The past week had been a living nightmare, literally. Every night, I was plagued by terrifying dreams, jolting awake in a cold sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. Sometimes, Rami would be there, his arms wrapping around me, his voice soothing and comforting. Other times, I’d slip out of bed, not wanting to disturb him, and retreat to the spare room. Even when I stayed in our bed, I’d often pretend to be asleep, lying there wide-eyed in the darkness until the first rays of dawn crept through the curtains. Sleep had become a battleground.This morning, I was on the balcony, sipping my tea, trying to shake off the lingering remnants of another horrific dream. Tala, our maid, came out, a look of concern etched on her face. “Madam,” she began hesitantly, “I… I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping.”I nodded, stirring my tea absently.“My mother used to have terrible nightmares, too,” Tala continued. “We went to a sheikh, and he helped her. He said… he said another woman ha
The waiting room was hushed, a gentle hum of nervous energy I knew all too well. My hands were clammy, twisting the strap of my purse. Rami had recommended Dr. Karima, a psychologist he spoke of with reverence.Apparently, she was the person to see in Dubai. I had to admit, the office itself was calming, soft colours and tasteful art. It was a far cry from the sterile, clinical environments I'd imagined.When Dr. Karima finally called my name, her smile was warm and genuine. She extended her hand, her grip firm but gentle. "Dema, please come in. I'm so glad to finally meet you."Her office was even more inviting than the waiting room. Sunlight streamed through the large window, illuminating the comfortable armchairs. She gestured towards one, and I sank into it gratefully. "Please, make yourself comfortable," she said, settling into the chair opposite me. she leaned back slightly, her expression encouraging. "So, Dema," she began, her voice calm and soothing. "Rami tells
The weight of the unknown pressed down on me, a constant, dull ache. Books lined my shelves, their pages filled with stories of lives lived, histories explored. But none of them held a single clue to my story. I’d devoured them, desperate for a spark of recognition, a flicker of memory, anything. But it was no use. My past was a blank canvas. Finally, I gave up. The search was too painful, the emptiness too cruel.With shaky fingers, I dialed the number I’d memorized years ago. It was time. Time to face the only person who might have answers. My old teacher from the orphanage. When she answered, her voice was warm and familiar, a comforting anchor in the sea of my uncertainty.“Hello, Miss Fatin,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “It’s Dema.”“Dema! My dear girl! How wonderful to hear from you!”We chatted for a few minutes, catching up on trivial things, before I finally gathered the courage to ask the questions that had haunted me for so long.“Miss Fatin,” I began, my hea
The plush, velvety chair felt strangely comforting beneath me, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside. Dr. Karima sat opposite, her expression a careful blend of concern and professional detachment. “I was drowning, Dr. Karima,” I began, my voice barely a whisper. “The water was icy, pulling me down, and I couldn’t breathe. Then, through the murky water, I saw this… house. Small, almost a shack, really. And there were two people inside it.”I paused, swallowing hard, the memory tightening my chest. “A man and a woman. They looked miserable, the man was shouting, though I couldn’t hear the words. And then… he hit her.” My breath hitched. “He brutally beat her up, Dr. Karima. It was so terrifying.” My hands twisted in my lap. “The worst part was, she didn’t even react at first. Just… stood there. Like she was used to it. And then, after he left – he just walked away, like it was nothing – she got up. Slowly and walked away.”I looked up at Dr. Karima, my eyes search
Dr. Karima’s voice was soothing, a gentle counterpoint to the frantic drumming of my heart. “Close your eyes, Dema. Breathe deeply. Let the tension drain from your shoulders.” I did as she instructed. “Now,” she continued, “think back. Think about your childhood, about your old house.”Images flickered behind my eyelids – fragmented scenes, like snapshots scattered across a dusty album. Dr. Karima’s voice guided me, gently prodding at the edges of my memory. “What do you see, Dema?”I saw rain. Sheets of it, lashing against the small windowpanes of our old house. The wind howled like a hungry wolf, rattling the flimsy frames. It was a storm, the kind that made the whole house tremble. Fear, cold and clammy, gripped me. I was small, huddled under thin blankets, the darkness punctuated by flashes of lightning.Then, Momma was there. Her hands, rough from work but always gentle as she stroke my hair. “It’s alright, habibti,” she whispered, her voice a warm blanket against the storm’s f
Rami and I were watching TV in the living room, it was a quiet evening, I wanted to tell him about my father, I felt this was a good timing to talk about it. "Rami," I began, "I've been doing some digging. About my father." He looked up from his phone, his brow furrowed with concern. "Your father? Dema, I thought..." "I know," I interrupted, twisting my hands together. "I thought I was fine not knowing. But I'm not. I need to find him. I need to know… everything." A heavy silence hung in the air. Rami reached for my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. "Are you sure about this, Dema? This could open up old wounds." I met his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'm terrified, Rami. Absolutely terrified. But I have to do this. I have to face the past, no matter how painful it might be. I can't keep living with this… this emptiness inside me. I need answers. I need closure." He squeezed my hand gently. "And what do you plan to do once you find him?" "I… I want to meet him,
