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Chapter 103, Bayan's Regrets.
Last Updated:
2025-04-15 01:59:56
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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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The phone rang just as I was unpacking the last box in our new beach house. It was her, My mother in law, my stomach twisted, but I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello, how are you Khalto ,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. The silence on the other end was heavy, charged. Then— “Dema.” Her voice was sharp, each syllable a blade. “Is it true?” I swallowed. “Is what true?” “Don’t play ignorant with me!” she snapped. “I just drove to the mansion to surprise you both, only to find out that no one lives there anymore! The security guard told me my son and his wife moved out. Without a word. Without consulting me.” I gripped the phone tighter. “We meant to tell you—” “Tell me?” She let out a bitter laugh. “After everything I did for you? That house was my vision. Every piece of furniture, every curtain—I chose them all. For you. And this is how you repay me? Sneaking away like thieves in the night?” My chest burned. “We didn’t sneak. We just… wanted something sm
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I wiped my hands on my apron, glancing around the living room one last time. Everything had to be perfect. The cushions were fluffed, the floors spotless, and the scent of lemon polish still lingered in the air. I had spent all morning scrubbing, rearranging, making sure not a single speck of dust dared to show itself. They have to see how well I take care of their son, I thought, smoothing down the fabric of my dress—a modest, elegant one I had picked specifically for today. I wanted to look put-together but not like I was trying too hard. Though, of course, I was trying too hard. The kitchen hummed with activity—the rich aroma of slow-cooked lamb and spices filled the air. I had practiced the recipe three times this week, tweaking the seasoning until it was just right. My mother-in-law was an excellent cook, and I needed her approval. Not just on the food—on everything. I adjusted the vase of fresh flowers on the dining table, then stepped back, second-guessing the arrangement
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My head is pounding, a dull, relentless ache pressing against my temples. The numbers on the screen blur together, and I blink hard, trying to force my eyes to focus. But the dizziness won’t let up—every time I stand, the room tilts slightly, like the ground beneath me is unsteady. "Dema, you look pale," Dalia says, frowning as she leans over my desk. "You should go home." I shake my head, immediately regretting it as the motion sends another wave of nausea through me. "I’m fine. Just need a minute." Karim crosses his arms, unconvinced. "You’re not fine. You’ve been zoning out all morning. Go rest." "I said I’m fine," I snap, sharper than I mean to. But I can’t afford to leave. There’s too much to do, and I don’t want to seem weak. Still, my body betrays me. My limbs feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish. When break time finally comes, I slump in my chair, pressing my fingers to my forehead. A familiar presence steps beside me. I look up and find out it's Rami. "You’re still
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The two pink lines stare back at me, undeniable. My breath stops. My fingers tighten around the plastic stick, the reality of it crashing into me like a wave. Pregnant. The word echoes in my head, over and over, but it doesn’t feel real yet. I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen, before I finally force myself to move. The door creaks as I open it, my legs unsteady—not just from the dizziness now, but from the weight of what I’m holding. My mother-in-law turns the second I step out, her eyes locking onto the test in my hand. For a heartbeat, there’s silence. Then her face lights up."Oh, Dema!" She rushes forward before I can react, her arms wrapping around me in a tight embrace. "Mabrouk! This is wonderful news!" I stiffen, shocked by the sudden affection. She’s never hugged me like this before—never kissed my cheeks in quick, happy succession the way she’s doing now. Her joy is so bright, so immediate, that it almost knocks me back more than the test itself did. "I—"
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I sat on the edge of the couch, my fingers twisting the hem of my sweater, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it could be heard across the room. The clock on the wall ticked too slowly, each second stretching into an eternity. Where is he?I had fought for this moment—begged my mother in law not to say a word, insisted that I be the one to tell him. Somehow I had convinced her.She had given me that knowing look, the one that said she understood more than I wanted her to. But this wasn’t just about the news. It was about us. About what he had said that night, his voice so firm, so final: "I’m not ready for kids yet, Dema."The memory of those words made my stomach twist. Would he be angry? Scared? Would he look at me differently? The sound of the front door opening snapped me back to the present. My breath hitched as Rami stepped inside, his familiar frame filling the doorway. He looked tired, his work shirt slightly rumpled, but his face softened when he saw me. "I'm home," h
