Chapter 30

Rani’s Point Of View

It had been two days since Faisal’s birthday, two days since the chaos and magic and beauty of that unforgettable night. The flowers were probably just now starting to wilt in the garden venue, the photo booth prints neatly stored away, the champagne bottles long emptied. But the glow hadn’t worn off. Not in my chest. Not in Lamia’s. Not in any part of our little family.

And now, as I sat buckled in the cream leather seat of Lamia’s private jet, cruising thirty thousand feet above the earth, it all felt like a dream folding into another dream.

The cabin was quiet, all except for the low hum of the engines and the soft lullaby playing from the built-in speakers in Faisal’s bassinet. He was sleeping like a prince, cheeks flushed, one hand curled over his stuffed lion, his little legs twitching occasionally like he was chasing clouds in his dreams.

Across from me, Lamia had finally let her hair down. Literally. She’d changed out of her crisp airport outfit into an oversized hoodie, her bare legs tucked beneath her on the couch like a teenager. There was something disarming about seeing her like this, relaxed, serene, untouched by the high-strung demands of her empire. Her eyes met mine briefly, and she smiled, slow and soft, like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for a second, exhaling.

Two days ago, we were surrounded by more than a hundred guests, cameras flashing, glasses clinking, laughter threading through every moment. It had been a blur, a beautiful, dizzying blur, and when I looked at the photos this morning, I barely recognized the woman smiling in them.

She looked happy.

She looked like me.

And now we were flying to Dubai… just us. No maids. No pressure. No papers. No boardrooms or schedules or arranged luncheons with uptight investors. Just one week, Lamia said. One week to breathe. To reset. To remember that life was more than building legacies and surviving scandals.

She had said it with that look, the one she used when she was trying to hide that she cared more than she was letting on.

“You’ve done so much,” she told me the night after the party, when we were finally alone in our room. “You planned every detail. You’ve fought for this family. You’ve stayed. And you’re carrying so much… You deserve a break.”

And for once, I didn’t argue.

Now, the cabin attendant passed silently through with a tray of sparkling water and fresh fruit. Lamia reached for a slice of mango and held it to my lips, teasing. “Snack, diva?”

I gave her a half-laugh and rolled my eyes, but I took the bite anyway, letting my fingers brush hers on purpose. She raised a brow but said nothing.

The sun outside painted the windows in soft streaks of gold. The sky was clear. The world below us distant, silent, and irrelevant. For once, it wasn’t about everyone else. It was just us.

I looked at Faisal again, so small, so innocent, so unaware that his two mothers had once built their love on the ruins of hate.

A year ago, I could barely speak to Lamia without venom in my throat. We slept in the same bed like strangers. I didn’t trust her. She didn’t care for me. We only had our roles, the wife, the mother, the public image. Nothing real.

And now… now she was across from me, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, our son safe and dreaming beside us. The war had quieted. The wounds were healing.

We still had work to do, in our marriage, in ourselves, but something was different now. We had us. And we had him.

I reached over, brushing my fingers gently over Faisal’s soft curls. He stirred but didn’t wake. I looked at Lamia again.

“One week,” I said quietly. “Then it’s back to real life.”

Lamia stretched, yawning slightly. “Then let’s make every hour count.”

And for the first time in a long, long while… I believed we would.

I smiled at Lamia’s words, but there was something tugging quietly at the corner of my heart, the weight of everything unspoken. The past year had broken us, remade us, tested every line of our vows. This trip… it felt like a pause, not a solution. But maybe that was enough for now.

She reached for her bottle of water, unscrewing the cap with one hand. “I was thinking,” she began, tone casual, “maybe we don’t plan too much this week. No itinerary. Just… wake up and see what the day feels like.”

I blinked, amused. “You? No plan? You might combust.”

She chuckled softly, the sound low and genuine. “I’m serious. I don’t want to control anything this time. I just want to be… with you. With him. No pressure.”

That caught me off guard.

I studied her, the curve of her jaw, the dark lashes that framed those guarded eyes, the gentle way her hand rested against her thigh, thumb tapping almost nervously. And just like that, I saw it. The realness in her. The quiet effort.

“You’re really trying, aren’t you?” I said, the words escaping before I could pull them back.

Lamia looked down at her lap, then back up. “I’m not good at saying sorry in the ways people expect. But I am sorry, Rani. For everything. For letting you go through things alone. For not seeing it sooner. For… for Peterson.”

