Chapter 33

Rani’s Point Of View

The light spilled through the gauzy white curtains like warm honey, washing the bedroom in soft morning gold. The air was still cool, the hush of the Dubai desert dawn lingering through the windows, and for once, there was a rare kind of stillness in my chest.

I blinked open my eyes slowly.

Lamia was curled beside me, her back facing mine, her bare shoulder peeking out from the white linen sheets. Her hair was a silken mess splayed across the pillows, one hand resting protectively over Faisal’s small body nestled between us. Our son was still deep in his baby dreams, his little mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed from sleep, his tiny foot kicked out in rebellion against the blanket.

I smiled to myself, adjusting the strap of my silk nightgown, brushing a hand gently over Faisal’s tummy before slipping out of bed quietly. I grabbed the thick robe on the edge of the lounge chair and wrapped it around myself, sliding my feet into slippers before walking toward the door.

I figured I’d make it to the garden for coffee or maybe sneak into the massive kitchen to ask the chef for those warm date pastries Jidda Maryam insisted I try every morning.

But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw the moment I descended the grand staircase.

There it was.

Right in the center of the massive marble foyer.

A bouquet.

No.

A monstrosity of a bouquet.

The size of a full-grown man.

An entire forest of deep red roses, over a hundred, maybe even two hundred, standing tall in an ornate golden vase, wrapped in elegant cream silk ribbons. The petals were impossibly fresh, gleaming with dewdrops, as if they were handpicked from some royal greenhouse moments before sunrise.

And next to it stood one of the Arabian maids. She bowed slightly upon seeing me, then gestured with a graceful hand toward the roses, murmuring something quickly in Arabic.

“Sayidati Rani, tama taslim hadhih alzuhur hadha alsabahi, kanat min alsayid Zaki”

I froze at the bottom step, heart dropping slowly.

“…What?” I asked, confused. “I… sorry, I don’t speak…”

She smiled kindly but repeated it again, gesturing toward the bouquet with clear intention.

“Wait, wait,” I held up a finger, already feeling the warning signs of irritation throb behind my temples. “Let me… I need someone to translate that.”

I turned, already calling out in the hall. “Manal? Rasha? Anyone who speaks English, please.”

After a few moments, another maid entered, younger, wearing a navy-blue apron. She quickly made her way over and bowed respectfully.

“Good morning, ma’am,” she said gently.

“Yes, good morning. Can you tell me,” I motioned toward the floral monstrosity, “what she just said?”

The younger maid nodded, then listened to her colleague. A soft frown tugged at her brows before she turned to me.

“Wasalat alzuhur hadha alsabah min rajul yudea Zaki, wahunak aydan bitaqat tas’al alsayidat Limaya’ ‘iidha kan bi’iimkanihima alailtiqa’ qabl eawdatiha ‘iilaa alfilibiyn.”

“She said… these flowers came early this morning. Delivered from outside. They are from a man named Zaki.”

Of course.

Zaki.

I crossed my arms slowly. “And…?”

“She said there is a card. And… he said…” she hesitated, then added carefully, “He asked… if Madam Lamia can meet with him for lunch. Before going back to the Philippines.”

My jaw clenched.

My spine went rigid.

This man had the gall, the unmitigated, delusional gall, to send roses to a married woman, in her grandparents’ house, where I was literally sleeping upstairs beside her, after he already confessed something the day before?

And not just roses.

A monument of roses.

I stormed closer, inspecting the envelope attached delicately with a wax seal. I plucked it open and pulled out the cream note card inside. The handwriting was swooping and elegant.

Monique, one more time, for old times’ sake. One lunch. Let me say goodbye properly before you go back. Yours always,

— Z.

My nostrils flared.

“Yours always?”

Always?

Is this man writing a damn sonnet or trying to get punched?

“Oh, no,” I said aloud, shaking my head. “No. We’re not doing this. Not in this house. Not in my presence.”

I turned to the younger maid and took a deep breath.

“Listen closely,” I said with a smile so cold it could cut glass. “Take my black card, it’s in my wallet upstairs, inside my Birkin on the cream chaise in the bedroom. You know the one, yes?”

She nodded quickly, already alert.

“Tell the driver to go to the most expensive florist in Dubai. Not second-best. Not whatever’s closest. I want tulips. Hundreds of them. White. Cream. Yellow. Maybe a few soft pinks. I want it to look like the Garden of Eden exploded inside this mansion. I want them to think the Queen of the Netherlands dropped by for brunch.”

She blinked, stunned. “Madam… how many…?”

“In the size of a truck,” I said coolly. “I want those tulips so damn big and loud that when Lamia walks down here and sees them, she’ll have no memory that the rose clown ever existed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have them delivered now. Wake the florist if they’re asleep. Wake the Prime Minister if you need to. And make sure they get here before Lamia comes downstairs.”

She bowed and darted away like a shadow, heels clicking down the hall as if on a mission from God.

I stood there for a moment longer, my fingers still curled around that wretched note card.

I wasn’t threatened.

I was insulted.

Because what Zaki didn’t understand was that Lamia and I weren’t just together, we’d been through the worst. Through blood, heartbreak, betrayal, and the slow burn of rediscovering each other not as enemies, not as wives by contract, but as two souls who chose to stay. Over and over again.

