Chapter 38

Rani’s Point Of View

After 4 months…

Today wasn’t just another celebration. It was her day.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi, the woman I once resented, then mourned, then fought, then fell for, was turning another year older, another year bolder, another year even more devastatingly radiant. And tonight, in the grandeur of the Al-Gaddafi family’s Forbes mansion, it felt like the whole of Manila had come to witness it.

The estate was lit up like a golden dream. String lights laced through the date palms and olive trees that lined the circular driveway, and the scent of frankincense and honey wafted through the air from the massive white floral installations placed at every corner of the estate. The courtyard was alive with violin music, and the sound of designer heels clicking on the tiled marble echoed like applause. Everyone who was anyone in business, society, and politics was here, all gathered for her.

And me?

I had never looked this expensive in my life.

I wore a floor-length midnight-blue gown, one-shouldered, backless, with a slit so high it nearly touched the edge of sin. The fabric hugged my body like it was made to remember Lamia’s hands. But the secret was in the details: soft hidden snaps at the shoulders, a delicate tie along my lower back disguised beneath beading, and a thigh-high side slit with concealed magnetic fastenings. It was elegant. Classic. Show-stopping. But most importantly?

Easy to strip.

Tonight wasn’t just about the world seeing Lamia through my eyes, it was about Lamia unwrapping me later like the gift I planned to be.

I had my makeup professionally done by Dior’s Manila artist himself. Thick black liner sharpened my blue eyes, my lashes curled sky-high, and my lips were painted in the softest nude-rose gloss. My long dark hair was sleeked back into a low twist, with one diamond pin tucked like a whisper above my ear.

“God,” Queen had said when she saw me, “if you two weren’t already married, this look would’ve had her proposing again.”

Patricia agreed. “Honestly, Rani, you’re giving manipulative wife who slays.”

“Good,” I smirked, sipping from my champagne flute. “That’s exactly the theme.”

The garden reception had already begun when we stepped into the sea of candlelit tables. I walked ahead, Faisal in a tiny linen outfit resting on my hip, while Kristof adjusted the collar of his suit and nodded toward the crowd. “You know you’ve just walked into a war zone, right? Half these guests are probably in love with Lamia.”

I rolled my eyes. “And all of them are about to choke on it when they see who she goes home with.”

He laughed, raising his glass. “There’s my Rani.”

I spotted Keona and Aeris in the crowd, Keona looking like a Vogue goddess in a metallic copper gown, and Aeris in a pearl-studded sari with silver stilettos that could kill. They waved at me, mouthing You look so hot! before running over to greet Faisal with cheek kisses.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” I asked.

“Upstairs,” Aeris said with a smirk. “Her parents are presenting something to her. She’ll be down soon.”

And when Lamia finally descended the grand staircase into the courtyard, all of us looked up.

The world stopped.

She was in a deep crimson couture gown, hugging her hourglass figure like molten fire. Off-the-shoulder sleeves, a neckline that sat just barely above the edge of danger, and a skirt that shimmered with flecks of gold when she walked. Her hair was in waves, parted to the side, and her earrings? Pure emeralds, long enough to graze her neck, my favorite part of her. She didn’t walk. She glided.

All eyes were on her.

But hers… hers locked straight to mine.

She saw me. Her lips curled into that slow, sinful smile that only I knew by heart.

I lifted my champagne flute toward her in silent reverence. Happy birthday, my love.

There were over a hundred people in the courtyard. CEOs, diplomats, royalty-by-blood and royalty-by-money. They were all there, raising glasses, applauding, murmuring in admiration and hunger. But none of them mattered.

None.

Because the woman in the crimson gown was looking only at me.

That sinful smile, soft and slow, curled her painted lips like a secret meant only for me to understand. Like she could undress me with her eyes right there on the white stone staircase, in front of all these people who called her boss, heiress, queen. And maybe she could.

I felt it, the burn of her gaze running down my throat, sliding along the slit of my gown, pausing at the soft press of my cleavage. I felt her see me. Not just see, but possess.

And I hated how much I liked it.

I didn’t break eye contact. I tilted my head slightly and raised my champagne flute to her, the crystal glinting under the overhead chandelier hanging from the olive tree above me.

