All Chapters of A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The doorbell chimed, a nervous flutter in my stomach. I clutched the gift bag a little tighter. It was a beautiful, vibrant Thobe, the one Rami had picked out himself. He’d insisted I give it to his mother, said it would cheer her up after her hospital stay. I hoped he was right.I plastered a smile on my face as the door swung open, revealing my mother-in-law. “Dema, habibti, come in, come in.” Her voice was surprisingly warm, but I knew better than to be fooled. Behind her, I saw her two sisters perched on the plush sofas in the living room, their eyes already assessing me.“Alhamdulillah, you’re looking much better,” I said, offering a small hug. She stiffened slightly, but I pretended not to notice. I handed her the gift bag. “Rami wanted you to have this. He helped me choose it.”She pulled out the Thobe, the rich colours unfolding like a peacock’s tail. She held it up, examining it with a critical eye. “Did you pick this out yourself?” she asked, her tone suddenly sharper.

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 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

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

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