I didn’t need to scream at Zaki.

I didn’t need to throw the roses in his face.

I just needed Lamia to wake up… walk down here… and see whose name was on the bigger bouquet.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d ask her to take a picture beside it, in her silk robe, with my lipstick on her collarbone, just so I could send it to him with a single caption.

She’s not yours anymore.

I stood there for a long moment, the silence of the mansion only broken by the distant hum of a fountain outside and the muffled sound of someone preparing breakfast in the far-off kitchen.

The bouquet towered in front of me, proud, lush, obnoxiously poetic.

But in my eyes?

It was a monument to disrespect.

Slowly, I took a few steps closer to it. The scent of the roses hit me in waves, sweet, overwhelming, artificial. It clung to the air like an unwanted memory, and it irritated me more with every breath I took.

I extended a manicured hand and plucked the card off the ribbon with practiced grace. It was still warm from the desert air. Still smug in its existence.

I turned the thick cream envelope over, staring at the embossed initial Z. as if they were a joke only he thought was romantic. And then I slipped the note card back inside with barely concealed disgust.

The young maid, Rasha, returned from upstairs, holding my black card and handing it to the older woman who had first spoken Arabic. They were already preparing for the floral coup d’état I had ordered.

I lifted my chin and turned toward the younger one, holding out the card between two fingers like it was something diseased.

“Take this,” I said calmly. My voice was smooth, but there was steel just underneath it, the kind of tone that made men stutter and secretaries sit up straighter.

She blinked and stepped closer.

“Throw it away,” I said. “Not in the kitchen. Not in the guest bins. I want you to take this out to the garden, find the biggest outdoor trash can you can see, and throw it in there like it’s yesterday’s coffee grounds.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said instantly, taking it from my hand with delicate fingers, but her expression clearly understood the weight behind my words.

I took a breath, slow, controlled, my chest rising beneath the silk lapel of my robe. Then I turned toward the bouquet again.

“I don’t care who he was,” I muttered under my breath, walking around the ridiculous thing like a predator circling a weak animal. “I don’t care how poetic he thinks his past was with her. Lamia isn’t a character in his romantic tragedy. She’s not some second-chance daydream.”

I glanced at the red petals, how dramatic they tried to be.

“She’s my wife,” I said, louder this time, as if declaring it to the chandelier overhead.

I didn’t even care that no one else was around to hear it. Because saying it out loud, right there in that impossibly grand foyer in the middle of Dubai, with the echoes of ancient nobility embedded in the marble floors and Arabian gold dripping from every corner felt right.

Lamia was mine.

Not because of a contract. Not because of a child. Not because we had no choice.

But because when the world fell apart, when men pushed me down and people turned their backs, she chose to stay. She chose to fight. She chose me.

And I’ll be damned if I let some tragic Romeo with a bad sense of timing and a worse sense of boundaries try to rewrite our story.

As I stood there, arms crossed, the sound of hurried footsteps faded down the hallway, the maid already gone to carry out my command. Good.

I reached into the small drawer of the console table nearby and pulled out a stick of my nude-pink lipstick, twisting it open as I stared at the bouquet once more.

With a slow, deliberate swipe, I pressed the lipstick to a small post-it note from the drawer, scrawling three words in a looping cursive,

“Too late, darling.”

Then I stuck the post-it right in the center of the bouquet.

Let him chew on that.

I turned on my heel, silk robe swishing dramatically behind me, and made my way to the kitchen, the faintest smirk tugging at the edge of my mouth.

Let Lamia wake up to the soft scent of tulips, not roses from the past.

Let her see who’s still standing here.

Still fighting for her.

Still choosing her.

Every damn day.

——

It was just after eight-thirty when I heard the rumble of the engine outside, deep, deliberate, and unmistakably heavy.

I didn’t have to look out the window to know it was mine.

The drivers were punctual. Just like I paid them to be.

I walked, no, glided, through the front atrium, robe tied tighter at the waist now, hair up in a neat knot, and the house slippers on my feet sounding crisp against the polished stone floors. The early morning sun cast soft golden angles through the lattice windows, and the entire mansion seemed to hold its breath as the truck pulled into the courtyard.

One of the bodyguards stationed by the front gate tilted his sunglasses down as the truck backed into position. The gold Al-Gadaffi crest gleamed on the driveway stones below, reflecting the sunlight like the emblem of a kingdom.

A moment later, the back of the truck swung open.

And then it began.

The tulips, ivory, blush, lavender, and pure, honeyed yellow, spilled out in crates and crates. So many crates. Like a floral tsunami of defiance.

The deliverymen were visibly overwhelmed, and honestly? I loved that for them. I loved that for Zaki, too, wherever he was. I hope he felt it, like a spiritual slap across the face.

More than fifteen mansion staff, bodyguards, gardeners, maids in tailored beige uniforms, came out to help. I stood at the top of the steps, arms crossed, a vision in cream silk and gold slippers, issuing instructions like I was planning a royal coronation.

“You… arrange half of them into the grand staircase. Start from the top, drape down. No clusters. Think waves. Petal cascades.”

The head maid nodded, already snapping fingers at the junior staff.

“Take that crate into the solarium,” I pointed to another batch, “I want those ones in the antique vase on the piano. And please…” I stepped forward, picking up a delicate stem, “don’t snap the base. Use gloves.”