Happy birthday, my love.

It wasn’t a toast.

It was a vow.

She stepped down slowly, her heels whispering against the polished marble, the fabric of her gown catching glimmers of gold with every graceful movement. People tried to greet her, stretching out hands, lifting glasses, leaning in for kisses on the cheek. She nodded politely, murmured thanks. But her eyes never left mine.

Not once.

Kristof leaned closer to me, his voice low. “You know you’re toast, right?”

“I want to be toast,” I muttered without breaking my gaze.

He laughed, handing me back the napkin I didn’t even realize I dropped. “You’re insane. I love it.”

“I’m in love,” I corrected him, half-dazed. “She’s walking toward me like she’s about to claim me in front of God and the economy.”

“Damn right she is.”

When Lamia finally reached the last step and glided across the courtyard, it was like a spell had broken. The crowd parted like silk, giving her space like instinct. Like royalty walking through her kingdom.

She stopped a foot in front of me, her perfume is oud and white flowers and the heat of her skin immediately clouding my lungs. Her green eyes flicked down my body, then back up to my lips.

“You’re late,” I teased, my voice lower than I intended. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten the wife you left standing in six-inch heels for an hour.”

Her smile sharpened. “I could never forget what’s mine.”

My stomach dropped straight to my knees. “Bold words for a birthday girl.”

She leaned in close, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Bold gown for a married woman.”

“Designed for you,” I murmured, my hand brushing the small of her back. “And it comes off in exactly five moves. I counted.”

She chuckled low, but it was dangerous. Her breath was warm against my neck. “Then I guess I’ll be memorizing choreography later.”

And just like that, we melted into the crowd together, her hand never leaving my lower back, her presence wrapped around me like silk and thunder.

Guests began surrounding us again, wishing her the happiest of birthdays. Gifts were being handed off to maids. A crystal-tiered cake taller than a child was wheeled in by staff. Fireworks were being prepared for the 10 p.m. show.

But we were on autopilot.

She mingled, but her fingers laced through mine the entire time. I spoke to her mother, who complimented my dress with a wink that suggested she knew exactly why I wore it. I spoke to her Babba, who offered me a glass of his private aged whiskey and said, “You’re the only woman I’ve seen who can look my daughter in the eyes and make her blink.”

And still, Lamia never strayed.

At one point, Keona tried to steal her away for a toast, only for Lamia to place her champagne flute into her best friend’s hand and say, “I’ll toast in five. Rani needs me.”

And that was that.

We danced later. Not a lot. Just enough.

Enough for her to press her hand on my lower back and guide me in slow, sensual rhythm to a jazz version of “At Last.” Enough for the other guests to politely look away and pretend not to see the way her fingers slipped too low, or the way I bit my lip every time she whispered something in Arabic that she refused to translate.

“Tell me what you said,” I murmured, when the dance ended.

She brushed my hair off my shoulder, her lips grazing the curve of my neck. “I said… I’m going to take you home tonight and unwrap you like silk.”

And she meant it.

She always meant it.

As the crowd cheered and champagne rained from tall flutes, I knew tonight was already over. The party? Just a formality. The cake? An excuse. The lights and laughter and praise?

All of it, just foreplay.

Because somewhere between the steps of her descent and the moment our fingers laced together in that crowd, something silent had passed between us. Something fierce. Something hot and impatient.

And I?

I was just waiting for her to blow out her candles… so she could finally make her wish come true.

Me.
Unwrapped.
Willing.
And hers.

After the last toast was raised and Lamia’s lips brushed against my cheek with the softest thank you that felt like a kiss meant for later, we were swept back into the current of the party, arms linked, flutes in hand, faces ready. This wasn’t just a birthday, after all. This was an Al-Gaddafi birthday. That meant legacy, power, and beauty colliding under one roof with the scent of perfume and ambition hanging heavy in the air.

And the truth? I was thriving.

Lamia stood beside me like a celestial body, draped in crimson, glowing from the inside out, and me, her wife, was her mirror image. I wore midnight to her flame. My gown, though simple compared to hers, was nothing short of lethal. It clung to my curves like it was stitched with desire itself. One slit up the leg, a neckline low enough to breathe against scandal, and backless, because Lamia adored running her hand there when she thought no one was looking.

