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Chapter 96, Peaceful Night.
Last Updated:
2025-04-13 04:00:14
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With Dalia’s help, I had finally managed to turn my empty house into a home. The past few days had been a whirlwind of shopping trips, debating over fabric swatches, and measuring spaces to make sure everything fit just right. But now, standing in the middle of my newly furnished bedroom, I couldn’t help but smile. The furniture we’d chosen was perfect—modern, yet warm. The bed frame was a sleek white with soft, rounded edges, and the matching dresser had delicate gold handles that caught the light just so. Dalia had convinced me to add touches of light pink in the décor—throw pillows, a cozy rug, and even the curtains had a subtle blush hue. At first, I’d been hesitant, afraid it might feel too girlish, but now, seeing it all come together, it felt right.It felt like me. “See?” Dalia nudged me with her elbow, grinning. “I told you the pink would work. It’s elegant, not childish.” I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the nightstand, still marveling at how different the roo
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I set my foot down, finally feeling the weight of my own resolve. I wasn’t backing down this time. The beach house was where I wanted to be, and if Rami wanted to stay with me, he was welcome—but I wasn’t going back to that mansion. I looked at him, watching his face shift from confusion to outright shock. His dark eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. Good. He needed to understand that this wasn’t a negotiation. "My decision is final," I said, crossing my arms. "Nothing’s going to change my mind." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Dema, I get it. Honestly, I’ve always thought the mansion was too much sometimes. A smaller home sounds… nice." I raised an eyebrow. "Then what’s the problem?" He hesitated, his shoulders tensing. "It’s not that simple. The mansion is worth millions. And it’s not even really mine—it belongs to my parents. If I just abandon it, they’ll think I’m some ungrateful brat." I scof
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The last of our clothes are folded neatly into suitcases, and I take a slow look around the bedroom—our bedroom—one last time. The mansion feels different now, like a grand stage we’re stepping away from, though Rami insists we’ll still use it for formal events. "Parties, meetings, family gatherings" he said. "But our home will be the beach house now."I like the thought of that. The beach house is ours in a way this place never could be. Still, as I zip up the final bag, a bittersweet feeling settles in my chest. Rami is already heading downstairs to load the car, but I linger. There are goodbyes I need to say. The staff has gathered in the foyer—some smiling, others with tears in their eyes. My throat tightens as I walk toward them. These people have been more than just employees; they’ve been my companions, my protectors, my friends in a world that often felt too cold. I thank each of them, squeezing hands, offering hugs. When I reach Tala, my voice nearly breaks. "You’ve
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The morning light spills through the curtains, warm and golden, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Rami’s arm is draped over me, his breathing slow and steady. I should be happy—no, I *am* happy. But beneath it, like a whisper I can’t silence, is the fear. The fear that he’ll leave again. That this peace is just another illusion, another moment before the storm. I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. The house is quiet, the way I always dreamed it would be. But the weight in my chest won’t lift. How can I trust this? How can I trust *him* after everything? My phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Rola’s number. She answers on the third ring, her voice bright and cheerful. "Dema! It’s been too long," she says, and I force a smile she can’t see. "Yeah, it has," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I was thinking… maybe we could meet up? Just us." There’s a pause. Then, "Actually, Bayan’s here with me. She’d love to see you too." My stomach twists. *
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The café when we first arrived felt cozy and nice , the clink of cups and conversations filling the air. Now the atmosphere was filled with tension because of our table.Across from me, Bayan sat, her sharp eyes studying me over the rim of her coffee cup. I met her gaze, steady, unflinching. Silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken challenges. Let her make the first move,I thought. Patience is key.Rola broke the quiet first, her voice light but probing. "So, Dema... how have you been?" I smiled, smooth, practiced. "Great, actually. Couldn’t be better." Bayan’s fingers tightened around her cup, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. She saw her opening and took it—no hesitation. "And how’s Rami?" she asked, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "Things still good between you two?" I felt the weight of the question, the trap hidden beneath it. But I didn’t falter. Drawing in a slow breath, I kept my voice even, my expression unreadable. "Perfe
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The three of us sat in tense silence, locked in a staring contest that felt like it stretched for hours. Rola’s eyes were sharp, unwavering, but Bayan—Bayan was different. Her gaze was intense, but there was something playful lurking beneath it, something that made my skin prickle with anticipation. And then, without warning, she broke. A loud, unrestrained laugh burst from her lips, so sudden that I flinched. She threw her head back, shoulders shaking, as if the sheer absurdity of the moment had finally gotten to her. Rola exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes, but I just stared, bewildered. “Oh, Dema,” Bayan managed between giggles, wiping at the corner of her eye. “You know what? After thinking about it—really thinking about it—you’re exactly the kind of person I like.” I blinked. “What?” She leaned back in her chair, the tension draining from her posture as she stretched lazily. “Headstrong. Stubborn. A little too careful.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “Definitely not the type
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I take a slow breath before speaking, choosing my words carefully. "Bayan... Rami told me you misunderstood him. He said you disappeared after seeing him talk to a girl—that he was actually about to reject her."For a second, Bayan just stares at me. Then she lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, he said that, did he?" Her voice is laced with something bitter. "Of course he did."She leans forward, her eyes burning into mine. "I saw everything, Dema. From the beginning. He wasn’t about to reject her—he was joking around with her, laughing, playing dumb like he always does when he’s flirting. And when she confessed? He gave her that same vague, careless smile he gives them all, The one that makes you think maybe, just maybe, he feels the same—until you realize he’s just stringing you along like all the others." My throat tightens. I’ve seen that smile. "And when she confessed?" Bayan continues, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. "He didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes. He just bru
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I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, letting out a slow breath. The house was quiet—too quiet. No Rami, no maids. Just me and my thoughts, swirling like a storm I couldn’t escape. After that meeting, I couldn’t bring myself to go to work. How could I? How could I sit at my desk, pretend everything was normal, when my head was full of Bayan’s words and Rami’s excuses? How can I carry on with my day with all these thoughts swimming in my mind, especially the idea that there's a chance that he's always been a playboy.Bayan’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and certain. She had no reason to lie about it. And yet… Rami had looked me in the eyes and told me she misunderstood him. That he had feelings for her. That the other girls meant nothing. But did they? Even before I knew about Bayan, before any of this, something about the way Rami acted with other women had always rubbed me the wrong way. The way they laughed a little too loudly at his jokes, The way he was too comf
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Dema hadn’t been sleeping well. I noticed it almost immediately—the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly when she reached for her coffee in the mornings, the distant look in her gaze as if she were somewhere else entirely. It had been a full week of this, and it was eating away at her. She was exhausted, barely able to focus at work, jumping at the smallest noises. I hated seeing her like this. One morning, after catching her staring blankly at her computer screen for the third time in an hour, I pulled her aside. "Dema," I said, keeping my voice low, "if you need a break, take it. No one’s going to blame you." She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip the way she always did when she was torn between pride and necessity. But eventually, she nodded. She went home that day, and I hoped—maybe foolishly—that rest would be enough. When I got back that evening, she was sitting on the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest, her fingers wrapped tightly around a
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
