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Chapter 74, The Scandal, Part 6.
Last Updated:
2025-03-21 03:55:58
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I sat on the edge of my bed, still crying and sniffing . My tears fell silently, one after the other, and I didn’t bother to wipe them away at first. The room felt too quiet, too empty, and the silence only made the ache in my heart louder. I hated fighting with him, hated how miserable it made me, how all my efforts to be strong always go to waste in a blink of an eye. love could feel so fragile in moments like this. I buried my face in my hands, trying to steady my breathing, but the sobs came anyway, raw and unrelenting.Then, my phone rang. The sound startled me, and I froze for a moment, staring at the screen through blurred vision. Professor Al Masri’s name flashed across the display. My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks, and the timing felt almost cruel. I quickly wiped my tears with the back of my hand, sniffled, and took a deep breath before answering. I couldn’t let her hear me like this.“Hello, Professor,” I said, forcing a lightness into my voice that
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I pushed the front door open, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me like a warm blanket. The house was quiet. I glanced around, my eyes landing on the maid who was dusting the living room shelves. “Is Rami home?” I asked, already knowing the answer but hoping anyway. She shook her head, her expression apologetic. “Not yet, madam.” I sighed, slipping off my shoes and heading upstairs to my room. The day had been long, and all I wanted was to unwind. I changed into something more comfortable, the soft fabric of my pajamas a welcome relief against my skin. Grabbing my phone, I flopped onto the bed, scrolling aimlessly through social media. It was mindless at first—memes, food pics, the usual. But then, something caught my eye. A video thumbnail with Rami’s face. My heart skipped a beat. I tapped on it, the screen loading for a split second before the video began to play. It was an interview. Bayan. Rami’s old friend—or rather, his crush. My stomach churned as she spoke,
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The hum of the engine filled the car as we drove home, the city lights blurring past the windows. Rami’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his eyes flickering the way it does when he’s deep in thought. I could feel the tension in the air, heavy and unspoken, and I knew I had to ask. I had to know.“Rami,” I began, my voice softer than I intended, “what happened between you and Bayan? Why is she doing this?”He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, but I could see the way his shoulders tensed, the way his knuckles whitened around the wheel. Finally, he let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding it in for months.“Months ago,” he started, his voice low, “Bayan showed up at my office out of nowhere. I was… surprised. I hadn’t seen her in years, and I thought maybe she wanted to explain why she disappeared back then. I was happy to see her, but only because I wanted closure. I thought we could finally put the past behind us.”I listened quietly, my heart
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As Rami and I stepped through the grand doors of his parents' mansion, I could feel the tension radiating off him like a storm waiting to break. His hand, clasped tightly in mine, was clammy, and his usually confident stride had turned hesitant. I could tell he was nervous—no, more than nervous. He was worried, his mind racing with thoughts of what his father wanted to say. I squeezed his hand gently, trying to offer some reassurance, but even I couldn’t shake the unease that settled in the pit of my stomach.The mansion loomed around us, its opulence both familiar and intimidating. The high ceilings, the polished marble floors, the portraits of stern-faced ancestors lining the walls—it all felt like a silent judgment, a reminder of the expectations Rami had been born into. His father had summoned us, and that alone was enough to set us both on edge. When we entered the sitting room, his father was there, standing by the fireplace, his posture as rigid as the statues that adorned th
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The moment we stepped out of Rami’s parents' house, the tension was suffocating. Rami's veins were popping out of his forehead, they were so apparent from how angry he was. Without a word, he pulled out his phone and called his lawyer, his voice icy. "Go ahead with the lawsuit. Sue the channel for the scandal they caused, I want them to pay for that interview."I reached over, placing a hand on his arm. "Rami, breathe. Think about this before—"He didn’t let me finish. Instead, he dialed another number—Bayan. My stomach twisted. I knew this wouldn’t end well. "If you don’t stop this," he hissed into the phone, "I will ruin you. I swear to God, Bayan, I will drag you to court and make sure you regret ever opening your mouth."I tightened my grip on his arm. "Rami, enough—"But he jerked away, hitting the speaker button. Bayan’s voice filled the car, sharp and venomous. "Oh, I’m so scared," she mocked. "But here’s the thing—I talked to your ex-fiancée. She told me everything. How
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I watched it all unfold, and with every move Rami made, the knot in my stomach tightened. He had silenced Bayan—paid her off, made her disappear like she was nothing more than a problem to be erased. And his ex? After speaking to her parents, she backed down, burying whatever truth she had been holding onto, all for the sake of her family’s reputation. Rami’s lawyer was smooth, persuasive. Money changed hands, whispers of legal threats lingered in the air, and just like that, everything was settled. I felt like there was no real resolution—just the quiet suffocation of the truth under the weight of wealth. It made me sick. The way Rami operated, it was like he believed money could rewrite reality. That if you had enough of it, you could bend the world to your will, make inconvenient people vanish, turn wrong into right with a check and a signature. And the worst part? It worked.I wanted to scream. To shake him and ask how he could live with himself, turning lives into transacti
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Three months later : The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, as I stretched beneath the sheets. Beside me, Rami slept soundly, his breathing steady. A warmth spread through my chest—today, I wanted to do something special for him. After everything that happened between us and the issue with Bayan and the rumors, our relationship had its ups and downs, we deserved a peaceful morning, just the two of us. Quietly, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. The house was still, the only sound the distant chirping of birds outside. I tiptoed to the kitchen, my bare feet silent against the cool tiles. But when I pushed the door open, I found one of the maids already there, preparing breakfast. “Good morning,” I whispered. “I’d like to handle breakfast myself today.” She smiled and nodded. “Of course, my lady. Shall I set the table in the garden for you?” “Yes, please.” Once she left, I rolled up my sleeves and reached for the ingredients. Pancakes—R
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My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the silence of the kitchen. "Rami, we need to talk." My voice was barely a whisper, strained and tight. I held the small, foil-backed packet in my trembling hand, the crinkled edges a testament to its journey through the trash. "I found these."I laid the contraceptive pills on the countertop, the stark white and blue a harsh contrast against the warm wood. "In the kitchen trash. I need you to be honest with me. Do you know anything about these?"He turned, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before settling into irritation. "Why are you assuming it's me, Dema? I was asleep when you found them. You know that.""Because," I said, my voice rising slightly, "you've said before that you don't want children. And… and I can't help but wonder if you're taking steps to make sure that doesn't happen."His jaw tightened. "That's ridiculous. You're being ridiculous.""My reaction isn't ridiculous, Rami. Your reac
Last Updated : 2025-03-31
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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
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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
