expected to find Marik but found only Odion, who smiled at her from a nearby stool. She returned the gesture, only to remember who he was and wipe it away.
Marik. Where was he?
She headed out onto the shop floor, eyes peeled for that royal pain in the—
Ah. He'd been waylaid by a petite brunette with a bright smile and bold red lipstick. And ugh, he seemed to be going full Namu on her, talking up a storm in… French? Yeah, that sounded like French. Jeez, how many languages did the guy need?
"Oh, here's my lovely fiancée," Marik announced, still in French, beckoning A'isha over. The only reason she obliged was because her plan required her to talk to him—but after approaching with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner walking the plank, he wrapped an arm around her waist, and she immediately regretted her decision. The heat of his arm leaked through her top, warming her skin, and it took all of her self-control to resist a grimace. "My bride-to-be is as brilliant as she is beautiful. She's also fluent in French." And suddenly, four years of high marks in French felt like a curse as she endured Marik's repugnant display of faux charm. "Nicolette is visiting from Paris," he said, indicating the brunette before them.
"Nice to meet you," A'isha managed, hoping her French was clear and well pronounced lest Marik be a dick about it later. "I hope my fiancé hasn't been too bothersome."
"Not at all, A'isha. The pleasure is mine," Nicolette replied, her thick accent wrapping around each word as she balanced a basket of undergarments. "And as someone from The City of Love and Lights, let me just say it brightens my day to see such a loving relationship."
"What a compliment," Marik piped in, all smiles and charm, when he undoubtedly couldn't care less about this poor woman. "And speaking of healthy relationships, I won't keep my lady waiting for my input." He gave her waist a seemingly affectionate squeeze. Could he maybe do it harder and squeeze the life out of her? Make this end faster. "Lovely to meet you, Nicolette," he continued. "Enjoy the rest of your trip and all the best for that course of yours."
After wishing them well for their upcoming wedding, Nicolette bid them adieu and headed to the counter.
As soon as her back was turned, A'isha wasted no time peeling Marik's arm from her waist, only for that same vile arm to reach past her with no regard for her boundaries.
"Forget the granny pants," he said in Arabic, plucking a lacy black number off a rack. "Not only would this suit your skin tone. It would accentuate your hourglass figure far more than the unsightly garments you've been considering to deter me."
Heat crept up her cheeks. In retaliation, she slapped a lavender granny bra against his chest. "This matches your eyes."
He accepted it with mock gratitude. "How sweet of you to notice, my love." As he stepped closer, returning both bras to the rack, her body seized up. His proximity, his sharp cologne, the teasing glint in his eyes—all of it made her want to scream.
But she steeled herself. "Well, it's impossible not to notice your eyes when they're a measly inch from my face." As she scraped through the hangers, she considered that encounter with the Parisian brunette. Marik's superficial charm, his manipulative prowess—it supported a theory she felt compelled to voice. "So," she said, voice tight, "do psychopaths just know that they're psychopaths? Is that a thing?"
Marik merely cocked a brow. "Quite the thought-provoking question. What, pray tell, has led you to such an audacious assumption about me?"
Her answer was a flat, skeptical stare; one that left him smirking.
"I'm not a psychopath, A'isha."
"A sociopath, then?" she challenged.
Laughing, he raked a hand through his hair, regarding her for a moment. "You're very interested in unravelling the enigma that is me."
With a dismissive roll of her eyes, A'isha set her plan into motion. Grabbing a handful of bras, but steering clear of Marik's lacy black selection, she announced, "I'm trying these on. Assuming you'll at least allow me that much privacy."
Marik waved toward the fitting rooms, silently conceding. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Halfway there, with no Marik in tow, she passed a silent Odion and a waving Amara when a woman's hushed voice snagged her attention, "Is she okay?"
Pausing just inside the fitting room area, A'isha wondered if her distress was that obvious. It turned out, yes, someone had noticed, but true to her luck (or lack thereof), the woman had asked the worst damn person in the store.
"Our wedding's next week and she's understandably stressed." Back on the shop floor, Marik oozed charm with his sickening Namu act. "She might be taking it out on me a bit, but this isn't her normal. I'm just being patient with her."
A'isha chose a fitting room and yanked the curtain shut, but it did nothing to drown out the rest of Marik's psychopath spree. Or sociopath. Some kind of 'path'.
"Aw!" the woman cooed, completely buying his act. "Well, I'm sure she really appreciates your patience." No. She didn't. And there was no patience. Just smirks, schemes, suffering, and even more smirks. "My husband was like you before the wedding. If he hadn't been the voice of reason, there wouldn't have been a wedding!"
Marik's laugh was breezy. "Well, I sure don't want that!" Oh, gag her already! She'd hurl soon enough anyway just listening to this rubbish.
