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 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
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
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
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
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
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
Dema was incredible today. She spoke with confidence, delivered her best performance, and impressed everyone at the meeting. I’ve never been prouder of her. Though I could tell she was nervous, she didn’t stutter or hesitate—not even once. Afterward, I teased her about it just to mess with her, but the truth is, she was absolutely amazing. Following the meeting, I treated everyone to dinner. It was a fun and enjoyable time, but what I really wanted was to unwind alone with my brilliant, lovely wife. So we retreated to our hotel room and spent the rest of the night together—just the two of us. "I’ll take you shopping tomorrow," I told her later, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Get you whatever you want—designer dress, shoes, a new bag. Name it, it’s yours." She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Actually, I’ve decided to stop buying top brands. I’m boycotting."I blinked. "Boycotting? Since when?" "Since I realized how much waste they produce, how they exploit wo
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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."