Chapter 40

Rani’s Point Of View

Nine months.

It felt like I’d lived nine lifetimes inside this body, each one heavier, softer, slower, but filled with more love than I thought I deserved. I wasn’t the same woman I was when I first married Lamia Al-Gaddafi out of obligation and business and political power. That Rani was sharp-edged, angry, tired of bending for a life that wasn’t her own. This Rani? I was… still sharp-edged, yes. Still a diva, God forbid I lose my sense of style, but I had softened in ways I never thought I could.

Especially now, waddling around the grand halls of the Al-Gaddafi estate in a silk robe and fuzzy Chanel slippers like some hormonal duchess on house arrest.

Because I was due.

Any day now.

Rebecca was full-term, kicking like a tiny goddess, and my doctor said she could come out any moment. And just like when I was pregnant with Faisal, I had stepped back from work, left it all in Elise’s terrifyingly efficient hands, and came here, to Lamia’s parents’ home, where I could rest. Or at least try.

But rest was a lie.

Who could rest when you were carrying a tiny, high-maintenance heiress in your stomach while simultaneously chasing after a talkative, hyper toddler who had no clue he was about to be dethroned?

I sat on one of the antique velvet couches in the second living room, yes, second, because the Al-Gaddafi estate wasn’t a house, it was a palace, and let out a long, exhausted sigh.

Faisal was playing with his wooden car toys on the carpet, making little vroom noises and occasionally throwing glances at me to see if I was watching. Of course I was. He was too precious to not watch. He looked so much like Lamia it made my chest ache sometimes. Every time he furrowed his brows or pouted, I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. My boy.

Latif, bless his heart, sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, pretending to be a monster truck driver just to make Faisal giggle. He had been more hands-on than expected ever since we arrived. Maybe because he was bored at home. Maybe because he adored Faisal. Maybe because he finally realized babies are fun when they don’t cry every hour. Either way, I was grateful. So, so grateful.

Lamia was upstairs finishing a Zoom call with one of her petroleum investors in Qatar. I could still hear the faint, composed rhythm of her voice echoing down the grand staircase. Confident. Elegant. Deadly. My wife. Still a force of nature, even with baby number two about to arrive any day.

I placed both hands on my belly and exhaled.

“Rebecca,” I whispered. “Let Mama have one more day of peace before you make your dramatic entrance, okay?”

As if on cue, she kicked.

Hard.

I winced. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re ready. But I’m not.”

Faisal looked up at me with big, curious eyes. “Mama?”

I smiled through the pain and leaned forward slightly. “Mama’s okay, love. Just your baby sister dancing again.”

He stood on his chubby feet and toddled over to me, placing a tiny hand on my swollen tummy. “Beka?”

“Yes, baby. That’s Becca.” I guided his hand gently. “She likes when you talk to her.”

He leaned his face close to my belly and whispered in the most adorable baby gibberish I’d ever heard, ending with a loud kiss on my bump.

It melted me.

All the discomfort. All the hormones. The sleepless nights. The back pain. The goddamn stretch marks I now traced with pride, all of it felt worth it in moments like this.

Latif looked up from his position on the floor. “He’s gonna be a good kuya.”

I nodded. “He already is.”

He smiled, then glanced around the room. “Do you want me to get you anything? Water? Ice cream? That weird sour pickle-flavored sorbet you asked for yesterday?”

I laughed. “No, I’m good. Just… stay close, okay? In case I suddenly scream and ruin the Persian carpet.”

Latif turned pale. “Please don’t do that.”

I smirked. “No promises.”

Just then, I heard the familiar rhythm of Lamia’s heels descending the stairs.

“Meeting’s done,” she called. “And if one more billionaire tries to tell me how to run my oil fields, I’m going to switch to solar out of spite.”

I looked up just in time to see her enter the room in one of her structured, pinstriped jumpsuits. She looked like a Wall Street goddess, and still, she walked toward me like I was the only thing she could see.

“Hey,” I whispered as she knelt in front of me, kissing my lips softly, then resting her forehead against mine. “You smell like power and exhaustion.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she murmured.

“Where’s Mama and Baba?” I asked, running a hand through her hair.

“They had a lunch meeting in Makati with the Japanese ambassador. Luqman and his family flew to Singapore for the week. Lameel’s at her clinic.”