But thinking of which, this woman was distracting him. That was perfect. Instead of eavesdropping, she could enact her plan without him loitering right outside. After checking the curtain was secure, she whipped off her top and bra, and extracted the bra's underwire (a piece so mundane Marik would never think of her using it). Wielding the underwire like a pen, she knelt before the full-length mirror flanked by vulnerable walls, ready to leave her mark. As she scraped the underwire against the wall, she shuffled her discarded top to cover the noise. Her hands trembled, but her resolve was firm. She was almost done—
"What's that noise?" Marik's voice through the curtain startled her, the underwire nearly slipping from her grasp. Shit, he'd finished schmoozing and beelined for her fitting room.
"What noise?" She read her half-finished message—brief, hasty, but it'd have to do. "Oh, isn't the store's speaker busted?"
A tense silence followed. Come on, buy it.
"You have five seconds to get decent before I come in."
Panic zapped through her, a quiet curse slipping out.
"Five."
A'isha hid the wire in her waistband, hands shaking.
"Four."
She grabbed her top, searching for the collar.
"Three."
Head through a sleeve by mistake. Brilliant.
"Two."
Shit shit shit! Where was the fucking collar? "I'm not ready—"
But the word "one" was half-way off of his lips, and she'd barely slapped her top to her bare chest when the curtain flew open. They locked eyes, her ragged breathing the only sound in the cramped fitting room. "Get out!" she managed, hyper-aware of his eyes sweeping over her - her flushed face, the top held tightly to her chest, her discarded bra on the floor.
He nudged the bra with his shoe. "Where's the wire?"
"It didn't come with one," she said, more defensively than intended.
Crouching, he picked up the bra, smirking at the clearly distended fabric where the underwire should've been. "Didn't come with one, hm?"
Crap.
A'isha squared her shoulders. He'd caught her in a lie, sure, but she could at least own it. "Turn around," she ordered, her chin held high. With a mirror behind her, she'd still give him a show if she turned away to dress. He needed to face the curtain.
"And turn my back on an armed captive?" By his theatrical tone, he knew exactly what he was doing.
"It's either that or I poke your eyes out with my nipples!"
After a pause, his smirk softened. "Tell me where the wire is."
"What wire?"
"Come on, Ish. I'm not averse to strip-searching."
His moral compass was non-existent. Reluctantly, she answered, "Tucked into my waistband."
"As your hands are currently… occupied…" His laughing eyes dipped to the top held to her chest, covering her dignity. "I'll be the one to retrieve the wire."
She scowled over his shoulder. "Fine."
Bridging the minuscule gap between them, his gaze drifted down again, this time to her exposed midriff. The top pressed to her chest felt almost translucent under his scrutiny, his nearness prickling her skin. He reached for her waistband, his fingertips grazing her skin with a feather-light touch that seared a path of awareness down her body. She felt the underwire shift and, just as suddenly, he withdrew, leaving a burning imprint of his touch on her. After pocketing the underwire and gathering the scattered bras around the floor, he finally faced the curtain, but his presence still hung heavy in the room. "Inform me when you're clothed."
She watched his reflection in the mirror, half-expecting him to sneak a peek. But he didn't, and as soon as she was near-sure he wouldn't, she quickly dressed, a question on the tip of her tongue; only when her top was in place did she give it voice, "Why're you still here? You already disarmed me." Had he noticed her SOS?
Without looking back, he asked, "Are you decent?"
It caught her off guard that he'd bothered to double check. "Now, I am."
He faced her again, his gaze assessing. "Step aside and I'll answer your question."
She hesitated, stubbornness rooting her to the marble floor. Obliging would reveal her SOS, damn it, and she didn't want another chance at escape to slip through her fingers. But whether he'd already spotted it or simply suspected its existence, this attempt was clearly unsalvageable. With a heavy heart, she stepped aside to reveal the hastily scrawled message:
'SOS! A'isha & Amara Dahar. Kidnapped by The R.H., Marik. Captive on ship. Call Ahad Dahar, Alexandria Egypt Pol–'
As Marik leaned in to read it, his face reflected no anger—just calm acceptance. Then, he turned to her, an unrestrained smirk revealing itself. Placing a hand on the wall beside her, he leaned in close, his whisper warm against her ear. "My dear fiancée, if I'd known you were hungry for human contact, I would've joined you sooner."
"This is sexual harassment!" Her voice unfortunately cracked.
Suddenly, Marik retreated from her bubble and slid the Millennium Rod from his belt. With clear and concerning practice, he unsheathed it to reveal a sharp dagger, its pointed tip gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. Terror gripped her, worst-case scenarios swarming her mind. Had she misread his expression? Was he actually angry? About to—?