“Ma’am, the drawing room?” another asked.

“Yes. The long vases. One per window. I want tulips in every room she walks through today. Don’t stop until you run out.”

The staff scattered with purpose.

I turned to two bodyguards who were awkwardly holding armfuls of blossoms like they’d rather be holding guns.

“You,” I said, flicking my eyes toward them. “Center hall. Make an arch at the top of the entry, I want the first thing she sees to be tulips and not that eyesore from earlier.”

They nodded wordlessly, already moving.

The huge pile of roses from Zaki was nowhere to be seen. I knew for a fact it was already at the far end of the estate, tossed in the compost like discarded baggage. The thought of it made my heart hum.

I walked into the center of the chaos, adjusting the hem of my robe and pulling my phone from my pocket. I checked the time, 8:47 a.m.

Perfect.

Lamia usually woke up around nine on vacation. Nine-thirty if Faisal didn’t start climbing her like a mountain goat.

Which gave me just enough time to finish this.

I looked around, tulips were now exploding through the entire mansion like a luxury floral infestation. The air had changed, too. Gone was the dense, theatrical scent of those cliché crimson roses. Now it was light, clean, fresh. Honest. Effortless.

Exactly the kind of love Lamia deserved.

Not heavy-handed nostalgia from a man who thought history gave him the right to a future.

I oversaw the last batch going up the grand staircase. They were arranging the blooms into a soft gradient of pale pink to white, I almost teared up at the symmetry of it. Almost.

I stepped back.

I looked around.

And finally… I smiled.

The house no longer smelled like him. It no longer carried the shadow of his ego.

It was mine again.

No… it was ours.

Mine, Lamia’s, and Faisal’s.

I turned to one of the drivers as he finished unloading the last box. “Thank you,” I said simply, slipping a folded tip into his palm, a thank you for loyalty, for efficiency, for not asking questions.

“Anytime, ma’am,” he said, giving me a half-smile. He knew.

Everyone did.

This wasn’t just about flowers. This was war by beauty. Territory marked by tulips.

I stood at the base of the grand staircase and looked up at what we’d built in under an hour, a sanctuary for my family. A soft, sprawling rebuttal to anyone foolish enough to think they had a claim on what was already mine.

Then I turned to one of the younger maids, a sweet girl named Rameela who was just placing the last tulip into a cut-glass vase.

“If Lamia asks,” I said with a little shrug, “just tell her I thought the house needed a bit of color.”

Rameela looked up from the vase, grinning. “She’ll love it, ma’am.”

Oh, I knew she would.

——

I heard them before I saw them.

The soft thud of slippers over marble, the occasional clink of rings tapping against tea cups, and a hushed exchange in Arabic that I couldn’t fully understand, but recognized in tone. Admiration. Surprise. Curiosity.

I turned toward the main corridor, brushing the tulip petals from my fingers, just in time to see Jiddi Ishaaq and Jidda Maryam emerge from the arched hallway that led from their sunroom.

He wore a traditional bisht over his thobe, a deep camel brown, finely embroidered, with his prayer beads wrapped twice around his wrist. His posture, even in his later years, was regal and proud, shoulders squared, eyes sharp beneath silver brows.

She, in contrast, glided beside him in a flowing gold silk abaya, her white hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her bangles softly chiming with every step. There was always something timeless about Jidda Maryam, like she had been born from desert wind and royal ink, and never really aged.

They stopped in the foyer, their eyes lifting, widening as they looked over the sea of tulips now blooming across their home. The mansion had turned into something dreamlike. The sun poured in through the tall windows, spilling golden light onto the soft shades of pinks, creams, and lavenders that had taken over the main room.

I held my breath as they took it all in.

“Ya Allah,” Jidda Maryam breathed, one hand pressed against her chest. “Ishaaq, look at this. This… this is…” She trailed off, her voice floating like music.

Jiddi Ishaaq stepped forward, his jaw tightening, not out of displeasure, but awe. Slowly, he bent a little to examine a tulip in one of the vases by the staircase. He touched the petal with the utmost care, like he feared it would melt under his fingers.

Then he looked at me.

“Rani…” he said, my name crisp and clear in his firm, commanding voice.

I froze.

And then slowly stepped forward. “Yes, Jiddi?”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just studied me.

I wasn’t sure what emotion flickered behind his eyes, but it was warm, settled. Like I had unknowingly passed a test.

“You sent these?” he asked finally.

I nodded, my voice softer than I meant. “Yes.”

A pause.

And then… to my shock, he smiled.

“Subhan’Allah,” he said under his breath, looking at the room again. “This is not a gift, this is an offering. A statement.”

I let out a soft laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, her first love just send her a human size bouquet of roses early this morning. Zaki’s bouquet was a bit… loud. I wanted to make sure mine was louder.”

That earned a laugh from both of them. The kind that made me feel like I was no longer a guest, but a presence in their story.

Jidda stepped forward now, reaching for my hand with both of hers. Her grip was gentle, but full of quiet strength. She looked up at me, her eyes warm and shining, her lips painted in a soft rose.

“You love her,” she said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

I met her gaze. “Yes, Jidda. I do.”