The wind whipped at my hair as we sat at the café by the sea, the rhythmic crash of waves a constant backdrop to our tense conversation. Mark, our lawyer, shuffled the thick envelope containing the money. Rami sat beside me, his hand resting reassuringly on my knee. Across from us, Uncle Ibrahim stirred his coffee, his eyes darting around the café as if he expected someone to jump out at any moment. He finally nodded, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Alright,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s go.”The drive was long and silent. The vibrant blues of the sea gave way to the monotonous browns and yellows of the desert. My stomach twisted into knots with each mile that stretched between me and the father I hadn’t seen since I was a child. Ibrahim finally pulled the car to a stop in front of a lone, tattered tent in the middle of nowhere. It looked as desolate and forgotten as I felt.“He’s here,” Ibrahim muttered, gesturing towards the tent. He led us to the entrance
The waves crashed against the shore, a rhythmic sound echoing within me. Rami and I stood side-by-side gazing out at the sea. We’d just left my mother’s old aunt, a woman who held the missing pieces of my past. The meeting had been difficult, but necessary.“Are you okay?” Rami’s voice was gentle, a warm blanket against the chill of the sea breeze.“I’m fine,” I replied, trying to force a smile. “I will be. Eventually.” The truth was, the encounter had stirred up a whirlwind of emotions. But now, finally, I knew what had happened, what had led my life to this point. And strangely, that knowledge, though painful, was also freeing. “Now that I remember my past, now that I know what happened and what led me to who I'm today, I can move on. I can finally let go of the past. I know that I at least tried. I did what I could and I can finally say that I'll let it go without feeling guilty about anything, at least I know now that it was not my fault, none of it was.”Rami turned to
The first time I said "I love you" to her was during our honeymoon. We were in a café by the beach when it started raining, and in that moment, everything felt magical—the most magical moment of my life. The words came out so spontaneously, so naturally, as if they’d been waiting forever to be said. I never knew love could be this easy. If I had, I would’ve searched the whole earth to find it. But I suppose I’m the luckiest man in the world—love didn’t make me chase it; it simply walked into my life, it walked in my company in jeans, and I didn’t have to suffer to have it.The first time I saw her sick, she looked so vulnerable—adorable, like a little kitten. I didn’t want to leave her side, but I had work the next day, so I slept in another room. Later, I realized how much it hurt her. I wish she had slapped me, knocked some sense into me back then. I was selfish. No—I’ve always been selfish.I take what I want and turn away, never learning to truly consider others. Growing up, t
Before we boarded the plane to the Maldives, I knew I had to do something—something to show Dema that this wasn’t just a contract anymore. That she wasn’t just an arrangement to me. Not after everything we’d been through. Our wedding had been traditional, simple. No rings, no grand declarations—just signatures and obligations. Back then, I hadn’t thought much of it. But now? Now, the thought of her not wearing my ring, not having something that screamed mine in the way my heart had already claimed her, felt wrong. So I went to the most exclusive jeweler in the city. I didn’t just want a ring—I wanted the right ring. The one that would make her breath catch, the one that would make her eyes light up the way they did when she was genuinely happy. The saleswoman showed me countless designs, but the moment I saw it—a stunning, elegant piece with a diamond that caught the light like fire—I knew. This was Dema’s ring.I imagined sliding it onto her finger, the weight of it against her s
It was August fifth.We had our first real fight—not just an argument, but a heated clash where we said ugly things to each other. I know I hurt her feelings, and I owed her an apology. I made sure to make that right. Looking back, I’m still not entirely sure what started it. The fight happened two days after a barbecue at my uncle’s house with my family. Most of the party, I was with my cousins, laughing and catching up. I assumed she was having a good time too, chatting with my mom and aunts—but apparently, she wasn’t. When we got home, she told me one of my cousins had been rude to her, even making mean comments, and that my mom hadn’t been kind either. At the time, I hadn’t noticed anything wrong. I told her they didn’t mean any harm, that she might be overreacting—but I realize now how that must have sounded. I was trying to lighten the mood, not dismiss her feelings. I took her out, hoping to distract her, but it didn’t work. Frustrated, I lost my patience and called her a