But everyone was looking.

We made our way to the inner garden where the big business sharks gathered, the oil magnates, real estate moguls, tech billionaires, and fashion CEOs. I sipped my Dom Pérignon slowly, swaying my hips just enough as we approached. Lamia leaned close and whispered, “Ready to make them sweat?”

“Darling,” I said, tossing my hair over one shoulder and tightening my hold on her arm, “I’ve been doing that since I walked in.”

Heads turned the moment we arrived. There was a subtle hush, a ripple in energy. Glasses paused mid-air. Eyes flicked from Lamia to me and lingered. Not that I blamed them.

I saw the way they looked at her. With reverence. With awe. With desire they couldn’t mask even if they tried. And yet none of them dared approach her without first glancing my way. That’s what power looked like… ours. Unbothered. Unified. Dangerous.

A man from Abu Dhabi, tall with salt-and-pepper hair and a suit custom-cut to hide his paunch, greeted us first. “Mrs. Al-Gaddafi,” he said to Lamia with a bow of the head. Then turned to me. “And the ever-radiant Mrs. Hidalgo-Al-Gaddafi. The woman half the city is gossiping about tonight.”

“Only half?” I lifted my brow, sipping. “I must be losing my touch.”

Laughter scattered like sparks around us. Another woman, a shipping heiress from Monaco in a diamond-covered blazer, sidled up to me as Lamia was deep in discussion with two oil barons. “Rani Hidalgo,” she purred, brushing nonexistent lint from my shoulder. “You’re even more stunning in person. May I ask where your dress is from?”

I smiled politely, stepping back just enough to reassert the invisible boundary. “Custom. I don’t share designers with people who can’t keep secrets.”

“Oh, I like you,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Yes,” I replied, turning my head just in time for Lamia to glance back at me with a slight smirk, “I get that a lot.”

The more I drank, the sharper I became. The more people I spoke with, the more I realized the buzz wasn’t just about Lamia tonight, it was about us. Together. Unshakable.

“I heard Rani Paragon Enterprises just inked a new contract in Singapore,” one tech executive said, raising his glass to me. “Word travels fast.”

“You know how it is,” I said smoothly. “Blink and I’ve bought another company.”

Keona passed us briefly, flashing a wink at me before dragging Lamia away for a quick round of greetings. I didn’t follow. I stayed put. Because suddenly, I didn’t need to cling to Lamia’s side to command attention. Not anymore.

I felt it, dozens of eyes tracing me across the marble floor, the garden lights making my dress glow like ink under moonlight. Conversations paused when I walked by. A waiter spilled a drink after tripping over his own shoes just trying to get a glimpse of me as I passed.

One of the younger tycoons, a 30-something heir from a luxury car dynasty, came dangerously close while I admired one of the flower arrangements near the patio. “Tell me,” he said, “what does a woman like you desire on a night like this?”

I smiled slowly, twirling my glass between my fingers. “Everything I want,” I said coolly, “is already mine. Including the woman who owns this house.”

He flushed. “Lucky her.”

“Very.”

And with that, I walked away, hips swaying, heels clicking against the tile like a rhythm of warning. Don’t touch. Don’t try. Don’t even fantasize.

I found Lamia again by the wine cellar stairs. She was mid-conversation with her grandfather, tita Victoria’s dad. But the moment she saw me, she paused. Her eyes drank me in. And then, as though she couldn’t help herself, she excused herself and crossed the floor to me.

Her hand snuck around my waist, fingers grazing my skin. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she whispered.

I leaned into her ear and let my lips brush the shell. “Only because I know exactly what’s going to happen when this party ends.”

Her eyes darkened. Her jaw flexed.

I pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Happy birthday again, my love.”

“Best birthday I’ve ever had,” she murmured, voice thick.

I was still soaking in the moment, Lamia’s arm curled around my waist, the lingering warmth of her breath near my ear, and the not-so-subtle way her hand had been drifting lower the longer we stayed in that corner of the party. The chatter, the lights, the decadent music, it all seemed to blur around us, as if we were standing still in a world that was moving too fast.

