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Chapter 90, Finding My Home.
Last Updated:
2025-04-10 07:28:49
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The keys to the beach house felt heavy in my hand—not from weight, but from possibility. This was mine. Entirely mine. No compromises, no opinions to consider except my own. The salt-kissed air rushed past me as I pushed open the door, the empty rooms echoing with potential. I walked through the bare space, my fingers trailing along the walls, already imagining the colors they would wear. Soft, grey and sky blue? Or maybe something bolder, like the deep turquoise of the ocean at dusk? I smiled. I’ll decide later. Every choice would be mine, down to the smallest detail. The living room was bathed in golden afternoon light, and I tilted my head up, picturing a chandelier—something delicate but striking, like crystal droplets catching the sun. Not the kind you’d find in a showroom, but something unique, something that felt like it belonged only here. I crouched, pressing my palm against the cool tile floor. These would have to go. Maybe something in a pale, weathered stone, or hand
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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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I was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through furniture magazines on my phone,saving ideas for the beach house decoration. The more I looked, the more I got excited for Thursday. The door creaked open, and Rami walked in, hands in his pockets, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I took the day off,” he announced. I glanced up, raising an eyebrow. “Why?” He shrugged. “Thought we could go shopping. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the whole redecorating thing.” I sighed, tossing my phone aside. “Actually, I have. I was just thinking—the furniture in the mansion is classic. It’s refined. Changing it would be a waste.” Rami chuckled, shaking his head. “So all those hours of browsing were for nothing?” “Call it a change of heart,” I said dryly. “Well,” he said, stepping closer, “since I already took the day off, we might as well go out. Get dressed—I’m taking you to that new Palestinian restaurant everyone’s talking about.” A smile tugged at my lips. “Fine. But only bec
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I clutched the black eyeliner in my hand, my fingers tightening around it like a vice. The second Rami slid back into the car with that damn Kunafa box, I held it up, my voice sharp. "Whose is this?" He barely glanced at it before shrugging. "I don’t know. If it’s not yours, maybe it’s my secretary’s. She came with me to the last meeting—probably dropped it." Probably dropped it. The words echoed in my head, mocking me. I felt heat rise in my chest, my pulse hammering. "Of course she dropped it," I snapped, my voice trembling. "While she was laughing hysterically at your silly jokes, right?" Rami’s eyes widened, startled. "Dema, stop yelling. We’re in the middle of the street—" I didn’t care. The image of her—whoever she was—sitting in my seat, laughing, touching his arm, fixing her makeup in the mirror—it played over and over in my mind. My breath came fast, my vision blurring at the edges. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I dropped into the passenger seat, my voice flat. "Ta
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I stepped into the beach house, the salty breeze still clinging to my skin. The living room was the only furnished space so far, so I dropped my bag of clothes near the couch with a tired sigh. Alhamdulliah for the early delivery service, I thought, running a hand through my hair. Without that couch, I’d be sleeping on the floor tonight. I sank into the cushions, letting my body melt into the softness. Closing my eyes, I exhaled, the tension of the day slowly slipped away. The house was so quiet—no city noise, no chatter, just the rhythmic crash of waves outside. The sound seeped in through the large windows, steady and calming, like the ocean was whispering to me. This is peace.For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.I scrolled mindlessly on my phone, the blue light harsh against my tired eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come, and I hadn’t thought to bring a blanket—just this thin coat draped over me like a sad excuse for warmth. Please don’t let me wake up sick tomorr
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With Dalia’s help, I had finally managed to turn my empty house into a home. The past few days had been a whirlwind of shopping trips, debating over fabric swatches, and measuring spaces to make sure everything fit just right. But now, standing in the middle of my newly furnished bedroom, I couldn’t help but smile. The furniture we’d chosen was perfect—modern, yet warm. The bed frame was a sleek white with soft, rounded edges, and the matching dresser had delicate gold handles that caught the light just so. Dalia had convinced me to add touches of light pink in the décor—throw pillows, a cozy rug, and even the curtains had a subtle blush hue. At first, I’d been hesitant, afraid it might feel too girlish, but now, seeing it all come together, it felt right.It felt like me. “See?” Dalia nudged me with her elbow, grinning. “I told you the pink would work. It’s elegant, not childish.” I ran my fingers over the smooth surface of the nightstand, still marveling at how different the roo
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I set my foot down, finally feeling the weight of my own resolve. I wasn’t backing down this time. The beach house was where I wanted to be, and if Rami wanted to stay with me, he was welcome—but I wasn’t going back to that mansion. I looked at him, watching his face shift from confusion to outright shock. His dark eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as if he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. Good. He needed to understand that this wasn’t a negotiation. "My decision is final," I said, crossing my arms. "Nothing’s going to change my mind." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Dema, I get it. Honestly, I’ve always thought the mansion was too much sometimes. A smaller home sounds… nice." I raised an eyebrow. "Then what’s the problem?" He hesitated, his shoulders tensing. "It’s not that simple. The mansion is worth millions. And it’s not even really mine—it belongs to my parents. If I just abandon it, they’ll think I’m some ungrateful brat." I scof
Last Updated : 2025-04-13
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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
