Married without benefits, p.1
Married Without Benefits, page 1
Married
Without
Benefits
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2026 by I.I.E
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
ISBN: 978-1-7380083-5-3
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Epilogue
To the overthinkers, oversharers, and emotional maximalists—this one's for you.
Titles by I.I.E:
Dear Ana,
Dear Maya,
PROLOGUE
MY PARENTS NEVER WANTED A GIRL.
It wasn’t personal. Not really. They were simply following the long, toxic tradition of needing an army of sons to keep the Tariq family name marching through the centuries. A dynasty of men to ensure they would continue to exist, even after they stopped existing.
But after four blue bundles and a final, weary decision to close up shop, I arrived anyway—first as two faint lines on a urine-stained stick, then as a flicker of heartbeat on a grainy ultrasound. Even as a microscopic cluster of cells, I apparently loved a dramatic entrance. In my defense, it was the twenty-first century. People had heard of protection.
And now—thirty-two years of loud opinions, elbows-out meals, and the relentless grind of becoming one of Vancouver’s best doctors later—I was crouched behind the steering wheel of my car outside a restaurant I’d chosen, in an outfit I’d chosen, waiting to meet the man my mother had very enthusiastically chosen.
I peered through my binoculars, cataloguing every fatal flaw: brown curly hair in need of a better barber, wire-rimmed glasses, shoes that could start an argument in a fashion blog’s comment section, and, because the universe enjoyed adding insult to injury, he was also reading a thick hardcover novel in the middle of a five-star bistro.
A book.
At dinner.
Oh, God, what a disaster. An aggressively nerdy disaster.
“He’s shorter than me,” I groaned into the phone pressed to my ear.
“How could you possibly know that?” my best friend asked, equal parts skepticism and glee.
“Because his head barely grazes the top of the booth.” My breath hitched, heart thudding with the urgency of a very dumb emergency. “Sarah—he’s shorter than me.”
Her laughter cracked through the speaker. “You’ve got to stop expecting your future husband to be taller than you. It’s delusional at this point.”
“I didn’t ask to be six feet.” A text pinged through. “Great. My mom wants to know why I’m late.”
“Tell her you’re spying. Better yet, tell him. Nothing kills a first date faster than binoculars.”
“Please. I don’t need optical equipment to scare a man.” I smirked, lowering the lenses. “I’ll call when it’s over.”
I tossed the phone into my bag and swapped my heels for Mary Janes. You’d think my mother might at least pick someone vaguely my type, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He could’ve been the most beautiful six-foot-four human to walk the planet, and I’d still have said no before the appetizers because I wasn’t interested.
Not in marriage. Not in love. Not in trading my hard-won independence for the quiet erasure of becoming someone’s wife. I had no desire to melt into the shadow of a man whose approval granted me existence. I’d watched my mother do that—watched her brilliance dull to a polite shimmer—and decided early I’d rather be alone than invisible.
So I drew a deep breath, swiped on a fresh coat of lip gloss, and pushed through the restaurant’s gleaming doors with a smile that promised chaos.
“Hi, there’s a reservation under Tariq,” I told the hostess, palms slick against the counter. “I think the other party is already here, but...I’ve never actually seen him before.”
She gave me a look so knowing it could have been patented. “Blind date?”
“More like blind engagement.”
Her eyebrows jumped, but she only tilted her head toward the man I’d been not-so-subtly spying on. “That’s him.”
“Thanks.”
On my way to his table, I spotted my mother and one of my older brothers, Adam, parked in the corner like two undercover agents doing the world’s worst impression of “casual diners.” Adam was pretending to study a menu upside down, and my mother’s eyes were already narrowed over the rim of her water glass like she was grading my posture from across the restaurant.
I shot them a wink—sweet, quick, and petty enough to sting—before clearing my throat to get his attention. “Hi, sorry I’m late.” He looked up from his pretentious brick of a book and half-rose, but I waved him down. “It’s fine, you don’t have to stand.”
Dear God, please don’t ever stand beside me.
He sank back into the booth, and I slid across from him, giving him a closer inspection now that I was within judgmental range. All I knew was that he was thirty-six, a doctor, and also Lebanese. My mother refused to tell me his name to keep me from doing an online investigation beforehand—and I could see why. Not only was he not my type height wise, but he also wasn’t my type looks wise.
“I would’ve gotten here earlier,” I continued casually, “but I spent the last few hours with my face wedged between freshly waxed legs.”
He sputtered, choking on his water.
