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Chapter 31, Tea and Torture.
Last Updated:
2025-02-18 21:12:32
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A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 32, A Promise.
Work today was going smooth, no drama, no need for extra shifts and no reports to write.I was scrolling through my phone during my lunch break, I stumbled upon a compilation of funny baby videos. Giggles bubbled up inside me as I watched a little one try to eat spaghetti for the first time, ending up covered in sauce. A genuine smile stretched across my face. They were just so… pure. So full of innocent joy.But then, the smile faltered. The image of Rami’s face flashed in my mind, his brow furrowed slightly as he’d said, “.I’m not interested in having children right now.” The words, though spoken gently, echoed in my head, a dull ache settling in my chest. It was like a tiny pinprick deflating a balloon of happines.I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, my thumb still hovering over the baby videos. The desire to be a mother, a longing that had been simmering within me for years, suddenly felt overwhelming. More than anything, I craved the warmth of a family, the unc
Last Updated : 2025-02-19A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 33, Nightmares
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
Last Updated : 2025-02-19A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 34, The locked room of memories (Part 1).
The waiting room was hushed, a gentle hum of nervous energy I knew all too well. My hands were clammy, twisting the strap of my purse. Rami had recommended Dr. Karima, a psychologist he spoke of with reverence.Apparently, she was the person to see in Dubai. I had to admit, the office itself was calming, soft colours and tasteful art. It was a far cry from the sterile, clinical environments I'd imagined.When Dr. Karima finally called my name, her smile was warm and genuine. She extended her hand, her grip firm but gentle. "Dema, please come in. I'm so glad to finally meet you."Her office was even more inviting than the waiting room. Sunlight streamed through the large window, illuminating the comfortable armchairs. She gestured towards one, and I sank into it gratefully. "Please, make yourself comfortable," she said, settling into the chair opposite me. she leaned back slightly, her expression encouraging. "So, Dema," she began, her voice calm and soothing. "Rami tells
Last Updated : 2025-02-20A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 35, The locked room of memories (Part 2).
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
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The plush, velvety chair felt strangely comforting beneath me, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside. Dr. Karima sat opposite, her expression a careful blend of concern and professional detachment. “I was drowning, Dr. Karima,” I began, my voice barely a whisper. “The water was icy, pulling me down, and I couldn’t breathe. Then, through the murky water, I saw this… house. Small, almost a shack, really. And there were two people inside it.”I paused, swallowing hard, the memory tightening my chest. “A man and a woman. They looked miserable, the man was shouting, though I couldn’t hear the words. And then… he hit her.” My breath hitched. “He brutally beat her up, Dr. Karima. It was so terrifying.” My hands twisted in my lap. “The worst part was, she didn’t even react at first. Just… stood there. Like she was used to it. And then, after he left – he just walked away, like it was nothing – she got up. Slowly and walked away.”I looked up at Dr. Karima, my eyes search
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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
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Rami and I were watching TV in the living room, it was a quiet evening, I wanted to tell him about my father, I felt this was a good timing to talk about it. "Rami," I began, "I've been doing some digging. About my father." He looked up from his phone, his brow furrowed with concern. "Your father? Dema, I thought..." "I know," I interrupted, twisting my hands together. "I thought I was fine not knowing. But I'm not. I need to find him. I need to know… everything." A heavy silence hung in the air. Rami reached for my hand, his touch warm and reassuring. "Are you sure about this, Dema? This could open up old wounds." I met his gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'm terrified, Rami. Absolutely terrified. But I have to do this. I have to face the past, no matter how painful it might be. I can't keep living with this… this emptiness inside me. I need answers. I need closure." He squeezed my hand gently. "And what do you plan to do once you find him?" "I… I want to meet him,
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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
Last Updated : 2025-02-24
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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."
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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
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Dema wasn’t just my wife—she was my first real friend, the first person who truly saw me.Before her, no one had ever asked about the things that brought me joy—not out of obligation or strategy, but simple curiosity. She was the one who listened when I rambled about random historical facts, who remembered the names of my childhood pets, who laughed at my terrible jokes not because she had to, but because she genuinely found them funny. With her, I didn’t have to perform or posture. For the first time, I felt like I could just exist and that would be enough. She taught me things I never realized I was missing—small, sacred acts of love I’d never witnessed growing up. She was the first person to cook my favorite meal just because she noticed I’d had a long day. The first to show me how to hold someone’s gaze until the world fades away, how to listen not just to words but to the spaces between them. She showed me how to celebrate the details—the way someone’s nose scrunches when they
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My whole life, I’ve known that people liked me—not for who I was, but for where I came from. Growing up, I attended an elite international school, the kind reserved for the children of diplomats, CEOs, and old-money heirs. It was a world of polished hallways and whispered connections, where last names carried more weight than personalities. My parents never let me forget my privilege. "You deserve only the best," they would say, as if excellence were an inheritance rather than something earned. Their words were laced with unspoken rules Only associate with those who match your status. Never lower yourself. Remember who you are.But the irony was suffocating. Even among the privileged, I was treated differently—like some kind of crown prince in a kingdom of lesser nobles. At first, I thought it was because of my family’s wealth, or maybe my father’s influence in certain circles. But the truth was far more transactional. The other children didn’t befriend me; they were assigned to me. T
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After the storm of anger subsided, the crushing weight of realization settled over me. What had I done? The question echoed in my mind, relentless and suffocating. I had lost control—completely, unforgivably. And now, I had to fix it. But how? This wasn’t just anyone—this was her. My wife. The woman who had stood by me through every hardship, whose laughter had been my solace, whose touch had been my anchor. And I had struck her. A hard, unforgiving slap—one fueled by a rage I didn’t even recognize in myself. The moment my hand connected with her skin, something inside me shattered. I had never been the kind of man who concerned himself with the emotions of others. If I wronged someone, so what? If they resented me, it was their problem, not mine. I moved through life untouched, unbothered. But this… this was different. This wasn’t some stranger, some acquaintance whose feelings I could dismiss. This was the woman I loved. The other half of my soul. Why had I done it? The questi