She touched my cheek, eyes misting. “You remind me of myself. When I was your age, I fought for Ishaaq with the same fire. We came from different places, different expectations, but when it is love… it moves mountains.”

My throat tightened.

Ishaaq stepped beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder and looking at me with the kind of approval I knew he didn’t give lightly.

“I knew from the moment you stepped foot in this house that you weren’t just any woman,” he said. “You are deliberate. You have poise. And now…” He gestured to the room, to the tulips cascading over every surface like soft waves, “now you’ve shown that your love is not passive. It is a shield. You protect what is yours.”

I blinked fast. “Thank you, Jiddi. That means more than I can say.”

Maryam tilted her head, her smile mischievous now. “You didn’t even let her wake up to that man’s flowers. You handled it before she had a chance to be confused.”

I chuckled. “I handled it before I had a chance to lose my mind.”

Jiddi let out a deep laugh. “That’s how it should be.”

He turned to one of the maids and gave a short instruction in Arabic. The maid nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

“Come,” he said, gesturing for me to follow. “We will prepare breakfast in the garden. It is a beautiful morning, made more beautiful by your flowers.”

As I followed behind them, I caught one last glance at the stairwell, where the tulips bloomed wildly, extravagantly, like a fairytale. And I realized something.

This wasn’t just about Zaki.

It wasn’t even just about Lamia.

It was about claiming space. About no longer waiting to be accepted, but showing them why I was irreplaceable.

They didn’t love me for what I’d done today.

They loved me because they finally saw me.

And somehow… that was more powerful than every bouquet combined.

——

The air still smelled like tulips.

That sweet, crisp, ever-so-slightly creamy fragrance drifted from every corner of the mansion. It lingered over the marble floors, curled around the balustrades, and mixed with the fresh jasmine-scented incense Jidda Maryam had lit in the far end of the hall. I stood at the edge of the grand staircase, my heart still soft from their words, their acceptance. The praise they gave me. The light in their eyes as they called me family, not just by law, but by love.

For once, I didn’t feel like I was trying to earn something in this marriage. Not playing a role. Not fighting to be seen.

I just… was.

And then I heard it.

The soft patter of tiny bare feet.

And the sound of sleepy murmuring.

I looked up to the top of the stairs, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

There she was.

Lamia.

In the softest, most sinful silk robe I’d ever seen. It was the color of warm sand, champagne gold with a delicate shimmer, and tied lazily at the waist. One side slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing the long, supple line of her collarbone, the glimmer of a bronze strap beneath. Her hair was damp, cascading down her back in glossy waves, and her lips were still kiss-swollen from sleep.

But what made me melt wasn’t just how gorgeous she looked.

It was that she was barefoot… holding our son.

Faisal, still half-asleep, nestled perfectly into her shoulder. One chubby fist clutched the fabric of her robe, and his thick lashes fluttered with every shift of her breath. His tiny cheek was pressed right against Lamia’s neck, and his other hand dangled, limp with sleep, thumb barely tucked in his mouth.

Lamia blinked down at us, her brows lifting slightly when she saw the tulips. She wasn’t fully awake yet, I could tell. There was still fog in her eyes. But her expression shifted slowly from confusion to curiosity… and then, to realization.

“Ya Allah…” she murmured, her voice husky from sleep. “What… is all this?”

I stepped closer to the foot of the staircase, my heels echoing softly on the marble as I looked up at her, trying to suppress the ridiculous smile tugging at my lips.

“Morning, baby,” I said, my voice low, casual, too casual, considering the absolute riot of butterflies in my stomach. “Nice of you to join us.”

She descended the stairs carefully, cradling Faisal like the precious gem he was. Every step she took made the robe shift, cling, fall in the most unfairly sensual ways. I could feel my mouth dry up. My eyes lingered far too long on the line of her legs, on the dip of her waist, on the glint of sun touching her skin like it was jealous it couldn’t hold her the way I did.

She paused at the last few steps, her gaze sweeping the mansion, finally resting on the tulips that now lined the grand piano, spilled across the foyer, trailed along the banister.

Her eyes narrowed, a teasing smirk playing on her lips. “Did something… explode while I was asleep?”

I shrugged innocently, lifting one brow. “You could say that.”

Faisal stirred a little in her arms, and she instinctively rocked him, brushing a soft kiss to his forehead. She still looked half-asleep, but her body moved with this natural, instinctive grace that always struck me breathless.

And I hated how much she affected me with just her existing.

She looked around again. “These are tulips,” she said slowly.

“Very good, Mrs. Al-Gadaffi,” I teased. “Your grandmother and grandfather were equally impressed.”

She glanced at me now, a little more awake, her smirk curling. “You did this?”

“I did.”

Her brows lifted. “Because of…”

I rolled my eyes before she could even finish the sentence. “Yes. Because your first love tried to turn the living room into an audition for a Turkish drama. I wasn’t about to let that be the first thing you saw when you woke up.”

She let out a small laugh, pressing her cheek against Faisal’s hair as she tried to hide her smile. “So your solution was to… drown the house in tulips?”

I shrugged again. “What can I say? Go big or go home.”

Lamia descended the final step and finally stood in front of me. We were eye to eye now. Close enough that I could smell the faintest trace of her lotion,something with vanilla, sandalwood, and the tiniest hint of rose. Our son was still asleep between us, but the air buzzed with something electric, something charged.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice softer now. “You really did this for me?”

