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Chapter 99, Finally Home.
Last Updated:
2025-04-14 00:04:10
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A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 99, Getting Ready For Battle.
The morning light spills through the curtains, warm and golden, and for a moment, everything feels perfect. Rami’s arm is draped over me, his breathing slow and steady. I should be happy—no, I *am* happy. But beneath it, like a whisper I can’t silence, is the fear. The fear that he’ll leave again. That this peace is just another illusion, another moment before the storm. I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. The house is quiet, the way I always dreamed it would be. But the weight in my chest won’t lift. How can I trust this? How can I trust *him* after everything? My phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Rola’s number. She answers on the third ring, her voice bright and cheerful. "Dema! It’s been too long," she says, and I force a smile she can’t see. "Yeah, it has," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I was thinking… maybe we could meet up? Just us." There’s a pause. Then, "Actually, Bayan’s here with me. She’d love to see you too." My stomach twists. *
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The café when we first arrived felt cozy and nice , the clink of cups and conversations filling the air. Now the atmosphere was filled with tension because of our table.Across from me, Bayan sat, her sharp eyes studying me over the rim of her coffee cup. I met her gaze, steady, unflinching. Silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken challenges. Let her make the first move,I thought. Patience is key.Rola broke the quiet first, her voice light but probing. "So, Dema... how have you been?" I smiled, smooth, practiced. "Great, actually. Couldn’t be better." Bayan’s fingers tightened around her cup, her lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. She saw her opening and took it—no hesitation. "And how’s Rami?" she asked, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "Things still good between you two?" I felt the weight of the question, the trap hidden beneath it. But I didn’t falter. Drawing in a slow breath, I kept my voice even, my expression unreadable. "Perfe
Last Updated : 2025-04-14A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 102, Bayan's Side Of The Story.
The three of us sat in tense silence, locked in a staring contest that felt like it stretched for hours. Rola’s eyes were sharp, unwavering, but Bayan—Bayan was different. Her gaze was intense, but there was something playful lurking beneath it, something that made my skin prickle with anticipation. And then, without warning, she broke. A loud, unrestrained laugh burst from her lips, so sudden that I flinched. She threw her head back, shoulders shaking, as if the sheer absurdity of the moment had finally gotten to her. Rola exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes, but I just stared, bewildered. “Oh, Dema,” Bayan managed between giggles, wiping at the corner of her eye. “You know what? After thinking about it—really thinking about it—you’re exactly the kind of person I like.” I blinked. “What?” She leaned back in her chair, the tension draining from her posture as she stretched lazily. “Headstrong. Stubborn. A little too careful.” A smirk tugged at her lips. “Definitely not the type
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I take a slow breath before speaking, choosing my words carefully. "Bayan... Rami told me you misunderstood him. He said you disappeared after seeing him talk to a girl—that he was actually about to reject her."For a second, Bayan just stares at me. Then she lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Oh, he said that, did he?" Her voice is laced with something bitter. "Of course he did."She leans forward, her eyes burning into mine. "I saw everything, Dema. From the beginning. He wasn’t about to reject her—he was joking around with her, laughing, playing dumb like he always does when he’s flirting. And when she confessed? He gave her that same vague, careless smile he gives them all, The one that makes you think maybe, just maybe, he feels the same—until you realize he’s just stringing you along like all the others." My throat tightens. I’ve seen that smile. "And when she confessed?" Bayan continues, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. "He didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes. He just bru
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I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, letting out a slow breath. The house was quiet—too quiet. No Rami, no maids. Just me and my thoughts, swirling like a storm I couldn’t escape. After that meeting, I couldn’t bring myself to go to work. How could I? How could I sit at my desk, pretend everything was normal, when my head was full of Bayan’s words and Rami’s excuses? How can I carry on with my day with all these thoughts swimming in my mind, especially the idea that there's a chance that he's always been a playboy.Bayan’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and certain. She had no reason to lie about it. And yet… Rami had looked me in the eyes and told me she misunderstood him. That he had feelings for her. That the other girls meant nothing. But did they? Even before I knew about Bayan, before any of this, something about the way Rami acted with other women had always rubbed me the wrong way. The way they laughed a little too loudly at his jokes, The way he was too comf