“So just us?”

“Just us,” she confirmed, planting a kiss on my belly. “And this tiny, terrifying queen who refuses to be patient.”

“She kicked so hard earlier,” I said. “I thought my water broke.”

Lamia immediately looked alarmed. “Did it?”

“No,” I rolled my eyes. “But I love how you panic like a man in a telenovela every time I say that.”

She smirked, brushing her fingers over the top of my belly like she was blessing a sacred temple. “If you go into labor right now, I want the driver ready, the bag packed, and the nurses in full PPE.”

I snorted. “Lamia, I’m pregnant. Not radioactive.”

She gave me a look. “You’re Rani. I’m not taking chances.”

She turned toward Latif and Faisal. “Hey, boys. Dinner soon. I’m thinking Korean barbecue.”

Faisal jumped up. “Me! Samgyup!”

Latif laughed and gave him a high five.

I watched them all, their voices echoing across the marble, the early evening sun filtering in from the stained-glass windows. It was quiet, warm, real.

And I suddenly realized…

I wasn’t scared of Rebecca coming anymore.

I was ready.

Because she wasn’t entering a broken home. Or a cold empire. She was coming into this, a home we built. A love we chose. A family we fought for.

Any day now.

Any moment.

And I would welcome her with open arms.

——

Dinner came like a gentle wave across the vast marbled dining hall of the Al-Gaddafi mansion, golden lights spilling across the long table as the last touches of daylight gave way to the softness of evening. I was already seated at the head of the table, not by tradition, but because Lamia insisted… again. She’d pulled the seat out for me earlier, like I was fragile porcelain, and said, “You’re carrying our queen, you sit here.” And no one dared to argue.

Faisal was beside me in his custom booster seat, spooning little mouthfuls of vermicelli rice with his small chubby fingers, his giggles every few bites melting my swollen heart. He kept offering me bites from his plate, and even though I was already too full from my endless pregnancy cravings, I took each one with a dramatic, “Mmm, that’s soooo yummy, anak,” just to hear him squeal in joy.

Across from me sat Lamia, my wife, my sin, my softness, my obsession. She wore an oversized black Balenciaga shirt over tailored lounge pants, but she somehow still looked like a walking Vogue editorial. Her face was bare, her lips glistening from the lamb stew she spooned delicately onto her rice. Every so often, she’d glance up and meet my gaze. And every time she did, I felt that heavy, burning desire just beneath my ribcage.

Latif was at the far end of the table, casually chewing his food while scrolling on his tablet with one hand. He’d offered to help cook earlier, but I knew better. That boy couldn’t tell the difference between a measuring cup and a ladle. Instead, he kept Faisal entertained earlier in the living room while I took a short nap, waking only to the sound of my son’s laughter echoing through the mansion’s polished halls.

The food was perfect. A full spread was laid out for us: lamb biryani still steaming in its copper pot, grilled prawns marinated in za’atar and olive oil, a rich lentil soup with saffron swirled on top, and dates stuffed with almonds sitting next to pistachio-laced baklava. Everything smelled so fragrant, it was criminal. Even Latif stopped tapping on his tablet for a second to say, “Rani, I swear, this baby is going to come out craving biryani at this point.”

We all laughed. I held my tummy with one hand and lifted my glass of almond milk mocktail with the other. “Honestly? She probably already thinks she’s Middle Eastern royalty. She kicks extra hard every time I eat saffron.”

Lamia chuckled, leaning back on her chair, her fingers laced over her abdomen, “That’s because she is. Our daughter’s gonna be worse than you, I can feel it. Spoiled, demanding, and terrifyingly beautiful.”

“You forgot ‘deadly smart’ and ‘impossibly dramatic,'” I added, narrowing my eyes playfully.

“Ah, yes,” Lamia said, reaching across the table to brush my hair behind my ear. “Like her Ummi.”

Faisal was too focused on his spoonful of lentils to notice the way his mothers were undressing each other with their eyes again.

I blushed and tried to shift on my seat, but my belly was so heavy now it felt like a full moon had replaced my core. “Okay,” I sighed, fanning myself with a napkin, “who turned the heat up to hell in here?”

Latif, without looking up, said, “It’s literally 21 degrees, Ate.”