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake Faisal. “I’d do worse,” I whispered. “For less.”

There was a moment. A pause. Her eyes searched mine, slowly, deeply. Like she was trying to read something buried beneath the usual snark and sass. Like she was holding back something that trembled at the edges of her smile.

And then, she leaned in, just a fraction and bumped her forehead gently against mine.

“You’re insane,” she murmured.

“Desperately,” I said back.

She laughed softly again. “And romantic.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I already am.”

I reached down and kissed Faisal’s forehead, the only place I could reach between them, and then met Lamia’s eyes again. “You better wake up more often like this.”

She grinned, stepping past me toward the sitting area, her robe floating behind her. “What, half-naked and holding your child?”

“No,” I called after her, turning slowly to follow.

She glanced back over her shoulder.

I smirked. “Completely naked would be fine too.”

She burst out laughing, her voice ringing through the tulip-filled halls like it belonged there.

And in that moment, robe, baby, flowers, and all, I realized this wasn’t just a good morning.

It was a perfect one.

——

At lunch,

The dining hall was already glowing with sunlight by the time I walked in with Lamia and Faisal. The long marble table had been dressed again, lavish, as always with thick platters of khubz, shakshouka bubbling gently in polished copper pans, piles of medjool dates, tiny bowls of labneh dusted with za’atar, and freshly carved watermelon served on chilled silver trays.

The moment we stepped inside, Jidda Maryam looked up from her seat at the head of the table. “Ah, ya Habibti,” she said with a radiant smile, gesturing me toward the empty seat beside her. “Come. You must be hungry.”

Faisal was now fully awake and wiggling in Lamia’s arms, all round cheeks and bright eyes. Lamia pressed a kiss to his temple before handing him off gently to one of the maids, who stood nearby waiting to feed him his breakfast in the room.

I took my seat next to Jidda, offering her a shy smile as I reached for the khubz. “Jidda. Jiddi,” I greeted, nodding at Ishaaq across the table.

He was sipping qahwa slowly from a small cup, but he set it down when he heard my voice. His dark eyes sparkled with mirth. “Rani,” he said warmly. “You are quickly becoming our favorite guest.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping in a conspiratorial tone. “We’ve already decided you must visit every Eid from now on. Whether Lamia likes it or not.”

That made Lamia scoff from across the table, now seated on my right, her body angled lazily, one leg crossed over the other. “Ya Jiddi,” she drawled in mock complaint, “why would I not like that? I was the one who married her.”

“And thank God you did,” Jidda said firmly, placing a hand over mine. “This woman brings order, warmth, and… and… fighting spirit into this family. It’s no small thing.”

I felt myself blush, visibly, heavily, hot to the ears.

“Oh, Jidda…”

She waved off my protest and passed me a small bowl of olives. “When Rani found those tulips delivered this morning, she didn’t complain. She didn’t start drama. She made her own statement. Elegant. Grand. Correct.”

Jiddi chuckled. “That’s how we solve things in this family. We don’t pout. We deliver trucks of flowers.”

“And tell the staff where to place them,” Lamia added wryly, reaching for her qahwa.

I glanced over at her and tried not to let my grin break across my face too obviously.

“She is a real Al-Gadaffi,” Jidda said with pride, sitting back. “I always knew the one who could truly keep up with you would not be soft and shy, Lamia. You needed someone who could make the earth move under you.”

I nearly choked on my tea.

Lamia, of course, took the comment in full stride. She tilted her head at her grandmother, amusement flickering in her eyes. “So what you’re saying is… I needed a diva.”

Jiddi laughed into his cup. “Exactly.”

“And that she is,” Lamia added, turning her gaze on me with something unreadable behind her smirk. “A beautiful one.”

I looked down, trying to hide the giddy twist in my stomach, trying not to melt under their praise, under her praise, which hit differently. Always.

Then, as casually as if she were suggesting we grab coffee, Lamia said, “I’m taking her to Malabar Gold and Diamonds today.”

I blinked. “Wait… what?”

Lamia took a sip of her tea, looking at me over the rim of her cup like it was no big deal. “I told them already to prepare some new pieces. We’ll pass by after brunch. Faisal will stay with Jiddi and Jidda.”

“You told them?” I asked, still stunned.

“They owe me a favor,” she said simply, as if she were talking about a neighborhood bakery and not one of the most exclusive luxury jewelry houses in the Middle East.

Jidda Maryam clapped her hands together gently. “Oh, how wonderful! Rani, you’ll love their private showroom. They treat you like royalty. Not that you aren’t already.”

I was still trying to catch up. “Are you seriously…”

“She’s being humble,” Lamia interrupted me, resting her chin against her knuckles, eyes playful. “I’ve seen how you light up when something sparkly is around.”

Jiddi Ishaaq chuckled. “Well, she should. A queen deserves her crown.”

“She already has it,” Lamia murmured so quietly, I wasn’t sure anyone else heard.

I definitely did.

My heart skipped a beat.

I looked at her, really looked at her, this impossible woman in a silk robe, sipping coffee like a queen, casually announcing she was taking me jewelry shopping because she felt like it. She was being calm and cheeky about it, like it was an errand, but I knew Lamia. Underneath that poise, there was always a deeper message. A deeper want. A softness she only showed in flashes.

