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Chapter 117, A New Side Of Him.
Last Updated:
2025-04-18 00:20:10
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A sharp pain jolts me awake, my breath catching in my throat. I clutch my swollen belly, waiting—hoping—for it to fade. But then another one comes, tighter this time, and panic prickles under my skin. Is this it? I fumble for my phone, hands trembling as I dial Rami first. He answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "Dema? What's wrong?" "I—I think it's happening," I whisper, my throat tight. I can almost hear him springing out of bed. "I'm coming right now. Call my mother." The next call is a blur—my mother-in-law's calm voice cutting through my fear, promising she'll be here soon. By the time I hang up, sweat beads at my temples. She arrives before Rami does, her steady hands guiding me to sit while she calls an ambulance. "Better safe than sorry," she murmurs, smoothing my hair back. The ride to the hospital is a haze of contractions and nervous breaths. Rami meets us there, his face pale, his grip crushing my fingers as the doctors check me. Then—the verdict
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I sigh, tossing my phone onto the couch beside me. Another dull afternoon trapped inside. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, but what can I do? The doctor said no unnecessary outings, no stress—just rest. Rest. Like I haven’t been resting for months already. My fingers drum against my swollen belly, frustration simmering beneath my skin. I reach for the remote, flipping through channels mindlessly. Nothing holds my attention. Just stupid talk shows and reruns of dramas I’ve already seen. Then—I got a message. A message from Rola. I grab my phone, grateful for any distraction. It’s a video. Probably some gossip or event she’s at, rubbing it in that she’s out there living while I’m stuck here like a prisoner in my own home. I tap the screen, and the video loads. It’s some commercial event—flashy lights, cameras, people dressed to impress. And there he is. My Rami. My lips twitch into a small smile at first. He looks good, confident, charming the crowd like always. I s
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The pain is unbearable. It’s been a whole day since my water broke, and still, nothing. My body is shaking, drenched in sweat, my muscles screaming in protest with every contraction. The nurses hover around me, their faces tight with worry. I hear them whispering to my mother-in-law—something about a c-section. No. I don’t want that. I wanted to do this naturally. I wanted to be strong. But I’m not strong anymore. I’m broken. My mother-in-law tells them to wait. Just one more hour, she says. Maybe I’ll push through. Maybe my body will finally listen. The hour passes in a blur of agony. I’m so tired. My vision swims, the edges darkening. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. My limbs feel like lead, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I’m slipping. My head hearts even more than my body. Then I hear a voice. It was Soft but firm. Telling me to be strong. I could feel a hand gripping mine, warm and steady. "Be brave, Dema. You can do this." I don’t know who it is—maybe my mother in l
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The hospital room feels too bright, too sterile, as I gather the last of my things. My body still aches, a dull throb reminding me of what I’ve just been through. But that’s not what’s twisting inside me. It’s him. Rami. Standing there, clueless as ever, flashing that easy smile like nothing’s wrong. “You ready to go, Habibti?” he asks, reaching for my bag. I tighten my grip on it and brush past him without a word. Let him wonder. Let him think I’m just some hormonal mess, exhausted from giving birth. If he were paying attention at all, he’d know this isn’t about fatigue. His mother swoops in with her usual efficiency, cooing over the baby in my arms. “Mashallah, what a beautiful baby” she murmurs, her fingers brushing her tiny cheek. Then, to me, in that tone that’s half sweetness, half command: “Don’t worry, Dema, I’ll stay with you for a few days. You’ll need help.” I force a tight smile. I don’t want her there. Not now. Not when every glance at Rami makes my chest burn. B
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The baby coos softly in my arms, her tiny fingers curling around mine. She’s so perfect—her dark eyes wide and curious, her lips puckered in a little pout. What will we call you, habibti? Across from me, Rami' mother beams, reaching over to stroke the baby’s cheek. "Look at her smile! She’s a Farah, through and through."My grip tightens just a little. Farah. The name hangs in the air like an expectation. "I was thinking… maybe Sora,"I say carefully. "Or Asmaa." Rami's mother waves a hand dismissively. "Sora is nice, but Farah is personal. It was my mother’s name—bless her soul—and it would mean so much to us to carry it on."I swallow hard. Of course. Always family. Always tradition. "I just… I want her to have her own special name," I murmur, tracing the baby’s delicate eyebrows. "Something that represents her."Rami's mother sighs, shaking her head like I’m being sentimental. "Habibti, names are gifts. Farah means joy—and look at her! She’s already filling this house with it.
