The city lights were blurry, like a colorful rainbow as I drove through the night, the day’s weight and the stress still pressing down on me. I should have gone home. Tala would prepare tea for me and the chef must have prepared a delicious meal, he maybe even made some of those almond cookies I liked. But the thought of what happened, the ugly scenes of the previous night were still stuck in my mind, it made my chest tighten. I couldn't face it. Not yet.I turned the wheel, veering towards the coast. The sea always felt vast and indifferent, a comforting kind of loneliness.I don't know how I ended up here, I was driving aimlessly, I parked near a small, brightly lit café, the scent of salt and sweet pastries mingling in the cool night air. Inside, it was warm and cozy, the murmur of conversations, a soft background hum.I found a table by the window, the waves crashing rhythmically against the shore.I needed to hear a voice, a familiar one. I pulled out my phone and scrolled thro
I sat by the pool, the sun warm on my skin, the book in my hands a mere distraction from the tension that had settled between Rami and me. It's been two days since we’d last spoken, and the silence felt heavier than the humid air around me. I tried to focus on the words on the page, but my mind kept drifting, replaying the argument, the hurt, the way he’d looked at me when I walked away. The sound of footsteps pulled me from my thoughts. I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. His presence was unmistakable, even in the quiet. He stopped a few feet away, and I could feel his eyes on me.“What are you doing?” he finally asked, his voice soft, cautious. I kept my eyes on the book, though I hadn’t read a word in the last five minutes. “Just reading,” I replied, my tone flat, distant. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his silence had bothered me. There was a pause, and I could hear him shift his weight, unsure of what to say next. “It’s so hot today,”
As I adjusted the hem of my long-sleeved black dress in the mirror, I couldn’t help but feel a strange disconnect. The fabric was luxurious, the cut elegant, I couldn't help but think that it's just not me. Rami had insisted we dress to impress tonight, those are his words not mine. He stood behind me now, adjusting his gray tuxedo in the reflection, the golden watch on his wrist catching the light. He looked every bit the successful man he was, the tension between us was still there, hanging in the air, it was bitter and uncomfortable,I was growing sick of it, but there was nothing I can do about it. “You look stunning,” he said, his voice soft but distant, as if he were speaking to a stranger. I nodded, my lips forming a tight smile. I didn’t feel stunning. I felt hollow. The simple jewelry I’d chosen—a pair of pearl earrings and a delicate silver bracelet—felt like armor, a way to shield myself from the prying eyes of the people we were about to meet. Rami had mentioned how i
I’m curled up on the couch, the soft glow of the TV casting lights across the living room. *Pride and Prejudice* played out before me.While watching it I couldn't help but feel a strange pull in my chest as I watched Elizabeth Bennet. She was so real. Plain, humble, sharp-tongued, and unapologetically herself. I saw so much of me in her—or maybe I just want to. But then there’s Mr. Darcy, standing there with all his wealth, his pride, his quiet intensity. And my mind drifts to Rami.Rami. He’s nothing like Darcy, not really. Sure, he’s got the wealth, the influence, the confidence that comes with it. But where Darcy is reserved, Rami is magnetic. Charming. The kind of person who walks into a room and instantly owns it. Everyone loves him. Everyone wants to be near him. And why wouldn’t they? He’s outgoing, effortlessly likeable, and has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room when he talks to you. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He makes everyone feel th
As I stepped into the elegant foyer of Alice’s home, I felt a quiet confidence in my choice of attire. My black skirt suit was timeless, tailored to perfection, and paired with simple jewelry that added just the right touch of sophistication. I didn’t need to scream luxury; I wanted to embody understated elegance, and I think I succeeded. I had officially decided to boycott top brands and I did, I bought this suit from a new designer I came across online, I loved her work so I decided to support her.Alice the wife of Rami's business partner invited me to her house for tea, she greeted me warmly when I arrived, her smile as polished as the silver watch she was wearing.“Dema, so glad you could make it!” she said, her voice dripping with the kind of charm that made you feel both welcomed and slightly scrutinized. I returned her smile, careful to match her poise. She led me into the sitting room, where the air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers and the soft murmur of conversation
I sat at my desk, staring at the latest report in front of me. The numbers were down—again. It felt like no matter what we did, we just couldn’t hit our targets. The weight of it all pressed down on me, and I could see the same frustration mirrored in the faces of my team. They were trying their best, I knew that, but the energy in the office had shifted. The usual buzz of productivity was gone, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to hang over us like a cloud.I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Was it the workload? The pressure? Or was it something else entirely? I decided to talk to Karim, our team leader. If anyone had insight into what was going on, it was him.I found him in the break room, sipping coffee and scrolling through his phone. He looked up as I walked in, and I could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “Hey, Karim,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Got a minute?”“Sure, Dema,” he said, setting his phone down. “
As Rami and I walked toward the stadium, the buzz of the crowd grew louder, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. I tried to keep up with his cheerful banter about the game, but I could feel the weight of work pressing down on me. My team’s struggles had been gnawing at me all week, and no matter how hard I tried to push it aside, the anxiety kept creeping back in.“Dema,” Rami said suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “You seem off. Is something wrong?”I hesitated, glancing at him. His brow was furrowed with concern, and I knew I couldn’t brush it off. “It’s just… work,” I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. “Things haven’t been great. The team’s numbers are down, and we’re struggling to hit our targets. I’ve been trying to figure out how to turn things around, but it’s been stressing me out.”Rami nodded thoughtfully, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as we continued walking. “Have you thought about giving them an incentive?” he asked casually, as if it
The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across my room, but I barely noticed. My mind was racing, my stomach in knots. Tonight was the event—the one Rami’s father had insisted we attend. Hosted by the crown prince himself. The crown prince. Just the thought made my palms sweat. This wasn’t just any event. It was the kind where every glance, every word, every step would be scrutinized. And I? I was not ready.I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my closet as if it held the answers to all my problems. What does one even wear to something like this? Something elegant, obviously, but not too flashy. Sophisticated, but not intimidating. I groaned, running a hand through my hair. This was impossible. I needed help. Professional help.I grabbed my phone and dialed my stylist. She picked up on the second ring, her voice calm and reassuring, as always. “Dema, darling, what’s the emergency?”“I need you. Right now. It’s the event tonight—the one with the crown pri
I can’t believe Farah is already one year old today. My baby girl, one whole year. It feels like just yesterday I was holding her for the first time, tiny and fragile in my arms. Now she’s babbling, crawling, grabbing at everything in sight. But of course, my mother-in-law is insisting on throwing her a big birthday party. Of course. I don’t have the heart to say no outright, but the idea makes my skin crawl. Farah won’t even remember this. She’ll be overwhelmed, overstimulated, and then cranky for days afterward. And the guests, A room full of middle-aged women who don’t believe in germs or personal space. They’ll swarm her, pinching her cheeks, covering her in sloppy kisses, passing her around like a party favor. Her immune system is still so new. She doesn’t need all that. I don’t need all that. But here we are. Balloons, cake, a tiny party hat that Farah will inevitably rip off in two seconds. I’ll spend the whole time hovering, sanitizing hands, gently pulling her away from
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
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