The name dropped like a stone between us, but I didn’t flinch.

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

The silence that followed was deep, but not uncomfortable. Just filled with things we were still learning how to say.

She shifted closer on the couch, stretching her legs until they touched mine. Her voice was quieter now, more unsure. “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if we hadn’t been forced into this marriage?”

I exhaled slowly. “All the time.”

“And?”

“And I think we would’ve hated each other from a safe distance,” I said with a small, bitter laugh. “Never spoken again after that first meeting. Maybe I would’ve married someone boring and predictable. You’d be married to someone who wouldn’t yell at you when you’re late for dinner.”

Lamia smiled faintly, her eyes distant. “But we wouldn’t have him.”

My gaze softened. “No,” I agreed. “We wouldn’t have him.”

We both turned toward Faisal, still asleep and completely unaware that he was the thread that stitched us back together. That his giggles could silence our sharpest fights. That his tiny hands had pulled us, unwilling, back into each other’s orbit.

“I never thought our lips would meet again after the wedding,” I confessed suddenly. “I thought that kiss, that stupid kiss in front of the guests, was the beginning and end of any tenderness between us.”

Lamia turned to me, her eyes catching mine. “I didn’t either.”

“But then you kissed me again,” I whispered. “And it wasn’t for show. It was soft. Real. After everything, the hatred, the miscarriage, the distance, I didn’t think we had anything left to give each other. But there we were, kissing like none of that had happened.”

Her hand reached for mine, fingers threading together.

“Maybe that’s what love is,” she murmured. “Not forgetting what happened. Just… choosing to stay anyway.”

I looked at our hands, hers always colder than mine, her fingers longer and more sure. “I don’t know if we’re there yet. But I want to be.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder, sighing deeply. “So do I.”

And as the plane hummed its way across the sky, carrying us far from the noise of everything we left behind, I closed my eyes.

Just for a moment.

And let myself believe.

That maybe this wasn’t the ending of a storm.

Maybe it was the beginning of a sunrise.

Lamia’s head was still resting against my shoulder, her breathing even and calm, her fingers curled around mine with a kind of certainty that still surprised me. The plane hummed around us in a low lullaby, a sound I was used to but rarely listened to. The soft white noise had turned our private cabin into a cocoon, as if time itself had slowed just for us.

We didn’t speak for a few minutes, and I didn’t mind. She felt warm against me, real. After everything we had clawed our way through this past year, sitting here like this, quiet, close, and without bitterness… felt like a small miracle.

I tilted my head toward her. “When we land,” I murmured, “I want to go straight to the villa and not speak to a single person for twenty-four hours.”

Lamia chuckled. “Done. Lock the gates, throw my phone in the ocean. I don’t care.”

I smiled and reached up to tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. It was longer now than it had been months ago, softer too, she hadn’t dyed it in a while, and the color was returning to its natural, deep chocolate tone. I loved that.

“Do you think we’ll always have to keep working this hard?” I asked, the question tumbling from my lips before I could stop it.

She lifted her head to look at me. “Yes,” she said honestly. “But I think we’re finally working with each other now. Not against.”

I was about to respond when we both heard it, a soft thump followed by a surprised squeal.

We turned our heads at the same time.

And there he was.

Faisal.

Our son. Our baby boy. He wasn’t holding onto the armrest anymore.

He had taken one step.

Then another.

His arms were out for balance, chubby little fingers splayed. His knees wobbled, his expression equal parts confused and thrilled. And then, a third step, small but confident, and he stumbled into the middle of the aisle, pausing as if even he couldn’t believe what just happened.

My heart slammed into my ribs.

Lamia shot to her feet with a stunned gasp. “Did he just…?!”

“Oh my god,” I breathed, already moving toward him. “He walked!”

“Faisal!” Lamia cried out, her voice shaking between laughter and tears as she knelt to the floor and opened her arms. “Come here, baby!”

Faisal looked between us, uncertain, his mouth wide open in a silent giggle. He wobbled again, then ran the rest of the way in those unsteady, ridiculous little steps and fell into Lamia’s arms.

My hand flew to my mouth as emotion hit me like a wave. He walked. He walked! Inside this plane, above the clouds, somewhere over the Middle East, our son took his first steps.