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The phone rang just as I was unpacking the last box in our new beach house. It was her, My mother in law, my stomach twisted, but I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello, how are you Khalto ,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. The silence on the other end was heavy, charged. Then— “Dema.” Her voice was sharp, each syllable a blade. “Is it true?” I swallowed. “Is what true?” “Don’t play ignorant with me!” she snapped. “I just drove to the mansion to surprise you both, only to find out that no one lives there anymore! The security guard told me my son and his wife moved out. Without a word. Without consulting me.” I gripped the phone tighter. “We meant to tell you—” “Tell me?” She let out a bitter laugh. “After everything I did for you? That house was my vision. Every piece of furniture, every curtain—I chose them all. For you. And this is how you repay me? Sneaking away like thieves in the night?” My chest burned. “We didn’t sneak. We just… wanted something sm
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I wiped my hands on my apron, glancing around the living room one last time. Everything had to be perfect. The cushions were fluffed, the floors spotless, and the scent of lemon polish still lingered in the air. I had spent all morning scrubbing, rearranging, making sure not a single speck of dust dared to show itself. They have to see how well I take care of their son, I thought, smoothing down the fabric of my dress—a modest, elegant one I had picked specifically for today. I wanted to look put-together but not like I was trying too hard. Though, of course, I was trying too hard. The kitchen hummed with activity—the rich aroma of slow-cooked lamb and spices filled the air. I had practiced the recipe three times this week, tweaking the seasoning until it was just right. My mother-in-law was an excellent cook, and I needed her approval. Not just on the food—on everything. I adjusted the vase of fresh flowers on the dining table, then stepped back, second-guessing the arrangement
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My head is pounding, a dull, relentless ache pressing against my temples. The numbers on the screen blur together, and I blink hard, trying to force my eyes to focus. But the dizziness won’t let up—every time I stand, the room tilts slightly, like the ground beneath me is unsteady. "Dema, you look pale," Dalia says, frowning as she leans over my desk. "You should go home." I shake my head, immediately regretting it as the motion sends another wave of nausea through me. "I’m fine. Just need a minute." Karim crosses his arms, unconvinced. "You’re not fine. You’ve been zoning out all morning. Go rest." "I said I’m fine," I snap, sharper than I mean to. But I can’t afford to leave. There’s too much to do, and I don’t want to seem weak. Still, my body betrays me. My limbs feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish. When break time finally comes, I slump in my chair, pressing my fingers to my forehead. A familiar presence steps beside me. I look up and find out it's Rami. "You’re still
Last Updated : 2025-04-16
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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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Last night was one of the longest nights I’ve ever experienced. Dema had been throwing up on and off for hours, her discomfort keeping both of us awake well past midnight. Each time I heard her retching in the bathroom, my chest tightened with worry. I hovered near the door, offering water, a cold towel, anything to ease her nausea. At one point, I even suggested taking her to the emergency room, fearing she might be seriously ill, but she waved me off weakly. "It’s fine, really," she insisted, her voice hoarse from the strain."This is normal—just part of it." I didn’t understand how anything so exhausting could be normal but she assured me it was just her body adjusting. Still, I couldn’t shake the helplessness gnawing at me. Eventually, the vomiting subsided, but sleep remained out of reach for her. Restless and drained, she wandered out to the balcony, seeking the cool night air. I watched from the doorway as she settled into the wicker chair, her silhouette outlined by the p
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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."
A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 144, Rami's Dairies Part 19
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
A Twist In My Marriage Deal With The CEO Chapter 142, Rami's Dairies Part 17
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
