As I adjusted the hem of my long-sleeved black dress in the mirror, I couldnโt 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. โYou look stunning,โ he said, his voice soft but distant, as if he were speaking to a stranger. I nodded, my lips forming a tight smile. I didnโt feel stunning. I felt hollow. The simple jewelry Iโd chosenโa pair of pearl earrings and a delicate silver braceletโfelt like armor, a way to shield myself from the prying eyes of the people we were about to meet. Rami had mentioned how i
Iโm 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 herโor maybe I just want to. But then thereโs Mr. Darcy, standing there with all his wealth, his pride, his quiet intensity. And my mind drifts to Rami.Rami. Heโs nothing like Darcy, not really. Sure, heโs 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 wouldnโt they? Heโs outgoing, effortlessly likeable, and has this way of making you feel like youโre the only person in the room when he talks to you. But thatโs the problem, isnโt it? He makes everyone feel th
As I stepped into the elegant foyer of Aliceโs 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 didnโt 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.โDema, so glad you could make it!โ 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 downโagain. It felt like no matter what we did, we just couldnโt 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 couldnโt shake the feeling that something was off, but I couldnโt 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. โHey, Karim,โ I said, trying to sound casual. โGot a minute?โโSure, Dema,โ he said, setting his phone down. โ
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 teamโs 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.โDema,โ Rami said suddenly, his voice cutting through my thoughts. โYou seem off. Is something wrong?โI hesitated, glancing at him. His brow was furrowed with concern, and I knew I couldnโt brush it off. โItโs justโฆ work,โ I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. โThings havenโt been great. The teamโs numbers are down, and weโre struggling to hit our targets. Iโve been trying to figure out how to turn things around, but itโs been stressing me out.โRami nodded thoughtfully, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as we continued walking. โHave you thought about giving them an incentive?โ 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 eventโthe one Ramiโs father had insisted we attend. Hosted by the crown prince himself. The crown prince. Just the thought made my palms sweat. This wasnโt 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. โDema, darling, whatโs the emergency?โโI need you. Right now. Itโs the event tonightโthe one with the crown pri
As we walked into the grand living room of Ramiโs parentsโ house, I could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me. The air was thick with anticipation, and the room was filled with familiar facesโRamiโs mother, his uncles, cousins, all seated in a semi-circle, their expressions a mix of curiosity and seriousness. Ramiโs hand was warm in mine, a silent reassurance as we took our seats among the family. I glanced at him, and he gave me a small, encouraging smile, though I could tell he was just as nervous as I was. Something big was about to happen.Mr. Al Nassar, Ramiโs father, stood at the center of the room, his posture commanding yet calm. He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent. All eyes were on him. My heart raced as I waited for him to speak, my mind racing with possibilities. What could this be about? The big Event we had attended with the prince just days ago still lingered in my thoughtsโthe grandeur, the conversations, the unspoken tension. I had felt then t
I was at my desk, engrossed in work, when my phone buzzed. It was Rami. โDema, can you come to my office for a moment?โ he asked, his tone calm but with a hint of something I couldnโt quite place. Curiosity piqued, I grabbed my notebook and headed over.When I walked into Ramiโs office, I was surprised to see his father, Mr. Al Nassar, sitting across from him. He looked as distinguished as ever, his presence commanding the room. Rami stood up as I entered, gesturing for me to join them. โDema, my father just stopped by. I thought you should come and greet him.โI smiled politely, extending my hand. โMr. Al Nassar, itโs so nice to see you.โHe stood, shaking my hand with a warm smile. โDema, always a pleasure. I just came by to thank you both for attending the event the other day. You both behaved so gracefully and I couldnโt be prouder.โ He turned to me, his gaze softening. โAnd you, my dear, everyone was complimenting your beauty, grace, and class. You truly stood out.โI felt my che
When Dema told me she was pregnant, I didnโt know what came over me. My chest tightened, my thoughts raced, and for a moment, I couldnโt even form a response. We had talked about having kids many times beforeโlong conversations that stretched late into the night, filled with hopes, fears, and unspoken tensions. Every time, I told her I wasnโt ready, that the timing wasnโt 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 hadโa home, stability, unconditional love. To her, having a child wasnโt 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 forceโsomething 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 peopleโs lust and greed. And it's trueโsome 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 worksโbut 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 Iโve 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 didnโt feel anythingโI didnโt 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. --- Iโve never felt anything like this before with anyone else. Yes, I admit Iโve been with many wo
There were nights when the weight of my fatherโs expectations pressed down on me until I couldnโt breathe. Iโd sit in the dark, wondering if I was an embarrassment to himโif Iโd ever be enough. But Demaโฆ she always knew. Sheโd find me, her hands gentle on my shoulders, her voice steady. "Youโre not failing," sheโd say. "Youโre building something heโll 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 appearanceโshe was there, flawless, poised, making me look stronger just by standing beside me. People noticed. Theyโd whisper about how lucky I was, and they were right. When my motherโs birthday came around, and I was drowning in indecision, Dema took over. She planned everythingโthe 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."
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 beforeโnot with my own hands, at least. My whole life, if I wanted something done, I paid someone to do it. But thisโฆ this had to be done by me. Dema had made me that sweaterโknitted 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 didnโt 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, whiteโenough to fill the entire side garden of the mansion. When I got home, I called the gardener over. "I need everything readyโsoil, tools, space. I'm doing this myself," I told him. He r
Dema wasnโt just my wifeโshe 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 joyโnot 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 didnโt 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 missingโsmall, sacred acts of love Iโd never witnessed growing up. She was the first person to cook my favorite meal just because she noticed Iโd had a long day. The first to show me how to hold someoneโs 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 detailsโthe way someoneโs nose scrunches when they
My whole life, Iโve known that people liked meโnot 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 differentlyโlike some kind of crown prince in a kingdom of lesser nobles. At first, I thought it was because of my familyโs wealth, or maybe my fatherโs influence in certain circles. But the truth was far more transactional. The other children didnโt befriend me; they were assigned to me. T
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 controlโcompletely, unforgivably. And now, I had to fix it. But how? This wasnโt just anyoneโthis 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 slapโone fueled by a rage I didnโt 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 thisโฆ this was different. This wasnโt 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
For the longest time, I truly believed our marriage was perfectโor at least, that it should have been. I thought love was simple: give her gifts, smile at her, and sheโll be happy. I told myself that if I loved her deeply, that was enough. After all, shouldnโt love mean acceptance? Shouldnโt she love me for who I am, flaws and all? But I was wrong. Looking back, I realize now how little effort I truly put into nurturing our relationship. I took her presence for granted, assuming that as long as I cared for her in my own way, she would stay content. I didnโt see the cracks forming between usโthe quiet disappointments, the unspoken frustrations. Love isnโt just about feeling; itโs about doing, about showing up every day in ways that matter to the other person. And I failed at that. One of the biggest issues between us was how I acted around other women. She tried, more than once, to tell me how much it hurt herโthe way I laughed too easily at their jokes, the way my friendliness som