The transformation in Dema over those few months was nothing short of astonishing. It wasn’t just her appearance—though that alone was enough to leave me speechless sometimes. Her clothing, once simple and practical, had shifted into something elegant, refined, as if she had always belonged in that world of sophistication. Her hair, always perfectly styled, framed her glowing face like a portrait. But more than that, it was the way she carried herself—her voice, steady and sure, her words deliberate and wise. She wasn’t just playing a part; she had grown into a woman who commanded respect without even trying. No matter the situation, I knew I could rely on her. Business meetings, family gatherings—it didn’t matter. She handled everything with a grace that seemed effortless, as if she had been born for it. Work came naturally to her; she had a sharp mind, a talent for reading people and situations that I admired. But the one thing that ever seemed to shake her was my family—especiall
The first week of our marriage was… overwhelming—for both of us, but especially for her. I could see it in the way her shoulders tensed whenever my mother or aunties gave her another task, another expectation to meet. They weren’t making it easy for her, and I knew it. Tradition was one thing, but the way they scrutinized her every move, as if testing her worth, made me feel sorry for her. Still, she never complained. She just kept trying. Then there were the events—gatherings where the women floated around in designer gowns, their jewelry glinting under the chandeliers like it was part of their skin. She stood among them, beautiful but uncertain, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress—something simple, something not a top brand. I caught the way the others glanced at her, the subtle arch of their brows, and it burned something inside me. Not because I cared about their approval, but because she did. And damn, did she learn fast. Every day, she absorbed something new—how to
When we arrived at my parents' mansion, the grand entrance we made was everything I had expected—flashing cameras, exaggerated cheers, and the heavy weight of judgmental eyes following our every move. The party was already in full swing, the air thick with expensive perfume and roses. To my surprise, Dema handled it all flawlessly. She smiled at the right moments, greeted my relatives with just the right amount of polite warmth, and even managed to charm my notoriously hard-to-please uncle. I watched her from the corner of my eye, half-expecting her to falter, to show even a hint of discomfort—but she didn’t. Then, as if sensing my thoughts, she leaned in slightly, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "They're starting to doubt us," she murmured, her lips barely moving. "Your relatives has been staring at us for the past five minutes. We need to do something."I glanced over and sure enough, my relatives were watching us like hawks, their sharp eyes flickering between
The moment I pushed open the door and stepped inside, my breath caught in my throat. There she was—Dema—standing by the window, the fading sunlight painting her in gold. The delicate embroidery on her dress shimmered, and the way her fingers lightly traced the edge of her dress, my chest tighten. She looked… breathtaking. Ethereal, even. Like something out of a dream I hadn’t dared to have. For a second, I just stood there, frozen. Words piled up in my mind—You’re stunning. You’re perfect. I don’t deserve this, deserve you. But my tongue felt heavy, my usual confidence slipping. This wasn’t just another negotiation, another deal. This was her. And the way she held herself, so still, so distant—something was wrong. I swallowed hard, forcing myself forward. Now wasn’t the time for poetry. The guests were outside, waiting. The contracts were signed. The alliance was set. “Dema,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “What are you doing? We don’t have time for second thoughts. Everyone’s
Today is my wedding day. Not the kind I ever imagined, but the kind I needed. I’ve tried before—I tried to get in a real relationship, and I put so much effort but nothing ever lasted. Either they wanted too much , or the time I had was too little. The press twisted every failure into another scandal, another reason to paint me as the heartless billionaire who couldn’t commit. And the board? They’ve been breathing down my neck for years. "Stability, Rami. Investors need to see stability, and the rumors are hurting the company." Well, now they all will finally shut up. I called my lawyer first thing this morning. There was no room for error. "Draw up the agreement," I told him. "We will get married for only one year. Clean divorce. She'll get four million in the end, and I'll get full confidentiality." He didn’t ask questions—he knows better. By noon, the documents were signed, sealed, and sitting on my desk. A business transaction, nothing more. Then, I called her. My secreta
Today, my new secretary impressed me. She organized my entire week’s schedule—flawlessly. Every meeting, every call, every deadline was precisely laid out. No mistakes, no overlaps. Finally, someone who actually pays attention to detail. I’ve noticed other improvements too. Her wardrobe, for one. When she first started, her clothes were… questionable. But now she wears proper formal attire. Neat, professional. And her skin—those acne scars have faded. Probably splurged on some decent skincare with her first paycheck. Smart move. She was so quiet at first. Barely spoke unless I asked her something, and even then, her answers were clipped. But lately, she’s been different. Asking questions. Offering suggestions. Not just blindly following orders. My assistant was right—hiring her is a good choice. After today’s meeting, she brought me my usual coffee—black, one sugar, just how I like it—then slipped back to her desk without a word. I scrolled through my phone, and there they were