Parveen Babi: A Life

Azmia, a housewife who has to accept the harst reality. When she is pregnant, Bram (her husband) is dragged into the word of coercion by Bram's bos. Azmia' brain tumor and Bram's infidelity accompanied the birth of their baby. Azmia struggle and tries to save Bram and their househode from the abyys destruction. However, happiness only last from a moment. The dead of her six - month - old baby Micca left a wound in her hearth. Losing Micca made Azmia cold and away from Bram. She's back to being a hedonistict women. Reuniting with Baren (a man whos still loves her) and knowing the life stories of her friends makes Azmia realize what she really wants in life. When Baren and Bram fought over Azmia's love, suddenly Azmia's condition was critical.

Beauty they said fade which is true. But beauty within never fade. Tehzeeb a young and elegant lady. She have grown up without knowing what opulence is rather she have grown up to know what penury is. Would she be able to know what opulence is? or would she forever remain in penury?. Opposite they said attract. Does that means that the rich and the poor will attract. Fate can't be change and Destiny they said can't be predicted. What would her destiny be? What does destiny have in store for her? Could it be love? Or what?. If you want to find out what happened to Tezheeb the press the add button © Zeeekadir

My mother had a rare disease. After months of dead ends, I found one person in the country who could treat her. She told me there was a price. She said she needed a husband. I agreed. For my mother, I agreed. For six years I was her ATM. I bought her the bags. I bought her the watches. It got worse. She used my money to keep a kept man. She brought him into our bed. The day my mother had her last surgery, she walked out of the operating room halfway through to go celebrate her lover's birthday. The moment they pronounced my mother dead, I decided there and then, she was paying for that with her life.

"I didn’t know I was marrying two people. He wore the suit, but she pulled the strings. The day I walked down the aisle, eyes locked with the man I loved, I thought I had found peace. I thought I was finally leaving behind the noise of my childhood, the ache of loneliness, and the years I spent praying for a love that would choose me, only me. But no one told me that some men never truly leave their mothers. They marry, yes,but their hearts remain tangled in an invisible umbilical cord, one that stretches past vows, past bedrooms, past boundaries. I moved into our new home, only to find that the walls had ears, hers. We lived in separate flats, but it never truly felt like my space. My marriage was a room she walked into, uninvited but ever present. Her opinions dripped into our arguments, her eyes followed me from behind lace curtains, and her voice echoed in decisions that should have belonged to me and my husband. At first, I kept quiet. I told myself it was cultural. Respect. Family. Then I told myself it was temporary. Then I stopped telling myself anything at all, because nothing I said made a difference. This is not a story of hate. It’s a story of love, tested by bloodlines, boundaries, and a battle I never asked to fight. This is my truth. The marriage I thought was mine. The home that never really felt like home. And the rules I never agreed to, but had to live by, simply because… I was under her roof".

"Aasif," I whispered, my voice shaky with desire. He didn't reply. He only held me tighter, his strong arms a band around my waist. His kisses grew more intense, all I wanted was him, His touch, his scent, him inside me. I was teetering on the edge, yet he held back. He held us back. He pulled away; his breathing as erratic as mine. His voice was rough, filled with an intense battle of restraint and desire   "This is just for curiosity's sake, right?" His voice was deep, husky, a sensual murmur against my skin that made my pulse race even faster. Gabriela a young nurse from a small Mexican town, shoulders the world as she strives to provide for her ailing mother and little sister, Maria. An unexpected opportunity emerges when she's offered a job at a prestigious hospital in Al-Qamar. Thrust into the vibrant but unfamiliar world of the Arabian desert, Gabby grapples with her new reality. But Gabby's life takes a dramatic twist when she crosses paths with a charismatic yet arrogant billionaire Sheikh. Their worlds collide in a whirlwind of opulence and high-stakes power dynamics, their association marked by the Sheikh's emotionally barren, benefit-based approach towards relationships. A tragic accident abruptly turns the tables when the Sheikh suffers memory loss, casting a shadow of uncertainty over Gabby's future. The once arrogant billionaire stands before her, a man without a past, unraveled and vulnerable. As Gabby is pulled into a vortex of caring for the man who once saw her as a mere commodity, she grapples with the strange affectionate ties that emerge. With a newfound bond budding and the Sheikh's memory threatening to return at any moment, Gabby is walking on a tightrope of emotions, what happens when the Sheikh's memory returns?

Ever since my husband, the mafia capo Rocco Marchetti, poured all his attention and the family's resources into his brother's widow, the woman whose husband took a bullet for him. I found our daughter Tessy's diary, where she had started writing, "My Papa is gone." A nun from her private Catholic school called, asking about his passing. I paused for a moment. "Yes," I replied. "He passed away a long time ago." On Father's Day, the school organized a trip to the church to light prayer candles. While other children wrote cards praying for their fathers' safety, Tessy neatly wrote just two words on hers: "To Heaven." During the parent-teacher open house, the nuns displayed the children's decorated diaries on their desks. The theme for their entries was My Father. My Papa died in a shootout in the next neighborhood over. A lady there wouldn't stop crying, and then Papa never came home. After every entry like this, she would clutch the crucifix on her necklace, her small hand gripping it so tightly her palm grew slick with sweat. Eventually, Rocco sensed the growing chill at home. He dropped everything and rushed back to the estate with a bouquet of expensive red roses, hoping to celebrate his daughter's birthday with her. The door opened. On the coffee table lay Tessy's new diary, its title scrawled in a childish hand: If Papa Were Still Alive.