“Which is impressive,” I added, “considering she was nine months pregnant. Not sure how she pulled off hair removal at that stage, but I respect the commitment.”
Mr. No Name was still aggressively coughing.
“I’m an OB-GYN,” I clarified. “The baby boy was staging a full-scale protest.” I sighed, shaking my head. “Men. Even before they’re born, they find ways to make women do all the work.”
“Um...okay,” he said after he recovered. “My name is Khalifa. It’s, uh, nice to meet you.” His voice was deep, smooth, and held a fraction of an accent.
He’s fresh off the boat? Come on, Mama.
“Lillian,” I replied. “But my friends call me Lilly.”
“That’s a nice name...Lilly.”
“Oh, you’re not my friend.”
He stumbled over a nod, flustered enough to forget how necks worked. “Apologies. Lillian.”
His gaze drifted down my outfit, and a startled frown twitched at his lips like there was no possible way this was the woman he’d been told to meet.
Which was...fair. Because I had, in fact, arrived at a marriage-interview-blind-engagement wearing a glittery pastel-pink power suit that hollered hostile corporate takeover by a fairy, not hello, potential husband, let’s make small talk. I was used to that expression—equal parts perplexity and mild alarm. I wouldn’t say I chased attention, but attention definitely chased me, tripping over its own feet.
I liked bright colors. Sue me.
I started flipping through the menu. “Have you eaten here before?”
“No. Have you?”
“Yeah. The steak is delicious. And it’s halal.”
“I’m a vegan.”
I peeked at him over the menu. “You’re a what?”
“A vegan,” he repeated a little louder.
“A ventriloquist?”
“A vegan.”
“A Virgo?”
“A vegan.”
“A virgin? You’d better be.”
His eyes widened, ears flushing cherry red as he looked around to check if anyone had heard.
“I said I’m a vegan,” he hissed under his breath, leaning in like we were negotiating a hostage situation instead of ordering overpriced food. “Are you having a hard time hearing me?”
I dropped my menu with a dramatic sigh. “No, I’m just having a hard time comprehending how someone would rather eat rabbit food over a thick, juicy, life-affirming slice of meat. And as a doctor, I’m also professionally curious about the emotional trauma that led to that decision.”
“It’s not rabbit food,” he said, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “It’s a lifestyle that helps animals and the planet. Or do you only care about helping humans?”
“Wow.” I clutched my chest in mock offense. “Is that a guilt trip I hear? On our first date? Bold move, Bambi.”
He opened his mouth, but I raised a finger.
“For the record, I do care about helping humans, especially the starving kind, which is exactly what I’d be if I lived on kale chips and lentil mush.” I lowered my voice. “And before you go all ‘meat is murder’ on me, just remember that plants are alive too. Who’s speaking up for the spinach, huh?”
His eyelids did a slow and confused waltz, like even they weren’t sure how to process me.
“I’m just saying,” I added, grinning as I picked the menu back up, “if the world ends, it won’t be because I ate a cheeseburger.”
He scoffed but didn’t reply and went back to studying his limited entrée options.
“So...what kind of doctor are you?”
He coughed lightly. “History.”
“What?”
“My PhD,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “It’s in history.”
I bit back a laugh, one hand flying to my mouth. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were a doctor doctor.”
His shoulders stiffened, and the awkward guy from five seconds ago evaporated. “I am a doctor.”
“Technically.” I leaned forward, voice softening to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if that woman at the table next to us suddenly goes into cardiac arrest and her husband starts screaming for a doctor, you’re going to stand up and start lecturing him on World War II while I actually save her life.”
He closed his menu—not gently.
“This isn’t going to work,” he said flatly. “Your parents clearly made it a point to leave out the fact that you’re rude, arrogant, and unfit to be anyone’s wife.”
A smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it.
Bingo.
I’d been dialing it up on purpose, making it rowdier, messier and unapologetically me, hoping he’d throw in the napkin and storm off, giving me just enough moral high ground to tell my mother, with a tragic sigh, well, I gave it my best shot.
I couldn’t help feeling a little cheated, though. Most of the eligible bachelors I forced myself to meet with had the decency to stick around long enough for me to at least get a free meal out of the whole ordeal. I hadn’t even broken out the good material yet.
But instead of storming off, he noticed the grin creeping across my face and sat back down.
“I was expecting an apology, not a smile. Is this a joke to you?”
I toyed with my rings, twisting gold against skin, and let a fragment of honesty slip through. “Look, you seem like a nice guy, in that boring, healthy, flosses-daily kind of way, but I don’t want to be reduced to someone’s wife. I didn’t grow up dreaming about matching towel sets and changing diapers.”