Lamia clutched him to her chest, pressing frantic kisses to his cheeks and crown, murmuring Arabic lullabies she hadn’t sung in months.

I dropped to my knees beside them, tears clouding my vision, reaching for both of them. My hand brushed Faisal’s arm, his skin warm and soft and solid, a child, not just a baby anymore. I kissed his pudgy cheek, then leaned my forehead against his.

“I can’t believe it,” I whispered. “You waited until we were in the sky to walk?”

“He’s dramatic,” Lamia said with a watery laugh. “Just like his mothers.”

“God help us,” I murmured, laughing through my tears.

Faisal blinked up at us, then clapped, just once, as if proud of himself.

That was it. I lost it. My laugh cracked mid-sound as another tear escaped. Lamia’s arm wrapped around my waist, grounding me, holding me steady.

Then she did something that made my breath hitch.

Without a word, she reached for my hand, pulling me up gently and into her lap. I landed on her thighs with a surprised squeak, facing her, arms braced on her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” I half-laughed, blinking at her.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “And this is mine too. This moment. This family. I want it all.”

I swallowed hard, blinking fast as I stared down at her. “You know I’m heavy, right?”

She smirked. “I work out.”

That made me giggle. “You do yoga.”

“Yoga is strength,” she shot back, poking my side.

I couldn’t stop smiling. My arms slid around her neck, the way they hadn’t in a long time, and I let my forehead touch hers. We sat like that, me on her lap, our son crawling in circles around our legs, babbling nonsense and occasionally clapping for himself.

“I love you, now” she said suddenly, softly, like it might still scare her to admit it.

I didn’t answer right away.

Because part of me, the scared, stubborn part, still held pieces of myself back. But in that moment, with the sky outside so dark and calm, and her arms so warm and steady around me, I let go.

“I love you too,” I whispered. “Now”

And I meant it.

Every syllable.

Every ache and scar and hope wrapped up in those three words.

Somewhere overhead, the clouds parted and moonlight poured through the window like quiet grace.

Our son had taken his first step.

And maybe… maybe so had we.

——

Dubai was already blazing gold by the time we landed.

The descent itself was smooth, but something about the way the sun slanted over the skyline, the towers like crystal daggers stabbing into the clouds, made my breath catch. Even in all my travels, Dubai always felt… bigger. Louder. Richer. More golden than any place had a right to be.

But as I stood there at the top of the stairs leading down from Lamia’s private jet, Faisal in my arms, his soft breath tickling my neck, I realized it wasn’t the city I was anticipating.

It was what waited beyond it.

Lamia stood beside me in loose ivory linen, sunglasses perched on her nose, her hand gently bracing my back as I adjusted Faisal against my hip. She looked like she belonged in this world. Like desert royalty. The wind caught a strand of her hair, and I saw the way the sun lit up her cheekbones, her lashes fluttering in the dry warmth.

I’d been married to her for a two years. Carried her name. Raised her child.

But the truth was… I barely knew her.

Not all of her. Not yet.

The Rolls-Royce that fetched us was the kind that didn’t just gleam… it shimmered. Black lacquer and chrome that looked like moonlight and oil had a child. The ride was quiet, cool, filled with the soft scent of oud diffusers tucked into the vents.

Faisal had fallen asleep in my arms again by the time we turned off the main roads, gliding through a private gate flanked by tall palms and quiet, stone-faced guards. The mansion we pulled up to wasn’t modern like Lamia’s penthouse or sharp-edged like her Antipolo estate. This… this was ancestral. A palace made of honey-colored stone and marble, the walls kissed with vines, and ivory arches carved with ancient Islamic verses and latticework that danced in the breeze.

I stepped out of the car and immediately felt the weight of history.

“This is where you grew up?” I whispered, shifting Faisal slightly on my hip.

Lamia smiled faintly. “I didn’t grow up here. But I grew into myself here.”

Before I could ask what that meant, the great doors swung open.

And there they were.

Her grandparents.

Her father’s parents, I quickly guessed. They weren’t Al-Gadaffi in the fire-and-steel way I’d come to know. No, these two carried themselves like something older, refined, graceful, a little stern… but warm.

“Habibti!” the old woman called out, arms opening even before her voice reached us.

Lamia rushed forward, dropping her bag carelessly to the ground as she embraced the old woman in an uncharacteristically emotional hug. “Teta,” she whispered, sounding like a girl again.