“Then my body’s broken,” I mumbled, placing a hand on my lower back as I groaned and leaned on the cushioned chair. “I feel like a watermelon about to explode.”

Lamia stood up immediately and walked to my side, crouching and placing both hands gently on my belly. “Want me to massage your back upstairs later?”

My lashes fluttered. “You’re trying to bribe me with touch again.”

“Is it working?”

“Unfortunately.”

She kissed my cheek before standing again, returning to her seat as if the moment hadn’t just turned the whole dinner table into a goddamn novella.

I glanced around, the grand chandelier above us casting a soft amber light over everything. There was no Mama and Babba tonight, Mama was in Abu Dhabi attending an oil investment summit, and Babba was handling an emergency security audit in Qatar. But even without them, the house felt whole. Quiet. Warm. Safe.

I turned to Faisal, brushing rice off his lips with a napkin, watching as his lashes danced on his cheeks.

“You’re going to be a kuya soon,” I whispered into his ear, and he blinked up at me, confused but curious.

He repeated, “Koo-ya?”

“Yes,” I smiled, kissing his forehead. “My brave little kuya.”

And just as I said that, I felt the tiniest kick inside me. My daughter, responding as if to say, Hey, I’m here too.

God. We were almost complete.

I looked at Lamia again and caught her already staring at me with a softness that broke every part of me into stardust.

I mouthed, “I love you.”

She mouthed back, “Forever.”

And then we kept eating, talking about nursery renovations, Faisal’s upcoming second birthday, and how I’d probably go into labor before we could even finish planning the cake. But in that moment, surrounded by rich food, soft laughter, and the scent of blooming jasmine from the garden outside…

It felt like we already had everything.

——

The dinner at Mama and Babba’s house had been a delicate balance of warmth and subtle tension, exactly what I’d expected. Lameel and Latif, Lamia’s youngest siblings, had been their usual playful, affectionate selves, darting around the room like little whirlwinds, their laughter filling the spacious living room. I loved watching Lamia’s face soften when they ran up to hug her, the way her eyes twinkled whenever she teased them or joined their little games. It was moments like those that reminded me what family really meant.

The scent of freshly baked bread and spiced lamb still lingered in the air as we said our goodbyes, the house filled with the kind of comforting noise that comes from a family who knows each other’s stories by heart. I held Lamia’s hand a little tighter as we stepped out into the cool evening air. The city lights of Forbes twinkled around us, casting long shadows as we climbed into the sleek black car waiting by the driveway.

Faisal, exhausted from the day’s excitement, was already nestled in his car seat, his tiny hands clutching his favorite stuffed toy. Nina was quietly buckling him in, humming softly. I smiled at the scene, simple, peaceful, perfect.

As the car glided smoothly onto the highway, Lamia reached over and brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. “You okay?” she asked, her voice gentle but laced with concern.

I nodded, managing a smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

But then, like a sharp, sudden jolt, a twisting ache blossomed deep in my belly. It wasn’t just the usual discomfort that came with being seven months pregnant, it was sharper, more insistent, almost demanding my full attention.

I gasped softly, clutching my stomach, my breath catching.

“Rani?” Lamia’s voice sharpened, eyes searching mine with immediate worry.

“I… I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling. “It’s like a cramp, but stronger.”

The car slowed, the city lights blurring past the window as I fought to steady my breathing. My hand gripped Lamia’s tightly now, fingers intertwining like lifelines.

“Should I call the hospital?” Lamia asked, her usual calm replaced by urgent concern.

“No… wait…” I breathed, trying to push through the discomfort. But the ache pulsed again, sharper this time, radiating through my lower abdomen like wildfire. I winced, closing my eyes as the pain threatened to overwhelm me.

Lamia’s hand was on my cheek in an instant, her thumb gently brushing my temple. “Rani, please, tell me what you need.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to panic. “I don’t want to scare you… but it feels different. More intense. Maybe it’s Braxton Hicks?”

She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together. “We’re going straight to the hospital. Now.”

The driver heard the urgency in her voice and took the next exit, the car weaving through quieter streets as Lamia dialed their doctor on speakerphone.

“Stay with me, love,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the tension threading through the air. “Breathe. I’m right here.”