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The house is too quiet. Too empty. The silence presses against my ears, suffocating me. Rami left this morning without a word—just like last night. No goodbye, no kiss, not even a glance in my direction. It’s like I’ve become invisible to him. I press a hand to my stomach, still flat, still holding our secret. Our baby. But is it ours if he doesn’t want it? My mind races, spiraling into the worst possibilities. What if he’s angry? What if he blames me? What if he— No. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the thought forces its way in anyway. What if he tells me to get rid of it?My throat tightens. I could never. Not unless my life depended on it. But what if that’s what he wants? What if he looks at me with disgust and says, "We’re not ready," or worse—"I don’t want this."The fear twists deeper. What if this is the end? What if he looks at me, during this pregnancy, and decides… he doesn’t want me anymore? Would he ask for a divorce?The word slices through me. Would he really leave
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I stirred awake, the space beside me already cold. Blinking against the morning light, I turned my head and saw Rami buttoning his shirt, his back to me. "You're up early," I murmured, my voice still thick with sleep. He glanced over his shoulder, barely meeting my eyes. "Yeah. Got a lot to do today." I sat up, pulling the blanket around me. "What time did you get home last night?" "Late," he said, adjusting his cuff. "Didn’t want to wake you." I swallowed hard. That was the third time this week. "Rami… why are you ignoring me?" His hands stilled for a second before he reached for his jacket. "I’m not ignoring you. I’ve just been busy with work." A bitter laugh escaped me. "Do you really think I’m stupid?" He finally turned to face me, his expression guarded. "Dema—" "No," I cut him off, my voice sharp. "I know what’s going on. Ever since I told you I was pregnant, you’ve been pulling away. Don’t lie to me." His jaw tightened. "It’s got nothing to do with that."
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The first few days after Dema gave birth, I told myself it was normal—the exhaustion, the mood swings, the distance. But the way she looked at me, or rather, didn’t look at me, made my chest tighten with something uneasy. I tried to approach her one evening as she sat by the window, the dim light casting shadows over her tired face. The baby was finally asleep, and I thought maybe now she’d let me in, even just a little. “Dema,” I said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “How are you feeling?” She didn’t turn. Just stiffened under my touch before shrugging me off. “I’m fine.” The words were ice. I swallowed, forcing a smile she couldn’t see. “You’ve been quiet. I just… I want to make sure you’re okay.” A pause. Then a sigh, heavy with something unspoken. “I said I’m fine.” I hesitated, my hand hovering in the air before dropping to my side. “If you need anything—” “I don’t.” The finality in her voice cut deeper than I expected. I stood there, useless, before finally
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The day Dema’s water broke, I wasn’t there. Of course, I wasn’t. I had a packed schedule, meetings stacked back-to-back, and I was all the way on the other side of the city. When I got the call, my stomach dropped. I tried to wrap things up fast, but the discussion dragged on, every minute stretching like hours. By the time I finally got out, my hands were shaking as I fumbled with my keys. I jumped in the car, swearing under my breath as I mapped out every possible shortcut. But of course—just my luck—the traffic was a nightmare. Cars inched forward like they were moving through tar. I gripped the wheel, my foot tapping impatiently, heart pounding in my ears. "Come on, come on."When it became clear I wasn’t getting anywhere fast, I made a split-second decision. I pulled into the first rental parking lot I saw, threw the car into park, and bolted. I ran until my lungs burned, dodging pedestrians, my dress shoes slapping against the pavement. At the highway, I flagged down a taxi,I
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I had planned to take Dema to the commercial event and even picked out a beautiful dress for her as a surprise. I imagined how happy she’d be when she sees it and how lovely she’d look that evening. But when I got home, I found her lying on her back on the couch, exhausted. “I’m too tired,” she said weakly. When I told her about the event, she shook her head. “I can’t go. I’m exhausted—I don’t feel good, and I don’t look good enough to attend.” I left Dema alone at home and went to the event by myself. The evening dragged on—my team handled everything perfectly, leaving me with little to do. That’s when I spotted her.Her name is Jasmine . She's One of our former managers. She’d quit years ago when she got pregnant, choosing to raise her son over climbing the corporate ladder. Now here she was, gliding through the crowd like she’d never left. She smiled when she saw me. “Rami, how are you? It's been a long time.”We fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about her old days at
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Last night was one of the longest nights I’ve ever experienced. Dema had been throwing up on and off for hours, her discomfort keeping both of us awake well past midnight. Each time I heard her retching in the bathroom, my chest tightened with worry. I hovered near the door, offering water, a cold towel, anything to ease her nausea. At one point, I even suggested taking her to the emergency room, fearing she might be seriously ill, but she waved me off weakly. "It’s fine, really," she insisted, her voice hoarse from the strain."This is normal—just part of it." I didn’t understand how anything so exhausting could be normal but she assured me it was just her body adjusting. Still, I couldn’t shake the helplessness gnawing at me. Eventually, the vomiting subsided, but sleep remained out of reach for her. Restless and drained, she wandered out to the balcony, seeking the cool night air. I watched from the doorway as she settled into the wicker chair, her silhouette outlined by the p