Then I heard it.

A familiar voice. Whispers of laughter I hadn’t heard in weeks, delicate, clear, touched with a kind of mischief that could only belong to one person.

“Well, well, look at the diva herself.”

I turned, and there she was.

Rawid.

My younger sister. Wearing her usual Gen Z-coded oversized white button-down tucked halfway into high-waisted trousers with pearl-beaded heels, her hair slicked back in a clean bun, oversized Dior sunglasses perched lazily on top of her head even though it was 8 PM. Only Rawid could make herself look like a Vogue feature and a spoiled brat in the same breath.

Beside her was my mother.

Margaret Hidalgo. The one and only. Regal, poised, and devastatingly stern in her dark purple cocktail dress, hair in a low bun, skin glowing under just a touch of highlighter. My mother never overdressed, she didn’t have to. Her eyes alone could command a room.

“Mom?” I blinked. “Rawid?”

Rawid strutted over and instantly hooked her arm around mine like we were best friends. “Please don’t act surprised. You’re not the only one Lamia invited personally.” She flashed her phone. “She DM’d me two weeks ago. Said ‘don’t tell your sister, I want it to be a surprise.'”

I slowly turned my head toward Lamia, who was already sipping her wine like she didn’t just drop a bomb on me. She winked. My jaw dropped. “You little…”

“She messaged me too,” my mother interrupted, stepping forward. “Except she called.”

Of course she did. Lamia didn’t play games with Margaret Hidalgo. She respected her. Revered her, even.

“You both look beautiful,” I said honestly, still slightly stunned, “but you’re early. You weren’t supposed to come until next week.”

Rawid shrugged. “What, and miss this? You…” she did a once-over on my gown and let out a tsk “…look like you’re about to kill Lamia with your body. And I approve.”

I smirked, flicking my hair. “That was the plan.”

My mother stepped closer then, eyes scanning my face with the surgical precision of a woman who could read me like a book. “You’ve gained a little weight,” she said in that neutral tone she always used when she didn’t want to admit she was being caring. “But your skin is glowing. BGC Penthouse must’ve been good to you now.”

I gave her a half smile. “It had its moments.”

She studied me. “And Lamia?”

“She’s been…” I glanced sideways. Lamia was talking to Queen now, her body half-turned toward me like some invisible string always kept her facing my direction. “She’s been different, Mom. Softer. Stronger. Realer.”

My mother looked at me for a long, drawn-out moment. “I see,” she said finally. “And you?”

I nodded. “Still a diva. Just… softer when it comes to her. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Rawid rolled her eyes dramatically. “You’re in love, dumbass.”

“Language,” my mother said dryly, sipping her wine. “But yes. You’re definitely in love. It’s written all over you.”

And for a second, I stood there, between the two most stubborn women I knew, feeling like maybe, just maybe, everything was falling into place.

Just then, Lamia made her way over, sliding her hand into mine effortlessly, like we’d been holding hands our whole lives.

“Hi, Mrs. Hidalgo. Rawid.” She greeted them both with that diplomatic charm of hers. Polite, warm, but never fake.

My mother gave her a small smile. “You look radiant tonight. And thank you for inviting us.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Lamia said. “Rani needed her people around her.”

Those words.

Simple. Yet devastating.

I blinked back the heat rushing behind my eyes. Damn her. She always knew how to destroy me with kindness.

Rawid, of course, made a fake gagging sound. “Okay, lovebirds. Get a room. Actually… no, don’t. This is a family party.”

Lamia laughed, her arm tightening around my waist. “Don’t worry. We’ll wait till midnight.”

I choked on my drink. “LAMIA.”

But Rawid just laughed, dragging my mother toward the buffet. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get food before these two start eating each other instead.”

As they left, Lamia leaned closer to me, brushing her lips against the shell of my ear.

“Happy?” she whispered.

I turned to her, eyes soft. “Beyond.”

And in that moment, with the chandeliers glowing above, the chatter of family and friends around us, the champagne fizzing like promises on my tongue, I realized something,

This wasn’t just Lamia’s birthday.

It was a celebration of what we’d survived.
What we were building.
And what we refused to lose again.