The scrape of the dagger against the wall interrupted her spiralling thoughts. He was erasing her SOS. "I look forward to you underestimating me again, dear A'isha." She stood there, her heart a beating conga drum as he returned the dagger to its sheath and exited through the curtain. Moments later, he reappeared. "In light of the security concern you've conveniently highlighted, an upgrade seems in order." Smiling, he held up a wireless bra. "Dark blue, naturally, to match your eyes."
With that, Marik made her and Amara swap their wired bras for wireless ones. As they moved onto the next store, A'isha's mind raced, already scrambling over a new escape plan. She had to outwit Marik before they returned to his ship. No pressure.
In a quiet maze of towering bookshelves, A'isha turned over escape plans. What about something dramatic - like knocking over a shelf and sprinting for the exit with Amara in tow? Ugh, no. Marik would see the moment she made her move and just stop her in her tracks with his mind-control powers. Plus, there was Odion, a tank who was easily capable of overpowering them with brute force. She had to be subtle, sneaky, unassuming.
A'isha stole a glance at Marik, right beside her, his tan finger running over book spines as if seeking a hidden treasure. "You've always wished for more time to read, haven't you?" Yet another factoid he must've plucked from Amara's head.
His finger paused on a spine, coaxing the book from its snug place. "The Princess Bride," he announced, eyes gleaming with amusement as he held it out to her. "Buttercup gets kidnapped. Something you can relate to, I imagine."
She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Hilarious." But after a moment of hesitation, she snatched it from him anyway. Maybe this Buttercup had a few escape tricks she could learn from.
Navigating the supermarket aisles, A'isha and Amara loaded their cart with an array of snacks – chocolate for the sweet, crisps for the salty, and sour candy just because. Then, in a tone too casual, Marik suggested they stock up on feminine products.
A'isha returned his nonchalance with a saccharine smile. "We don't plan on staying that long."
But Amara was already by the tampon shelf. "Never say no to free tampons, Ish." After tossing several boxes in the cart, she skipped one shelf down and grabbed a garishly bright yellow box. "And condoms are hella expensive!"
"What, no!" A'isha and Marik chorused, their hands colliding as they lunged for the box. She withdrew, ceding to Marik just this once.
"You do NOT need condoms, Amara," she chided, while Marik meticulously realigned the box on the shelf.
"Especially from a brand called Trojan," he added, a touch of mirth in his tone. "Why would they name a condom brand after the world's most notorious penetration?"
A'isha totally didn't snort. Or cover up her non-existent snort with a throat-clear. No, not at all. Because Marik was her captor, and his reference to the Trojan horse hadn't been remotely funny. Not in the least.
In an upscale clothing store, A'isha meandered through the urban forest of racks, her fingertips skimming the cool metal hangers as she darted wary glances between Odion and the gleaming glass exit. Their walking credit card had wandered off, an unexplained absence that left her under Odion's watch. Although he maintained a comfortable distance, especially when compared to Marik, his gaze still clung to her like an invisible cloak, weighing heavy on her back.
In her own little universe, Amara hovered by the fitting rooms, locked in an intense debate with herself over two identical red lace tops. An oddly domestic sight given their dire predicament.
A'isha steered her course toward her cousin, passing Odion, who'd positioned himself near the heart of the store. "Mar, you do realise the only people who will see these fancy clothes are criminals, right?"
Amara's attention snapped up to her, a frown etching itself onto her face as though she was somehow losing her self-inflicted debate. "We'll be back home sooner or later, and when we are"—she theatrically held one of the tops to her chest, her frown flipping upside down—"the devil won't be the only one wearing Prada!"
A'isha's lips quirked up. Amara could be a right brat, but lately, she'd been their small oasis of levity in a desert of dread. It provided some reassurance that the girl wouldn't devolve into a carbon copy of "Aunt" Elissa.
"Scarlet or carmine?" Amara asked, thrusting the red lace twins forward.
"They look exactly the same."
Amara gasped. "Are you colour blind?"
Smiling wryly, A'isha pointed at one. "Carmine."
Amara looked at her as though she'd just spoken in an alien tongue. "Ish, that's the scarlet one!" Before A'isha could dive into the tags to fact-check, Amara disappeared back into the fitting room with a cheery, "Never mind! I'll just try on both."
Exhaling a sigh, A'isha resumed her not-so-aimless pacing through the store. Usually, she'd be itching to see the end of a multi-hour shopping trip, but today, she recognised the value of being in public. The longer they were off of the ship, the wider the window of escape became. She just needed a plan subtle enough not to alert Odion.
Wandering past another rack, she snuck her umpteenth peek at the exit when she bumped into something - a mannequin. It wobbled on its base, but she steadied it just in time. Her gaze then landed on the dress it showcased, a sleeveless V-neck of midnight blue. It was as if the night sky had been stitched into a dress, flowing down from a thick, golden fabric belt at the waist to end just above the knees. She traced the hem of the skirt, noting the contrast between the buttery smooth under-layer and the rougher, more textured overlay.
