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Chapter 85, Heartbreaking Truth.
Last Updated:
2025-04-06 06:49:17
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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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I hadn’t planned on going back to the office so soon, but my team needed me—and honestly, I needed them too. For the first time in weeks, I actually wanted to step back into that world. I stood in front of my closet, running my fingers over fabric until I found it—the burgundy suit, sharp and elegant, the color rich against my skin. I paired it with gold: a delicate bracelet, small earrings, and a simple necklace that caught the light just right. No makeup—my skin was still healing, still tender from the last breakout—but for once, I didn’t care. The confidence wasn’t in the coverage; it was in the way I carried myself today. When I walked into the office, I could feel the shift before anyone said a word. The murmurs, the glances, the way conversations paused just a beat too long. My heels clicked against the floor, steady, sure. "Dema!" Sarah from was the first to speak, her eyes widening. "You look—" "Different?" I finished for her, smiling. She shook her head. "Refreshed."
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The furniture store is vast, filled with endless possibilities, but my eyes are immediately drawn upward—to the chandeliers. Dalia walks beside me, her fingers trailing over a catalog as she hums in thought. "That one,"I say suddenly, pointing to a stunning spiral glass chandelier. Its delicate branches twist like a frozen tree caught in mid-growth, each piece catching the light in a way that makes it shimmer like ice. Dalia tilts her head, studying it before smiling. "An excellent choice. It’s unique—just like you."I grin, pleased. "Exactly what I was thinking." We move to the living room section next, and I run my hand over the fabric of a sleek grey couch. It’s soft but sturdy, and when I spot the dark green pillows, I know it’s perfect. "These," I say, arranging them against the back. "With that organic wood table—see how the grain flows?" Dalia nods approvingly. "Moody and elegant. Now, curtains?"I scan the options, searching for something that ties it all together—deep
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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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For the longest time, I truly believed our marriage was perfect—or at least, that it should have been. I thought love was simple: give her gifts, smile at her, and she’ll be happy. I told myself that if I loved her deeply, that was enough. After all, shouldn’t love mean acceptance? Shouldn’t 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 didn’t see the cracks forming between us—the quiet disappointments, the unspoken frustrations. Love isn’t just about feeling; it’s 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 her—the way I laughed too easily at their jokes, the way my friendliness som