Faisal stirred awake, sensing the sudden shift. I caught his wide eyes looking at me, confusion flickering in his innocent gaze.

“Hey, little man,” I crooned softly, forcing my voice to remain calm. “Mama’s okay. Just a little tired.”

Lamia glanced back at Faisal, offering a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The minutes felt like hours as we drove under the night sky, the ache never fully fading but ebbing and flowing unpredictably. My mind raced with worst-case scenarios even as I tried to ground myself, remembering the doctor’s advice, the breathing exercises, the promise that Rebecca was still safe inside me.

Lamia didn’t leave my side once, her fingers tracing gentle circles on my back, her whispered reassurances like a lifeline tethering me to calm.

When we finally pulled up to the hospital, the world felt suddenly too bright and cold. Lamia helped me out of the car, steadying me as I took shaky steps inside.

The sterile scent of antiseptics hit me instantly, but I barely noticed. All I could focus on was the pounding of my heart and the fierce, overwhelming presence of Lamia by my side.

We were a team, two women caught in the messy, beautiful chaos of life, love, and everything in between.

And as the nurse wheeled me toward the delivery ward for monitoring, I squeezed Lamia’s hand so tightly I was sure she felt it.

“No matter what,” I whispered, voice raw but determined, “we’re going to be okay.”

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Always.”

In that moment, the world outside the hospital walls faded away. There was only us, me, her, our son, and the baby we were fighting to protect.

And somehow, that was enough.

Doctors and nurses swarmed around me, voices calm but efficient.

“Rani, we’re here for you. We’ll take care of everything,” one said, slipping on gloves with practiced ease.

I tried to focus on Lamia’s face, the soft worry lines around her eyes, her lips moving silently, reassuring me without words.

“Breathe,” she whispered, her hand wrapped tightly around mine, her thumb pressing reassuring circles against my knuckles. “You’re doing amazing.”

Pain slammed through me again. The world narrowed to the pounding of my heart and the wild rhythm of my contractions.

Minutes stretched, each one an eternity.

The doctor explained the process, how far dilated I was, how strong the contractions were, the baby’s heartbeat steady and strong.

I felt a surge of strength. This was it. Our daughter was coming.

Lamia’s fingers intertwined with mine so tightly my skin tingled with the warmth of her touch.

“Rani, I’m here. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I gasped, tears streaming down my cheeks, my breath ragged but fierce.

The room became a blur of movement, counting, pushing, guiding. I screamed and cried, my body trembling from exhaustion and pain.

And then, in a moment that stretched infinitely, the world stilled again.

A tiny cry, sharp and sweet, filled the room.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse announced, holding up a bundle wrapped in soft pink.

Lamia’s tears mixed with mine as they placed our daughter on my chest.

She was perfect.

Rebecca.

Our miracle.

Warm and breathing against me, her small fingers curling instinctively around mine.

“I can’t believe she’s finally here,” I whispered, voice broken but full.

Lamia kissed my forehead, her lips soft and reverent.

“We did it. Our family is complete.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of machines and the gentle presence of the woman I loved and the life we created, I knew there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be.

Rebecca was still on my chest, warm and impossibly small, her soft cries now quieting into the tiniest whimpers, like she already knew she was home. My arms curled protectively around her, skin to skin, chest to chest. I didn’t even realize I was still crying until Lamia leaned forward and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks with her thumb.

“She’s perfect,” I whispered again, my voice hoarse, barely audible.

Lamia didn’t answer at first. She just stared at Rebecca, her eyes wide and glassy, her mouth parted like she couldn’t breathe properly. I could see the exact second it hit her. The weight of it all. The miracle, the fear, the fierce love. Her hand trembled as she reached for Rebecca’s tiny back and laid her palm flat against it.

“She’s really here,” Lamia said finally, in a voice that cracked somewhere in the middle. “You did it, Rani…”

“No,” I murmured, shaking my head gently. “We did.”

I felt the hospital blanket tucked over my legs shift a little as Lamia leaned closer, pressing a kiss on my damp forehead. She was still in her soft tan trench coat, half unbuttoned from the rush earlier, her hair frizzed just slightly at the ends, like she’d run her hands through it too many times. And yet, somehow, she looked like everything I needed her to be. solid, present, and infinite.