"We just got it in today." The voice belonged to a well-dressed shop assistant, who was artfully folding a silk scarf, her manicure immaculate. "It's pretty, right?"
"It is, yeah," A'isha said, a tight knot forming in her chest. She had a stranger's undivided attention. And Marik was out of sight. A golden opportunity to send a covert distress signal. She just had to be smart about it. "Hey, I actually have a dinner coming up. Do you think this dress would fit in at a high-end restaurant? Or is it too… leggy?"
The shop assistant (her name tag read 'Rosa') tapped her tan chin, looking between A'isha and the dress as though visually fitting her into it. "Considering your height, it may sit a few inches above the knee, but if you pair it with tights, sophisticated shoes, and a chic jacket, you'd certainly pull off a classy look."
Remembering a display of jackets in a far corner, A'isha sensed a chance to put more distance between her and Odion, who still observed her from his central perch. "Any recommendations for a jacket?"
"Absolutely! Follow me."
As Rosa led her to the promised land of jackets, Odion's eyes tracked their movement, but he didn't follow. Yes! A little luck for once.
Leaning in closer, she seized her chance. "Rosa," she began, keeping her voice level, "my name is A'isha and this is going to sound crazy, but my cousin and I have been kidnapped. I could really use your help"—Marik reappeared at the store's entrance, his gaze zeroing in on her, and she forced a cheery smile—"with picking out a nice jacket for my dress!"
Rosa's expression shifted from focused professionalism to utter shock. A fish out of water, she gaped at A'isha, opening and closing her mouth without a sound. To nudge her along, A'isha cast a sidelong glance at Marik's approaching figure, imploring Rosa with a pleading expression. Hopefully, she'd understand that this wasn't some silly prank. Please, let her believe.
"Right. Um, well…" A'isha could see the cogs turning, Rosa's portrayal of professionalism resurfacing, and she dared to let herself hope. "Our sister store has this really nice jacket. It's a fancy gold colour. Really dressy." She set down the silk scarf with visibly shaky hands and moved toward the counter. "I'll call them and see if they can help you."
A'isha's heart fluttered with cautious optimism. "That's a great idea, Rosa! Thank you so much."
But as Marik drew closer, the looming cloud of his presence cast a long, dark shadow over her moment of victory. A'isha quickly veiled her emotions; he couldn't be given a chance to observe any anomalies.
"I've picked a dress for our dinner," she told him, her tone acidic, just like their usual dynamic. She glanced at Rosa, who was halfway to the counter. "Rosa's calling their sister store to see about a matching jacket."
"Is that so?" Marik's voice was light, breezy even, but his eyes told a different story - they were sharp and observant. "Perfect."
As Rosa's hand reached for the phone, the woman froze, and A'isha sucked in a breath, her shoulders tightening. Rosa returned to them, her forehead aglow with a golden eye - Marik's supernatural calling card. "Actually, I just remembered… the internet's down and our phone system doesn't work without it," she recited, her voice hollow. "Besides, it looks like your ever-dashing fiancée has already hand-picked a dress for you"—she nodded to a paper bag in Marik's hand—"and you wouldn't want to be rude, now, would you?"
Rosa's words lingered in the air, a cold, brutal reminder of the reality A'isha and Amara had found themselves in. As Marik placed a hand on A'isha's shoulder, leading her away, she peered back at Rosa. The poor woman appeared dazed, the golden eye now gone from her forehead as she absently looked around the store and rubbed the nape of her neck.
A seething rage bubbled within A'isha. She'd been so close, so near to freedom, only for it to be snatched away yet again. Tears of frustration welled up as she recoiled from Marik's hand on her shoulder. "You're sick! A human stain." She spun away from him, set on the refuge of the fitting rooms—
A sudden grip on her wrist stalled her retreat. Marik's voice, now laced with a frigid hardness, starkly contrasted the store's bustling hum. "Get that dress on the counter within ten seconds or leave it behind."
As disgust surged through her, she yanked her wrist free. "Fuck the dress. And fuck you too."
Ignoring his ultimatum, she walked toward the fitting rooms, because he'd stop her if she ran. She wanted to be alone, and the fitting room would at least offer some semblance of privacy with a curtain between them, plus it beat the tiny cabin bathroom on the ship. Furiously, she smudged the welling tears from her eyes. She'd be damned to let them fall in public, and especially in front of him.
Nearing the fitting rooms, and hearing his stupid shadowing steps behind her, she again looked at Rosa, now dazedly folding clothes. A chilling reminder of Marik's power lingered with her, urging A'isha not to lower her guard. One way or another, she would escape him and save her cousin.
A'isha is clever, but alas, Marik remains one step ahead. But hey, we can't make things easy for her, can we now?