Teta. Grandma.

The older man, her grandfather, stepped beside me, regal in his thawb, his beard snowy white, and his eyes, gray, sharp, settling on Faisal in my arms.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.

Then slowly, carefully, he bowed his head and placed a hand over his heart. “He has her nose,” he murmured. “The same as my Monique.”

I blinked.

Wait… what?

My brain paused, words scrambling for clarity. “Monique?” I asked, a little confused, thinking maybe he was speaking to someone else. “I’m sorry…”

Lamia turned, arms still half around her grandmother, and caught the expression on my face.

She laughed softly, her voice colored by embarrassment.

“Oh,” she said. “I… I guess you never knew.”

I shook my head, shifting Faisal in my arms again. “Knew what exactly?”

Her grandmother pulled away from her, beaming now, and stepped forward to press both her palms to my cheeks. “She was always my little Monique,” she said warmly. “It’s what I called her since she was a baby. She was quiet and elegant and always hiding in the gardens pretending to be a Parisian princess. ‘Lamia’ was her name for the world. But ‘Monique’… that was ours.”

I looked at Lamia.

Her eyes had softened, a kind of gentle vulnerability I didn’t get to see often. “It’s just a childhood nickname,” she said. “But it stuck. At least here.”

Monique.

I said it silently in my head, tasting it.

It was… soft. It didn’t have the sharp power of “Lamia.” It was like a secret name. A name for summer afternoons, and hidden daydreams, and maybe even, just maybe, for a version of her I hadn’t met yet.

I felt the tightness in my chest loosen, a strange and quiet affection blooming there. Monique. My wife. My Lamia. My Monique.

We were led through the arched halls, Faisal still asleep against my shoulder, and I noticed how the air inside was scented with cardamom and rosewater. Every inch of the mansion was art, from the mosaic tiles on the floor to the towering bookshelves filled with gold-spined Qur’ans and French literature. It was like walking through a museum of Lamia’s soul.

Her grandfather, Ishaaq, walked beside me with quiet dignity. “You are her wife,” he said simply. “So you are ours now too.”

It wasn’t a grand speech.

But it landed with more weight than anything anyone had ever said to me.

“Thank you,” I murmured, barely able to meet his eyes.

As we entered the main courtyard, an open-air space with a central fountain and hanging garden vines, Lamia leaned over to touch my back gently.

“You okay?” she whispered.

I turned to her, holding our son close.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I just… never imagined you as a Monique.”

She laughed. “Me neither. But they made it feel safe.”

And that’s when it hit me:

This place, this mansion, this family, wasn’t about money or legacy or lineage.

It was about softness. The kind of softness Lamia had never shown me before.

But now… she was.

Monique.

A name only given to someone loved.

And maybe… just maybe, now it was mine to say, too.

——

The dining hall was what I imagined old royal palaces looked like, not the kind coated in gold and excess, but the kind carved from stories. The kind where you could still feel the echo of a child’s laughter in the arches and the scent of family dinners clinging to the curtains.

We sat beneath an arched ceiling painted with pale, swirling vines, each motif carefully hand-painted by artisans from Marrakech, as Jidda proudly told me earlier. A massive crystal chandelier hung overhead, casting soft, honeyed light on the long mahogany table now filled with bowls and platters of food I couldn’t even pronounce.

There was lamb slow-roasted in spices so rich I swore I could taste history in the air. There were saffron rice towers crowned with pistachios, roasted eggplants swimming in yogurt and garlic, fresh figs and dates glistening on silver trays. There were little porcelain bowls of mint tea scattered across the table, steaming gently like secrets waiting to be told.

I had Faisal on my lap, his tiny fingers covered in hummus as he smacked his lips around a tiny piece of bread. Lamia sat beside me, close but not too close, her fingers occasionally brushing against mine when we reached for the same dish.

I caught her smiling once, not at me, not at anyone. Just to herself. A kind of contentment that looked rare on her.

Across from us sat Jiddi Ishaaq, his elbows resting lightly on the table, a carved walking cane beside him, untouched. Jidda Maryam sat at the head, elegant and quiet, but the kind of quiet that carried authority. She had changed into a flowing peach abaya and wore pearls that gleamed with the softest mother-of-pearl hue. Her hands were folded delicately, but her gaze? Her gaze could shatter stone.