A soft exhale left me as I reached for her hand under the table. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance down. But her fingers laced with mine, firm and secure. She held me like that as if it were nothing.

As if it were everything.

And somehow, surrounded by tulips, breakfast, and old stories, I realized again, we were building something, something warm and stubborn and entirely ours.

And now she was taking me to a palace of diamonds.

Because that’s who we were.

Divas. Wives. A little competitive. A lot in love.

——

From the moment our car door was opened by a sharply dressed valet, I knew today was going to be that kind of day. The kind where the world doesn’t spin unless you tell it to. Where heads turn. Where you don’t even need to try, you just are.

I stepped out of Lamia’s custom black Range Rover wearing a low-cut ivory tank top that clung like a second skin and a pair of high-waisted, light-wash wide-leg jeans that made my hips look exactly the way I liked them to, dramatic, unapologetic, made for slow turns and stiletto clicks. The heat of Dubai kissed my bare shoulders, but I didn’t sweat. I shimmered. My oversized sunglasses… Tom Ford, naturally, shielded my blue eyes, which I’d rimmed in kohl, courtesy of Lamia’s Jidda Maryam insisting her personal makeup artist give me a proper Arabian royal glam look before we left.

My fake nails, freshly done in a baby blue coffin shape with gold accents, glittered in the sun as I adjusted the strap of my Dior saddle bag. Everything about me today screamed: Yes, I’m expensive. Yes, I’m adored. And yes, I’m the wife. Period.

Lamia walked beside me, in her typical neutral-toned fitted maxi dress, her dark hair slicked back into a low braided ponytail, gold Cartier sunglasses on, and an energy that said she ran the building even before we stepped inside. Two suited men opened the golden doors of Malabar Gold and Diamonds for us like they’d been practicing it all morning.

Inside, the air changed. It was cooler. Still. Like every sound knew not to disturb the wealth echoing through the marble floor.

A woman in a sharply tailored white dress with a Malabar name tag greeted us immediately, her smile practiced but real. “Ms. Al-Gadaffi,” she said with a respectful tilt of her head. “Welcome back. We’ve prepared the exclusive showroom as requested.”

Lamia gave her the smallest nod. “She’s choosing today,” she said, jerking her chin at me.

The woman’s eyes turned to me with a different kind of attention, like she was trying to recalculate. A flash of surprise, like she didn’t expect me to be the one. Then, a polite but genuine smile. “Of course, madam. Right this way.”

We followed her down a hallway with heavy gold-framed photos of royal patrons and international celebrities. I walked slightly ahead of Lamia, not because she wasn’t the star of every room we entered, but because today, she wanted me to shine.

The showroom was a private space with plush seating, champagne-hued lighting, and glass cases that looked more like thrones than displays. Security stood outside the tinted doors. Inside, I felt like I was in a museum curated just for me.

The woman, now joined by a male associate, began presenting trays. “We’ve prepared several new arrivals for your viewing today. Everything from Emirati gold collections to rare Indian bridal sets and Italian diamond pieces. Should we begin?”

Lamia leaned against the wall like it was her kingdom. “Start with the tulip set,” she said, her voice low, deliberate.

The tulip set.

God.

I didn’t even know what that meant, but I suddenly wanted it.

The tray was unveiled like a crown jewel, a handcrafted 22k gold set in a swirling floral motif, diamonds glinting at the tips of each petal. A massive necklace, earrings that dripped like chandeliers, and a matching ring with a blooming tulip center that could blind someone if it caught the light right.

It was dramatic. Feminine. Loud without being vulgar. It looked like something a queen would wear when she wanted to send a message.

I tilted my head. “Is this… because of this morning?” I asked quietly.

Lamia didn’t answer. She simply reached forward, took the ring from the tray, and slid it gently onto my finger. “Because I want you to have it.”

The attendant’s face twitched in the smallest expression of disbelief. Probably at the casual way Lamia said it. Like buying me a full gold-and-diamond set wasn’t monumental.

I turned my hand under the light. “It’s a little too much.”

Lamia raised a brow. “You love too much.”

I smiled behind my sunglasses. She knew me too well.

We spent the next hour trying on pieces, laughing quietly, letting the attendants bring out more and more. Lamia was always poised, but I could feel her watching me with amusement as I paraded in front of the mirror, draped in gold. I posed. I twirled. I flirted, with her, not them. I had to admit, this was the kind of day that reminded me why I fought so hard for us. Why I stayed.

Because this woman? She didn’t just love with words. She showed it in tulips the size of a truck. In necklaces that cost enough to feed a country. In the way she sat there, arms crossed, chin tilted, watching me like I was art and she was just grateful I existed.

I ended up choosing three sets. I didn’t even ask the price.

As we left, Lamia placed her black card on the counter without hesitation, not even checking the receipt.

We stepped back out into the sunlight.

“You know,” I murmured as the valet brought the car around, “you’re really bad at pretending you’re not obsessed with me.”

Lamia didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t pretend. I am obsessed with you.”

My laugh rang out into the Dubai afternoon, mixing with the glitter of gold that now rested against my collarbones, my wrists, my fingers.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like someone surviving love.