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When Dema told me she was pregnant, I didn’t know what came over me. My chest tightened, my thoughts raced, and for a moment, I couldn’t even form a response. We had talked about having kids many times before—long conversations that stretched late into the night, filled with hopes, fears, and unspoken tensions. Every time, I told her I wasn’t ready, that the timing wasn’t right, that we needed to wait. And every time, she would look at me with those deep, pleading eyes, her voice soft but unwavering as she explained why she wanted this so badly. She had been an orphan, raised in a system that never gave her the warmth of a real family. She told me how she used to watch other children with their parents, aching for something she never had—a home, stability, unconditional love. To her, having a child wasn’t just a desire; it was a need, a way to fill a void that had been hollowed out by years of loneliness. She feared that if we kept dismissing the idea, she might never get the chance
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Love is such a strong word, if you ask me. It's a kind of driving force—something deep and complicated for some people, yet so simple and spontaneous for others. I used to believe that people who have more get more love: people who have more money than others, people who have more influence, more beauty. That's why I didn't believe in love, because I believed it was just another term used to justify capitalistic ideals, a cover for people’s lust and greed. And it's true—some people do use love to get what they want, or they just don't know the difference between love and ambition. My whole life, I thought that I deserved love because I had money, status, and looks. I had the whole package; I was at the top of the social pyramid. That's just how our world works—but again, this is ambition, not real love. Real love is loving someone even when they have nothing. Real love is loving someone for the way they treat you. You can truly love someone for a certain quality about them, and
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Love is such a complicated matter. It is very mysterious to me, especially identifying love. Identifying your own emotions is the tricky part. Do you really love this person, or do you just like this person? Do you love them despite their flaws? Do you love them as a whole, or do you just love a specific quality about this person ? Would you still love this person if they lost everything? Would you still love them if they changed? These questions have been on my mind my whole life, and I’ve given up on finding answers. I thought I loved Bayan, yet I moved on with my life just fine after she disappeared. I thought I liked Rola, but when she broke our engagement and left, I didn’t feel anything—I didn’t even shed a single tear. But when I realized for the first time that I could lose Dema, it frightened my soul. For the first time, I felt like my entire world would crash. --- I’ve never felt anything like this before with anyone else. Yes, I admit I’ve been with many wo
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There were nights when the weight of my father’s expectations pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe. I’d sit in the dark, wondering if I was an embarrassment to him—if I’d ever be enough. But Dema… she always knew. She’d find me, her hands gentle on my shoulders, her voice steady. "You’re not failing," she’d say. "You’re building something he’ll never understand." And somehow, just her saying it made me believe it. She never let me face anything alone. Every gala, every meeting, every public appearance—she was there, flawless, poised, making me look stronger just by standing beside me. People noticed. They’d whisper about how lucky I was, and they were right. When my mother’s birthday came around, and I was drowning in indecision, Dema took over. She planned everything—the flowers my mother loved, the guests list, even the cake from that little bakery she used to take me to as a child. My mother hugged me that night and said, "it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had."
A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 144, Rami's Dairies Part 19
I stood there, staring at the half-finished rose garden, dirt smeared across my hands, sweat dripping down my forehead. I had never done anything like this before—not with my own hands, at least. My whole life, if I wanted something done, I paid someone to do it. But this… this had to be done by me. Dema had made me that sweater—knitted it herself, stitch by stitch. I still remember the way she smiled when she gave it to me, how soft it felt, how it carried the weight of her effort. I wanted to give her something just as meaningful, something that showed her I cared enough to try. But what could I do? I didn’t know how to knit, or paint, or build. I had no skills like that. Then, as I passed by the flower shop downtown, it hit me Dema loves flowers.I bought every rose they had. Red, pink, white—enough to fill the entire side garden of the mansion. When I got home, I called the gardener over. "I need everything ready—soil, tools, space. I'm doing this myself," I told him. He r