Rebecca’s tiny fingers twitched, curling around my collarbone like she knew exactly where she belonged. I held her tighter. The sound of her breathing, so faint, so rhythmic, was the only thing anchoring me now, tethering me back to earth.

“I was so scared,” I admitted, barely above a whisper. “I thought something was wrong. The cramps, the panic… I thought I was losing her before I ever got to hold her.”

Lamia closed her eyes for a moment, nodding. “Me too,” she whispered. “God, Rani, me too. But she’s here. She’s healthy. You’re okay.”

I looked up at the ceiling, trying to breathe deeper. The overhead lights were still too bright. The faint smell of antiseptic still clung to the air. But under the sterile chaos of it all was this moment, a bubble of pure stillness. Just me, Lamia, and this little girl who had already rearranged the shape of our hearts just by existing.

“She has your mouth,” I said softly, tilting my head to look at her little lips. “Look. Same pout when she’s about to complain.”

Lamia laughed under her breath, wiping at the corner of her eye. “You sure? I think she’s already giving your exact judgmental squint.”

“She’s literally two minutes old.”

“And already unimpressed.”

I gave a tired, wet laugh and let my head fall back against the pillow, my heart so full it hurt. Lamia was now gently tracing Rebecca’s shoulder with her pinky, afraid to touch too much, like one wrong move would shatter the moment. But I knew her fingers were safe. Rebecca already knew her too.

I turned my head slowly to the side and looked at Lamia again. “Do you want to hold her?”

Lamia’s eyes snapped up to mine. “Can I?”

“Of course,” I breathed.

She stood carefully, fingers shaking slightly as she reached for our daughter. I guided her hand under Rebecca’s head and lifted her slowly off my chest, watching as Lamia cradled her like a secret. She didn’t sit back down. She just stood there for a long, breathless moment, staring at the tiny life bundled against her chest.

“Oh my God,” Lamia whispered. “She’s so… light.”

“She’s 6.4 pounds of pure attitude,” I said.

Lamia gave a soft snort, brushing her nose gently against Rebecca’s forehead. “Hi, baby girl,” she whispered. “I’m your Mama. And I’m already completely ruined by you.”

Rebecca squirmed a little, but didn’t cry. Her little head turned slightly into Lamia’s chest, as if she knew that voice already, had memorized it over months of muffled vibrations in the womb.

“Look at you,” Lamia whispered. “Tiny thing. You don’t even know how much we love you.”

I watched her hold Rebecca like she’d been waiting for this her whole life. Her shoulders had finally dropped, like some invisible weight was lifted. I could see the tremble in her lip, the way her eyes wouldn’t leave Rebecca’s. Her world had rearranged in a heartbeat.

“She’s going to grow up so safe,” I said, my voice quiet. “So loved.”

Lamia looked at me then, like she hadn’t forgotten I was there, but was rediscovering me all over again. “You gave her to us,” she whispered. “You… You gave us everything.”

I reached out weakly and held onto the sleeve of her coat, tugging it until she sat down beside the hospital bed again, Rebecca still snug in her arms.

“I want Faisal to meet her,” I said suddenly, my heart stuttering at the thought. “Can someone bring him?”

“I already messaged Nina,” Lamia murmured. “She’s still in the lounge with him. She said he’s napping but she’ll wake him when we say.”

I nodded slowly, my hand resting over my still aching belly. It felt so strange now, suddenly empty, like a chapter had closed. But then I looked at Lamia holding Rebecca, and I realized: the next one had just begun.

Lamia glanced down at our daughter again and then back at me, something unreadable in her expression. “She’s ours, Rani. Really ours.”

I smiled through the tears. “So was Faisal. And now she is too. And maybe… just maybe… I’ll stop feeling like I have to prove that I’m strong all the time. Maybe it’s okay to be soft now.”

Lamia leaned forward, resting her forehead against mine, both of us staring down at the tiny sleeping girl between us.

“You’ve always been strong,” she whispered. “But your softness is what saves us.”

I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of new life, of jasmine shampoo still clinging to Lamia’s skin, of milk and warmth and love so overwhelming I didn’t know where to put it all.

I didn’t want the moment to end. I didn’t want the nurse to come in and take Rebecca for weighing or cleaning or forms to be signed. I just wanted this.