I felt adorned by it.

And it looked damn good on me.

——

When 4PM came, we picked up Faisal at the mansion to bring him out to eat. The restaurant looked like a scene pulled from one of those glossy travel editorials, the kind where everything feels cinematic, every detail curated down to the angle of the sun spilling across the marble. The exterior was sharp, all glass and warm-toned stone, seated right by the waterfront of the Dubai Marina. The name glimmered in gold on a tall white wall, Noora one of the city’s most talked-about luxury restaurants, famous for its contemporary Emirati fusion and a clientele made up of CEOs, diplomats, and the occasional royal.

But even all that glamor wasn’t what caught my breath.

It was Lamia.

She stepped out of the Range Rover first, handing Faisal’s baby bag to one of the staff in a move so smooth it almost looked choreographed. The sun hit her the moment she emerged, and it was like even Dubai itself paused for her arrival. She was wearing a structured silk blazer, pearl white, with delicate gold embroidery that danced in the light, cinched at the waist with a belt that looked custom-made to hug her curves. Underneath it, an ivory pleated skirt fell just below her knees, barely grazing the top of her sharply pointed heels.

Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, held together with a golden pin in the shape of a falcon. Large statement earrings gleamed at her ears, each one shaped like a crescent moon wrapped in vines of diamonds. Her lips were painted a dark rose, her cheekbones sculpted to royal precision, and her brows looked like they were drawn by the hand of God.

She looked… ridiculous.

Ridiculously elegant. Ridiculously beautiful. Ridiculously poised. Like some sort of Emirati fashion mogul princess with the power to kill a man just by arching one eyebrow.

I adjusted my own outfit, a sleeveless white blouse tucked into beige trousers, still chic but suddenly feeling tame next to her.

“I should’ve worn something else,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped out of the car, grabbing my tiny Louis Vuitton clutch.

Lamia turned, her eyes immediately dropping down to scan me head to toe. She blinked slowly, then smirked. “You look fine.”

Fine?

FINE?

This woman was giving Vogue Arabia cover and she hit me with fine?

I gave her a dry look as we walked side by side into the restaurant, holding Faisal in one arm, sunglasses in the other.

“I’m not competing with a goddess, but a little more than ‘fine’ would’ve been nice,” I said under my breath.

Lamia just laughed. “You want me to say you’re hot?”

“I want you to say you’d cancel this whole merienda and ruin your makeup in the backseat because I look that good.”

She leaned closer, her voice like honey-coated fire. “I’d ruin more than my makeup. But you said you were hungry.”

And that shut me up.

The maître d’ led us to our private table with wide eyes, stammering something about how honored they were to serve the Al-Gadaffi family. The moment we were seated, a fleet of waitstaff appeared, offering drinks, starters, cold towels. It felt like we were being waited on like royalty. Because… well, we kind of were.

We were seated on a corner terrace overlooking the marina, and Faisal was placed in his luxe travel high chair beside me. The view was jaw-dropping, but I found myself looking at Lamia more than anything else.

She sat with her legs crossed, one heel bobbing lazily. She scanned the menu with one long finger gliding down the page, her other hand resting lightly on the table beside her designer clutch. Every time she glanced up, her gaze was lazy and powerful, like she didn’t need to speak loudly to get what she wanted. Everyone would listen anyway.

Even the way she spoke to the server was polished, articulate, but slightly intimidating. That soft-accented English with the hint of Arabic lilt, the way she said “thank you” in her native tongue and nodded like a CEO who owned everything in sight. And maybe she kind of did.

God, she was magnetic.

And the part that wrecked me? That this poised, elite, terrifyingly gorgeous woman was mine. That I got to kiss her, touch her, argue with her, raise a child with her. That no matter how icy she looked to the world, I was the only one who got to see her soft.

“You’re staring again,” Lamia said without looking up from the menu.

“I’m allowed to stare at my wife.”

“I’m not wearing that necklace for nothing,” she muttered, finally glancing up. “Admire it properly.”

I did. And not just the necklace.

The food arrived in a blur of silver trays and swooping motions, saffron lamb shanks, delicate lobster-stuffed flatbreads, rosewater-glazed dates, and fresh fruit on carved crystal. Faisal gurgled happily in his chair, nibbling on soft bread, and Lamia passed him tiny spoons of mashed vegetables like it was the most natural thing in the world, her poised grace never faltering.

“I love watching you like this,” I said after a while, tearing a piece of warm flatbread.

“Like what?”

“Like a boss, a diva, a queen, a mom,” I murmured. “You’re just… so good at being all of them.”

Lamia looked away for a second, like maybe the compliment hit deeper than she expected. She set down her glass, her tone softening. “I like it more when you look at me like that than when strangers do.”

“I’ll always look at you like that,” I said. “Even when you’re old and wrinkled.”

She laughed. “You’ll be older and wrinklier.”

I shrugged, smiling. “Still hotter.”

She didn’t argue.

And as the sun climbed higher over the marina and our plates slowly emptied, I couldn’t help but feel that this was one of those moments that would stay with me forever. Dubai’s skyline in the distance, the scent of luxury perfume and saffron in the air, Lamia’s fingers brushing against mine on the table, and the quiet, steady reminder that somehow, despite everything, we had found this kind of peace together.