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I woke up to an empty bed, the space beside me cold and untouched. Rami wasn’t home—again. But for once, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to see him. The heaviness in my chest wasn’t sadness this time, just exhaustion. My hand instinctively rested on my belly, the gentle curve of my baby girl reminding me of what truly mattered. She was my focus now—we were my focus. No more waiting, no more begging for scraps of attention. If Rami wanted to disappear, let him. I stretched slowly, savoring the quiet. No arguments, no tension—just peace. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe. Today wasn’t about him. Today was about us and that was enough.Two days. Two whole days, and Rami hadn’t come home. And you know what? I didn’t care. Not enough to call, not enough to ask. When he finally walked through the door, I didn’t even glance his way. He lingered around, pretending like everything was normal, until two hours later, he finally decided to speak. "How’s the baby
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The afternoon sun was warm against my skin as I pushed the stroller along the beach, the sound of waves lapping at the shore a quiet comfort. My little girl cooed softly, her tiny fingers reaching toward the sky as if trying to catch the breeze. For a moment, everything felt peaceful—until my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my stomach tightening as I read the message. "I’m coming to take you and the baby to the doctor for her vaccine. Be ready." My mother-in-law’s words left no room for argument. I didn’t want to go with her—I didn’t want her hovering over me, dictating every little thing—but I knew better than to refuse. By the time she arrived, I had already buckled the baby into her car seat, my movements stiff with forced obedience. The moment we got in the car, she started talking—no, lecturing—about infant diseases, how to prevent them, what symptoms to watch for. Her voice filled the space, leaving no air for me to breathe. I stayed quiet, staring out the wind
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It's 7 AM, and I'm still awake. My baby cried inconsolably throughout the night. I didn't know what was wrong with her. I fed her, changed her diaper, and put her in her crib, but she wouldn't settle down. Then she had a prolonged crying fit; I tried everything to soothe her—rocking, singing lullabies, even offering a pacifier—but nothing worked. Finally, as a last resort, I put on a YouTube video of children's colors, and she miraculously fell asleep watching it. Even after she finally drifted off, I couldn't rest. I tossed and turned, my mind racing. The worst part was replaying my conversation with my mother-in-law and her incredibly hurtful words: "It's just the nature of rich men like them." The casual cruelty of her statement stunned me. I couldn't believe she had endured such blatant disrespect and mistreatment for over thirty years. Part of me felt a deep sorrow for her, a sense of empathy for the pain she'd silently carried. However, that sorrow was quickly overshad
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I took a deep breath, turning to Rami. "Okay, we’ve talked about this. I’m going back to work." My voice was steady, but my stomach twisted with nerves. He nodded, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "You’re ready. Your team needs you." They do.That much was true. After everything I’d put into my career, walking away now felt impossible. I loved my team, they were like family. The thought of leaving them behind made my chest ache. But still, a whole year away. A whole year of slow mornings, of quiet routines, of not being buried under the weight of endless shifts and crushing stress. Just the idea of diving back into that world made my head throb. The long hours, the unpredictable schedule, the constant pressure, how was I supposed to adjust again? Yet, despite the fear, the longing won out. I wanted to go back. I missed the chaos, the purpose, the way my team pulled together when things got tough. "I don’t want to leave them," I murmured, more to myself than to Rami. He
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I’m the worst husband on earth. I’ve come to terms with that fact, no I actually accepted it. It’s not just some fleeting thought anymore, not some dramatic exaggeration to wallow in self-pity. It’s the truth, carved into my bones, etched into every regret that keeps me awake at night. I know it now, with a certainty that aches worse than any wound. And the worst part? I’m used to this feeling. It’s familiar, like an old coat I’ve worn so long I’ve forgotten the weight of it. Before Dema, I was careless. No—worse than careless. I was cruel in the most effortless way, the kind of cruelty that doesn’t even recognize itself. I moved through the world like a proud hawk I was untouchable, unbothered by anything. I did what I wanted, went where I pleased, let people drift into my orbit just long enough to make them believe in something that was never real. I’d smile, I’d charm them , I’d let them hope I would let them dream and then, when the novelty wore off or the guilt prickled too sha
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My mom left today, and with her departure, the last barrier between Dema and me vanished. There was no more avoiding the elephant in the room—no more excuses, no more distractions. Dema had no choice but to talk to me now, and as much as I didn’t want to push her, I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. I needed answers. I needed to know what I had done wrong, or else the cracks in our relationship would only deepen until there was nothing left to salvage. When I finally gathered the courage to approach her, to ask her why she was so distant, why the anger in her eyes never seemed to fade, things spiraled out of control almost immediately. The moment I opened my mouth, it was like stepping on a landmine. She brought up that night—the night of the commercial event. The night I made a reckless, selfish mistake by staying out late with a woman who wasn’t my wife. My stomach twisted at the memory, at the way I had tried to justify it instead of just owning up to my poor judgme
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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
A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 150, Rami's Dairies Part 25.
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
A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 149, Rami's Dairies Part 24.
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
A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 148, Rami's Dairies Part 23.
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