Us.

Right now.

Whole.

Breathing.

Safe.

And as the soft hum of machines pulsed in the background, and the night stretched on with its silver silence, I let my hand drift to Rebecca’s tiny leg and whispered, “Welcome to the world, anak. You’re finally home.”

——

The sound that woke me wasn’t loud. It was more like a whimper, a tiny, uneven cry that wavered in the air like a candle flame flickering in the dark.

My eyes opened slowly.

The room was dim, lit only by the dull amber glow of a small wall lamp near the sink. My back ached, my legs numb from staying in one position too long, and there was a faint, steady beep from the monitor beside the bed. For a second, I couldn’t tell where I was.

Then I heard it again.

Rebecca.

Her cries were small but sharp now, slicing clean through the quiet.

I forced myself to sit up, gritting through the soreness in my lower body, one hand pressing against my abdomen for support. Everything ached. My arms, my back, my hips. But the moment I heard her again, none of it mattered. I turned toward the hospital bassinet just beside the bed where she slept, tucked in a soft pink blanket with tiny clouds on it.

Or where she had been sleeping.

She was squirming now, her face crumpled, her eyes still shut tight as she cried.

“Shh, anak… Mama’s here…” I whispered, my voice raw with sleep as I reached over and lifted her as gently as I could.

She felt heavier now than she had earlier, though I knew that was impossible. But against my tired body, her tiny weight felt more real, more grounding. Like an anchor to this moment.

I cradled her against my chest and began swaying instinctively, whispering soft nonsense words I didn’t even think about. Just sounds to fill the air, to remind her she wasn’t alone.

Behind me, I heard the creak of the cot unfolding.

“Is she crying?” Lamia’s voice was thick with sleep.

I looked back and saw her sitting up, hair messy, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Her eyes squinted in the low light as she stood, stretching slightly.

“She’s hungry, I think,” I murmured, glancing down at Rebecca as she rooted against my hospital gown.

Lamia nodded, already moving toward the cabinet where the nurses had placed the prepared formula earlier.

“I’ll make her a bottle,” she said, her voice softer now, more awake. “You just hold her.”

“I got her,” I said quietly, shifting Rebecca higher against my shoulder.

Lamia’s bare feet padded softly on the cold tile. I heard the quiet rattle of plastic, the click of a lid, and the low hum of the bottle warmer. The hospital had given us a small one to keep overnight. She was backlit by the faint glow of the bottle station, and in that half-light, she looked strangely calm. Domestic. Like we’d done this a thousand times before.

I rocked Rebecca gently in my arms, kissing her hairline, feeling her body tense with every little cry.

“I know, baby, I know… Mama’s coming with milk, okay? Just a little bit longer…”

Lamia turned around with the warm bottle in hand. “It’s ready,” she said, walking over and gently guiding me to sit more comfortably against the pillows. “Let me… wait, I’ll help position her.”

She slid beside me on the narrow hospital bed, her thigh brushing mine as she carefully adjusted Rebecca’s swaddle and tilted the bottle just right.

Rebecca latched almost immediately, her cries fading into soft gulps.

And just like that, silence returned.

The type of silence that isn’t empty… but full.

Full of breath, warmth, presence.

I watched Lamia’s fingers as they hovered over Rebecca’s cheek, gently tracing the edge of her face.

“She’s so strong already,” Lamia whispered. “She fights when she’s hungry.”

“She’s just like you,” I murmured.

She smiled faintly. “Or maybe just like her Mama Rani. You don’t stop until everyone’s okay.”

The compliment landed somewhere tender inside me. I didn’t say anything back. I just watched our daughter drink, her tiny hand curling instinctively around my finger.

After a minute, Lamia leaned her head against my shoulder.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t pull away.

We were both exhausted, but there was a kind of peace here that didn’t need words. The kind that only arrived at 2 a.m., when the world was asleep and nothing existed except a mother, a wife, and their newborn child.

Rebecca’s sucking slowed, her eyelids fluttering.

“Do you want to burp her?” Lamia asked softly.

I nodded, carefully lifting her against my chest and patting her back gently. She made a small sound, half burp, half sigh… then went still.

Her body relaxed, her breathing slowing again.