And suddenly, in between spooning lamb onto Faisal’s plate and trying to look like I belonged, I felt their eyes fall on Lamia.

Jiddi set down his glass with a soft clink.

“Lamia,” he said, his voice soft but low, the kind of tone that cut through air like a prayer, or a warning. “How long do you plan to keep pretending you are still that girl who needed to fight the world for a place in it?”

Lamia blinked, caught off guard mid-chew. “I… I’m not pretending.”

“No?” Jidda Maryam said gently, raising her brow. “Because I see a woman who has already found a home, sitting next to her, holding her child, and still, she looks like she doesn’t believe she deserves it.”

The room fell into a hush, the clinking of cutlery slowing to nothing.

Lamia cleared her throat, her spine stiffening. “Jiddi… Jidda… we’re working things out. It’s not…”

Jiddi Ishaaq held up a hand. Not harshly. Just… firmly. “We’re not scolding you, Monique.”

I felt Lamia still at the sound of that name.

“We are not the ones who put pressure on you to be perfect,” he continued. “The world already does that. But we are the ones who watched you suffer through that marriage in your early months, so stiff with resentment, so drunk on pride. And we are also the ones,” he added, nodding toward me, “who saw what this woman brought into your life when you least wanted it.”

Jidda Maryam’s voice joined in, quiet and grounding. “We never cared for the arrangement, Monique. We were old-fashioned about many things. But you, our girl, you needed someone who would not be swallowed by your storms. Someone who would not bow. Someone who would still carry your son like he was made from her bones.”

Her eyes met mine.

“Rani,” she said softly, “you stayed.”

I froze. The words hit me so hard, I forgot how to breathe.

“You stayed even when you had every reason to run,” she continued. “Even when he was lost. Even when Monique broke your heart. That kind of loyalty…” she nodded, eyes glistening, “…is priceless.”

Lamia looked like she didn’t know where to look. Her hands fidgeted on the table, clenched then open, like they couldn’t decide if they were bracing or surrendering.

“I’ve made mistakes,” she whispered, eyes locked on the plate. “So many.”

“You both have,” Jiddi replied calmly. “But you are still sitting here. Still building. That is what matters.”

“Lamia,” Jidda added, reaching out and laying her weathered hand gently on her granddaughter’s wrist, “don’t be afraid of the quiet love that Rani gives you. Don’t be afraid of the family you’re building. We do not want anyone else for you. No other girl. No man. No ideal stranger.”

Her voice cracked, ever so slightly.

“We want her.”

And then, in a move so unexpected, so gentle, Jiddi Ishaaq looked at me, really looked at me and smiled.

“You are not just the mother of her child, Rani,” he said. “You are her mirror. You show her who she is when she forgets. That is a sacred thing.”

I felt tears burning at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, lifting my chin with a quiet dignity I didn’t know I still had.

Lamia looked at me then.

Not past me. Not through me.

At me.

And something about that moment, the way her grandparents gave her permission to be loved, to be whole with me, not in public perfection, but in private effort, it unraveled something deep in her eyes.

She took a breath, leaned slightly toward me, and reached for Faisal’s hand as he babbled nonsense at a fig slice.

Then she whispered, barely audible, almost shyly,  “They’re right.”

I blinked at her.

“What?” I asked softly.

She didn’t look away.

“They’re right,” she said again. “About you. About… about everything.”

I wanted to say something back. Something sweet. Something witty.

But all I could do was squeeze her knee gently under the table.

We finished dinner in that thick, golden warmth. The food lingered on our tongues, but it was the truth, the legacy of love passed from one generation to another… that filled us.

And as the stars blinked awake in the Dubai sky above, I knew…

This was the beginning of something new.

Something earned. Something real.

——

The bedroom Lamia and I were given in her grandparents’ Dubai mansion was nearly the size of our entire penthouse back in BGC. The ceilings stretched upward like they were chasing the stars. Cream-colored walls with intricate gold inlays shimmered under the soft lighting of crystal sconces, and heavy velvet drapes pooled on the floors like wine spilled from a royal chalice.

But none of it mattered tonight, not the grandeur, not the legacy, not the thousand-thread-count linens.

All I saw was Faisal.