And I’d keep staring at her forever if it meant this feeling would never end.

——

The sky over Dubai was starting to turn that soft golden hue that melted into lavender at the edges, and the moment we stepped out of the black Range Rover, the world felt quieter. A kind of hush that only came when you knew something was about to change, something was about to happen.

It was already 6 PM. The moment we walked into the mansion’s grand foyer, the scent of saffron, oud, and the trailing touch of rosewater still clung to my skin from the restaurant. But Lamia barely gave the atmosphere a second glance.

She was on a mission.

I barely had time to blink before she turned to one of the maids with the calm, effortless dominance only Lamia could carry in her voice. Her words were soft but final, decisive. “Please take Faisal for now,” she said, handing over our son with that same maternal grace she always had, but there was an urgency behind her eyes that the maid clearly noticed.

The young woman bowed her head slightly and nodded, already bouncing Faisal gently against her chest. “Yes, Madam.”

I opened my mouth to say something, maybe even ask if everything was okay, but then I felt Lamia’s hand wrap around my wrist, firm but not rough, warm and commanding. She didn’t look at me. She just started walking, pulling me with her like she already knew I’d follow.

And of course I did.

We went up the stairs in silence, but my heart was racing. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that look in her eyes, I’d been watching her the whole day, hadn’t I?

The little signs were everywhere: the way she held my hand tighter than usual in the car, the way her fingers brushed my thigh under the table at lunch like she couldn’t help herself, the unreadable gleam in her eyes when I tried on that gold choker in Malabar. She hadn’t said anything, not really, but her body had spoken volumes.

And now, as we reached the massive double doors of our bedroom, I felt her pulse through her grip like a silent drumbeat calling me in.

She didn’t even hesitate. Lamia pushed the door open with one hand and immediately pulled me inside. The moment the door clicked shut, she spun around, reached behind her, and locked it.

That sound… click… echoed like a signal through the room.

And then it happened.

Her lips crashed against mine, hungry, full, possessive. There was no prelude, no teasing, no slow simmer. She was fire and I was gasoline. I gasped against her, stumbling slightly as she backed me into the thick velvet of the curtains near the windows, her hands already gliding over the sides of my waist, as if she had been holding back for hours and couldn’t do it another second.

“Lamia…” I tried to speak, but her kiss swallowed it.

She kissed like she had something to prove, like the world hadn’t given her enough chances to show me how much she wanted me today. I could feel it in the way her fingers tangled into my hair, the way her mouth claimed mine with that sweet, urgent hunger that made my knees want to buckle.

Her lips were soft but relentless, and I surrendered to them instantly. I let her lead me, guide me, devour me.

I moaned into her mouth as her hands explored, not harsh, never harsh… but greedy. Greedy like she had spent the whole day pretending she could wait, smiling at staff, nodding at gold, watching me wear designer clothes and talk about everything but this.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” she murmured breathlessly against my jaw as she moved down to my neck, her lips brushing the soft skin there. Her voice was low and cracked with heat.

I tried to laugh but it came out as a whimper. “You were the one undressing me with your eyes during lunch.”

“Because you were mine,” she growled… yes, growled, that’s what it felt like, as her hand slid up my back and into my hair again. “And every single person in that restaurant needed to know.”

My hands moved too, instinctively, gripping her by the waist and pulling her closer. I could feel her curves pressed against mine, the heat of her chest against me. I tilted my head back, gave her more of my throat, and closed my eyes as her kisses trailed down like falling stars.

I was melting, completely undone.

“Say it,” she whispered as her hands slid along my ribs, her lips kissing just beneath my ear. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I said without hesitation. My voice was trembling. My skin was burning. “I’ve always been yours.”

She kissed me again, slower this time, but no less passionate, as if she was memorizing the way I tasted. As if she was afraid this moment might be stolen from her.

And it hit me then, somewhere in the thick air of our bedroom: we weren’t just lovers tangled in desire. We were two women who had once been enemies. Two women who had been forced together by fate and now we chose each other. In private, in public, in every version of ourselves.

There were no masks here. No poised Lamia, no guarded Rani.

Only us.

And as she slowly led me to the edge of the bed, the silk sheets pristine, the curtains drawn, the golden glow of the Dubai sunset spilling into the room like a blessing, I whispered her name like it was sacred.

“Lamia…”

She smiled, lips swollen, her breath ragged. “You drive me crazy.”

I smiled back, reaching for her again. “Then let me do it properly.”

Before I could react, Lamia’s hands were on me, removing my clothes with a swift efficiency that left me breathless. I felt a shiver run down my spine as her fingers brushed against my skin.

But it was what happened next that really caught me off guard. As Lamia leaned in closer, her skirt rode up, revealing a glimpse of her legs beneath. Without thinking, I reached out and traced the curve of her calf, feeling the smooth skin beneath my fingertips.

Lamia’s eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, we just stared at each other, the tension between us palpable. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and I knew that I was crossing a line. But I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn to Lamia in a way that I couldn’t explain.

And in that room, with the rest of the world locked away outside, Lamia Al-Gadaffi, my wife, my rival, my obsession, kissed me like I was her home.

And I kissed her like I had no intention of ever leaving.

We made love.

Yes.

Finally.

After two years.