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Chapter 81, Making A Choice.
Last Updated:
2025-03-30 04:22:42
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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
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The salt of my tears has dried, leaving a gritty residue on my cheeks. Hours. Or was it days? Time has lost all meaning, a blurry, distorted echo in the empty cavern of my bedroom. My eyes are swollen, heavy, and the constant ache in my chest has settled into a dull, persistent throb. I'm empty, hollowed out. I can't stay here. The walls are closing in, each surface a mirror reflecting the broken pieces of myself. I need air, I need…something. Anything. I push myself up, my legs shaky and unsteady. The maids cluster around me as I head for the door. "Madam, where are you going?" Their voices are a soft, concerned chorus, but I can't bring myself to answer. I just shake my head and walk away, the click of my heels on the marble a sharp, defiant sound. The car is a cold, metallic comfort. I drive, not knowing where I’m going, just needing to move, to escape the suffocating stillness of my apartment. I find myself by the sea, the rhythmic crash of the waves a constant, soothing pulse.
Last Updated : 2025-04-01A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 84, Rola's Side Of The Story.
The café was quiet, the sound of distant chatter barely reaching our corner table. Rola sat across from me, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her eyes guarded but not unkind. My chest tightened. I had rehearsed this moment in my head a dozen times, but now that it was here, the words felt heavy. "I’m not ready to leave him," I admitted, the confession spilling out before I could soften it. Her gaze flickered up, surprise flashing in her eyes. "My heart is still… attached. But I can’t ignore the way things have been." Rola exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Then why are you here, Dema?" "Because I need to understand," I said, leaning forward. "I need to hear your side—what really happened between you and Rami. Why you broke the engagement." My voice wavered, but I held her stare. "If there’s anything I can do to change him, I want to try. But I need to know if you're willing to help me." The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken words. Fo
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Rola and I were silent. We had agreed to work together, but the awkwardness of the situation was still pressing on us.After a few minutes I finally had the courage to break the silence, I said "I never had anyone before him, Rola. No family, no love—nothing. Rami was the first person who made me feel like I mattered. He gave me things I never even dreamed of having... not money, but the way he showed me the world. Made me believe I was worth something." My voice cracks, and I press a hand to my chest, like I can physically hold the ache inside. "That’s why I can’t just walk away. He’s my first love—my only love. But every lie he tells me feels like a knife twisting deeper. And now... now I keep wondering if there’s more. If he’s cheating, if he ever really loved me at all." A bitter laugh escapes me. "It’s driving me insane, Rola. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep—I just keep replaying everything in my head. And I know... I know I have to end this. Because if I don’t, he’s going to des
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The door clicked shut behind me, sealing away Rola’s words, her promises, her plan. The air in our home felt heavier now, thick with the weight of what I had just agreed to. Or maybe it was just the silence—the kind that settles when you stop fighting. I kicked off my shoes, not bothering to line them . The old me would’ve cared. The old me would’ve smoothed her hair, touched up her lipstick, made sure my bedroom smelled like lavender instead of the smell of chips that I had last night. But that woman was fading, peeling away like old paint. Rami was on the couch, his fingers tapping against his phone, the glow of the screen reflecting in his tired eyes. He didn’t look up when I walked in. Good. Less effort for me. I grabbed a bag of chips from the cupboard, the crinkling sound too loud in the quiet. I didn’t care if it was noon or midnight. I didn’t care if he wrinkled his nose at the smell of salt and grease. Let him. “You’re eating that now?” he finally asked, his voice fla
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I walked into the office today in clothes I wouldn’t normally wear to work—an oversized coat, simple blouse underneath, flowy pants, and flat shoes instead of my usual heels. My hair wasn’t perfectly styled, probably a bit greasy, and my face was bare. No makeup. No effort. Not that anyone would dare comment on it. I settled into my chair and mechanically started reviewing reports, replying to emails, drafting responses—anything to keep my mind occupied. The work was a welcome distraction, something solid to focus on instead of the mess inside my head. Then Karim, the team leader, knocked on my door. He looked tense. "Three people called in sick today," he said, rubbing his temple. "The workload is overwhelming. I don’t know if we can handle it." I barely hesitated. "It’s fine. I’ll take their place." His eyebrows shot up. I wasn’t the type to step in like that—not directly, not like some hands-on manager. But today, I needed this. I needed to drown in something other than m
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The library was quiet, the way I liked it—just the soft rustle of pages turning from the wind coming from the big open windows and the faint scent of old books surrounding me. I had told Tala earlier that I needed the entire day to study, to revise what I’d learned in college about business and economic science. No distractions. No interruptions. She had nodded, understanding, and left me alone with my thoughts and my books. Hours passed, the words blurring together as I flipped through case studies and theories. My stomach growled, a sharp reminder that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I leaned back in my chair, stretching my stiff shoulders, and glanced at the clock. Late afternoon already. A craving hit me then—one I’d been suppressing for months. That burger sandwich from the new restaurant downtown, the one with the golden brioche bun and thick, juicy patty I’d seen advertised everywhere. I had resisted, of course. Because of the diet. Because I wanted to stay fit for him. But
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I stared at my phone after Bayan walked out, my fingers trembling as I dialed Rola’s number. The moment she answered, my voice came out sharp, accusing. "Why did you tell Bayan? I thought you were helping me, not messing with me!"Rola sighed on the other end, her tone annoyingly calm. "Dema, if you really want to break Rami’s cycle of cheating, you have to be brave. Bayan can help us—she’s been through this before."I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling up. "Bayan is obviously up to something! She’s not here to help—she just wants to mess with me!""You don’t even know her,"Rola shot back. "You only met her once. How can you be so sure?" I fell silent, my chest tight. She was right—I didn’t know Bayan. But something about her, the way she looked at me, like she already held all the cards… it set me on edge. "You should at least hear her side of the story before you make up your mind about her." She added.Finally, I let out a slow breath. "Fine. I’ll… think about it. I’ll call
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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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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
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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