Our son lay on his back in the center of the massive canopy bed, lost in dreams. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, a soft snore slipping from his parted lips. He’d had a long day, the flight, the arrival, the stream of relatives fussing over him, the food, the excitement. I had bathed him in the oversized en suite earlier, humming softly while he splashed and giggled and then yawned so hard I could’ve sworn I heard his tiny bones crack.

Now, dressed in his pale blue sleepsuit, with one chubby fist curled near his face, he looked like peace personified.

I stood beside the bed, brushing a soft hand through his silky hair. Beside me, Lamia silently watched, her arms crossed gently over her chest, leaning against one of the carved bedposts. The dim golden light warmed her skin, casting shadows along her cheekbones, softening her sharpness.

“You never get tired of staring at him,” she murmured.

I smiled, not looking away. “Never.”

Her bare feet padded softly across the plush carpet as she came closer. “He really looks like you when he sleeps,” she whispered, peering down at him, voice reverent.

“That’s what your grandmother said earlier,” I chuckled, my voice a soft hush. “But he has your ears.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “Poor kid.”

I turned my head, catching her smile. “They’re perfect. You’re perfect.”

Lamia’s eyes shifted to mine at that. And in the golden quiet of the room, something passed between us again, fragile, honest, and unadorned. No defenses. No tension. Just the echo of something once broken… trying to be whole again.

She walked over to the window seat, and I followed, letting us both sink into the plush cushions that overlooked the glittering skyline of Dubai. Below, the city pulsed, lights blinking across distant yachts, towers gleaming in the moonlight. It felt unreal. Like we were suspended between two worlds, the one we came from, and the one we were trying to build.

Lamia leaned her head back against the windowpane. “The yacht’s ready for us tomorrow,” she said, her voice lazy, almost like a lullaby. “I had it stocked with fresh fruit, sunblock, and floaties for His Highness over there.”

I let out a soft laugh. “You did not get him floaties.”

“Oh, I got him three,” she grinned. “Shark. Turtle. One shaped like a tiny swan.”

I giggled, imagining it. “You’re so soft when no one’s watching.”

She shrugged, her smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You make it easy to be soft.”

That caught me off guard, the way she said it, like it had always been true, and she was only now allowing herself to say it out loud.

I looked out the window again, letting the silence stretch between us, the way old lovers do when there’s nothing to prove and everything to feel.

“So…” I began, toying with the hem of my sleep shirt. “What’s the plan tomorrow?”

She turned slightly toward me, resting her elbow on the sill. “We leave after breakfast. It’s a half-hour drive to the private marina. The crew knows we’re coming, Captain Amir’s been with us for years. There’s a shaded lounge deck, a splash pool, a full kitchen. And before you ask…” she pointed at me playfully, “…yes, I asked the chef to pack those mango macarons you love.”

I blinked. “You remembered those?”

“I remember everything you like,” she said simply, as if it didn’t cost her anything to admit it.

My heart skipped.

“Can we swim with Faisal?” I asked softly, needing something light to balance the weight in my chest.

She nodded. “There’s a calm patch near Jumeirah where we’ll anchor. It’s shallow and warm. You and I can take turns dipping him in.”

I leaned back with a quiet sigh. “That sounds perfect.”

A beat passed. Then Lamia’s fingers found mine.

“I want us to have good memories again,” she whispered, eyes not meeting mine. “Not just the painful ones.”

“We already are,” I said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “That birthday… this trip… this moment…”

She finally turned to me, and her gaze was steady. “Do you still believe it can be us?”

I swallowed, caught in the softness of her voice.

“I do,” I answered, voice low. “It just scares me sometimes. Wanting it so much.”

She looked down at our hands. “It scares me, too.”

Faisal stirred slightly in the distance, letting out a tiny sigh, before settling again into sleep.

The sound grounded us.

“Let’s go to bed,” I murmured. “Before I cry and blame you for ruining my eyeliner.”

Lamia grinned. “Too late. I see one tear already.”

We rose from the seat together, and just before I turned to the bed, she tugged me back lightly, slipping her arms around my waist from behind, her chin resting on my shoulder.

“One day,” she whispered into my neck, “we’ll tell Faisal about this trip. And he won’t remember any of it. But I will.”

I closed my eyes, letting myself lean into her.

“I will, too,” I whispered back.

And with that, we slid into bed, tucking ourselves on either side of our son, our warmth forming a soft cocoon around him, around us, around everything we were finally learning to hold onto again.