Lamia stood to take the empty bottle and place it on the tray. Then she turned back and looked at me.

“You want me to put her back in the bassinet?” she asked.

I looked down at Rebecca, then shook my head slowly. “No. Just… let her sleep here for a while.”

Lamia nodded and sat back down beside me, reaching for the blanket and tucking it gently over my legs.

And so we stayed like that, Rebecca curled on my chest, Lamia’s hand resting lightly on my knee, the hum of machines and soft baby breaths filling the silence.

Her hand rested lightly on my calf, her thumb moving in slow, reassuring circles, and I could tell, just from that small motion, that her mind was racing again, quietly organizing a hundred things even in the stillness of the hour.

“I already messaged Mama and Babba,” she said softly, like she didn’t want to disturb Rebecca’s light sleep. “And everyone else.”

I blinked slowly, shifting my eyes to her. “Everyone?”

She nodded, smiling a little. “Luqman, Lameel. Even Jidda and Jadda.”

Then she wrinkled her nose with a soft chuckle. “I told them not to flood us with messages yet, but you know how they are.”

I exhaled a tired laugh, resting my head against the top of the pillow. “They’re probably crying already.”

“Luqman replied with like, seven voice notes,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully. “He’s in Singapore, but he said the moment they land back home, he’s coming straight here to see her. He kept saying ‘Tell Rani I’m naming my next kid after her’… which is rich, considering he already has four and swore he was done.”

I chuckled under my breath, shifting Rebecca slightly so I could rub small circles along her back. “Poor girl. She doesn’t even know how famous she is already.”

“She’s legendary,” Lamia murmured, and I felt her eyes on me again, lingering, deep, like she was looking through all the layers of me.

I looked down at Rebecca’s peaceful face, then back at Lamia.

“How did we even get here?” I whispered. “From that tiny apartment… to this.”

Lamia didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and brushed a stray hair behind my ear, her fingers barely grazing my skin. Then, with that same hand, she traced the curve of my shoulder, her touch featherlight and reverent.

Her expression softened as she said, “We got here because you never stopped fighting. Even when I was stubborn. Even when I tried to push you away.”

I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat.

“You kept believing in this,” she whispered, her palm now resting gently on the side of my neck, her thumb stroking slowly across the line of my jaw. “In us.”

Her eyes dropped to Rebecca for a second, then lifted back to mine.

“And now look at you,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “You made a daughter. A miracle. My miracle.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Only this ache in my chest. This warm, aching flood of emotion that was too big, too complex for language.

She leaned in closer, pressing a delicate kiss to my temple.

“I messaged Lameel too,” she added, almost like an afterthought, her voice now muffled against my hair. “She replied with crying emojis. She said ‘Tell Ate Rani I love her and she better rest or I’m telling the nurse to sedate her.'”

I smiled, my throat tightening. “Sounds like her.”

“She’s already asking for pictures of Rebecca. I told her no one gets one until after she opens her eyes properly.”

I finally turned my head, resting my cheek against Lamia’s forehead as I whispered, “You’re such a softie.”

She pulled back, feigning offense, her palm still warm against my skin. “Excuse me? I am a feared businesswoman.”

I raised a brow.

“…Who melts into goo every time her daughter so much as stretches,” I added.

Lamia laughed under her breath, then looked at me again, this time with a softness that made my entire body go still.

She reached out, touching the center of my chest gently, just above where Rebecca’s head was tucked.

“I messaged them,” she said, more quietly now, “because I wanted everyone to know how proud I am.”

I blinked at her.

“Proud of you,” she clarified. “Of us.”

She tilted her head, smiling faintly, then traced the tip of her finger over the edge of my collarbone, down my arm, then gently over the back of my hand. Her gestures were slow, sweet, and full of something unspoken but not unfamiliar.

Not between us.

I didn’t speak.

I couldn’t.

So instead, I just looked at her.

Lamia, who’d once been a storm I never thought I could weather.
Lamia, who now sat here on a hospital bed with me at two in the morning, brushing her fingertips over my knuckles like she was learning them all over again.

And for a second, I forgot the machines, the sterile walls, the aching in my body.

All I felt was her.

And our daughter, still breathing softly, still curled in my arms like the smallest proof that love, no matter how complicated, could bloom into something real.

Into someone real.