He stared at me, unreadable. “So why did you agree to this?”
“Because as much as I hate the idea of getting married, I’m also sick of living with my parents. I'm sick of asking permission to go out with my friends, of getting hounded with Where are you? messages after eight p.m. like I’m still a teenager. So yeah, I agreed to get set up because I want freedom, not a lifetime commitment ceremony for one man’s emotional bare minimum.”
I braced myself for the judgment, the eye roll, the patronizing laugh, the you’ll change your mind one day speech I’d already heard a million times.
“I’m not interested in getting married either.”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“I’m only doing this because my mom is dying,” he said. “And it’ll make her sad if she dies and I’m still single.”
For the first time during the evening, I felt like an ass. A well-dressed, charming ass—but still.
“That’s...a way more legitimate reason than mine.”
“Of course it is. Your reasoning is ridiculously immature, while mine is noble and compassionate,” he replied casually. “So, you in?”
My brain stalled. I hadn’t actually expected him to agree—not after a dozen coffee dates and setups that had all fizzled out with a diplomatic rejection or a gentle: you’re not what I’m looking for. I’d never prepared myself for a yes.
Most people looking to get married dim their identity back—turn the volume to polite, hide the quirks, tuck away their honest, sloppy selves until they’ve successfully locked each other down, only revealing the mayhem once it was far too late to return the merchandise.
My approach slanted in the opposite direction.
I had a system. Go in, scan them over, and as soon as I spotted one redeeming feature—a decent laugh, a crooked smile, a shared hatred for pineapple on pizza—I’d unleash my most unfiltered, chaotic self. I was lucky enough that the unvarnished version of me—the one who talked too much, forgot to sugarcoat, and carried herself like a woman who thought she was right more often than she actually was—turned out not to be a persona at all, but simply the default setting I came factory-installed with, so the performance didn’t take much effort.
It was my litmus test. My pre-emptive strike. Some people called it self-sabotage. I called it safeguarding my most sacred organ.
Because the goal was never to charm them. If one of these men was going to end up my husband, it seemed wiser to make sure he didn’t inspire anything as disastrous as feelings first.
But this time was different. I didn’t actually see anything I liked. There was no glimmer to fan into disaster, no soft edge to ruin. He just triggered the worst, loudest, most inconvenient parts of me into the light, with no invitation, no warning, like he’d found the “Do Not Touch” sign on my soul and decided it was a challenge.
I hesitated, nerves catching and fluttering in my chest. Over his shoulder, I caught my mother’s gaze—still fixed on me, not watching so much as scowling. I typically tried to only acknowledge her at the end when my date was halfway to fleeing the scene and I could finally meet her glare with a smug little smirk, slip on my sunglasses, and make my own dramatic exit. It was all a part of our game. But now this man—someone I’d known for less than five minutes and already sincerely disliked—was suggesting I play by a different set of rules.
I looked away and quickly did the emotional calculus of what saying yes would cost me.
Pros: He was the opposite of anyone I’d ever be attracted to—which, in this case, was a blessing. That meant no messy crushes, no heartbreak, no late-night overanalyzing of texts that ended with a passive aggressive goodnight. I could move out from under my mother’s hovering disapproval, could finally breathe air not filtered through her huffs of constant critique. I could check the married box once and for all, and maybe the aunties would stop treating me like a ticking time bomb. My dad had already vetted him with his family and half the neighborhood, so I felt reasonably confident he was harmless. Or at least not criminally alarming.
Cons: This was, objectively, the stupidest, wildest, most irreversible thing I could possibly do because the only thing more exhausting than marriage was the paperwork required to undo one.
People did this, right? Married someone they’d just met? Usually it involved tequila, questionable life choices, and a neon chapel in Vegas—or, you know, several decades back, when “no” wasn’t even a word women were allowed to use. But it still counted. Technically. And technically was the only category my current decision-making skills seemed qualified for.
My throat tightened around a laugh I didn’t quite mean. “Are you being for real?” I asked, half hoping he’d grin and tell me it was a joke, that I could safely return to my regularly scheduled, mildly unremarkable life—one that didn’t involve accidentally agreeing to marry a stranger.
He nodded, unfazed, like he was offering to split an appetizer and not a legally binding future.
“You would actually do that? You would get married without the feelings, or the connection—I mean, we couldn’t even get through a single conversation.”
He tilted his head, mouth curving into an aggravating almost-smile. “You know, for a doctor doctor, you’re not very bright.”