——

The night went on like a fever dream. Guests toasted to her brilliance, to her poise, to her empire. The food was a seven-course spread of Mediterranean indulgence, and Faisal who had been passed lovingly from one friend to another all evening, eventually fell asleep in Queen’s arms, who later gave him to Manang Sally to tuck into one of the guest rooms inside.

I didn’t speak much after dessert. I just watched her.

Watched how Lamia laughed at Aeris’ teasing. How she whispered secrets to her Babba and stole bites of cake from her mother’s plate. How she let Keona drag her into a dance under the garden lights. She moved like a woman who owned the earth.

And every time her eyes flicked back to me, it was like she was saying “I’m yours.”

By midnight, as the guests began saying their goodbyes and the music softened to ambient jazz, I made my way toward her. Our friends were huddled around, drunk with champagne and secrets, but I slid between them like a shadow until I reached her side.

She turned.

Her breath hitched when she looked at me again, like she’d forgotten and was remembering all at once.

“You look…” she began, but her voice dipped.

I leaned close. Close enough that only she could hear. “I wore this for you. And just so you know… it won’t take more than five seconds to get this off me.”

Her eyes darkened instantly. Her fingers, resting innocently on her champagne glass, tightened.

“I want to go home,” she whispered.

“We’re already home,” I smirked.

“Bedroom.”

“Now?”

“Later baby.”

——

It was almost midnight when we finally retreated to Lamia’s childhood bedroom at the Al-Gaddafi mansion in Forbes. The corridors were still faintly alive with laughter and the distant clinking of wine glasses. But up here… up here, in this private little haven tucked behind heavy carved double doors, the world softened to just the two of us.

Her hand never left mine from the moment we excused ourselves. And I could feel it… the urgency. The ache. The possessive desire she was masking all night.

She shut the door behind us with a gentle click, not slamming, not rushing. But intentional. Slow. Controlled. And when she turned toward me, her eyes dropped to my lips like she’d been starving for hours. Her birthday. Her night.

But I was her present.

Before I could say a word, Lamia walked toward me with a smirk that melted right through the silk of my soul. Her palm reached up, fingertips brushing my cheekbone, her thumb grazing the corner of my mouth.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, her voice low and thick like honey under moonlight.

I laughed softly, lashes fluttering as I looked up at her. “You’ve had your hand on my waist for three hours. You weren’t exactly subtle either.”

And that was all it took.

She surged forward and kissed me.

Not carefully. Not like those diplomatic, practiced pecks we used to force in public during the early days of our marriage. No. This was unhinged. Desperate. Like she was making up for every second she’d ever denied herself the taste of me.

Her lips crushed into mine, hungry, messy, hot, my lipstick smeared in a second flat, but I didn’t care. I wanted her to ruin it. I wanted her to ruin me.

My back met the door with a soft thud as she pinned me, her hands cupping my jaw, thumbs drawing down over my neck with maddening tenderness. I felt my knees weaken. yes, from the kiss, but also from the sheer gravity of this woman. My wife. My once-enemy. My tormentor. My healer.

I whimpered against her mouth, the sound escaping me before I could stop it. And she devoured it. Her teeth grazed my lower lip as her hands slipped lower, brushing past the zipper at the back of my gown like she was asking for permission and commanding it at the same time.

“You wore this dress for me,” Lamia breathed, pulling back just an inch to look at me. Her voice cracked with something deeper than want. “You knew I’d lose it.”

I nodded, gasping slightly as her hands trailed along my bare shoulders. “I was counting on it.”

She kissed me again, slower this time… savoring. Pressing. Claiming. Her tongue brushed mine like a promise. I could feel the way her body pressed against me, solid and warm and trembling with restraint.

Every soft sigh that escaped me, every sound I didn’t mean to make, she absorbed it, fed on it, made it hers.

Her hands wandered lower, trailing the curve of my waist, then around to my back again, undoing the zipper with maddening patience.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured against my neck, her lips moving over the line of my throat. “Are you nervous?”

“Not nervous,” I whispered, arching into her. “Just… finally home.”

She groaned, a low, pained sound, and kissed me again like she couldn’t stand to be apart for even a breath. She pushed me gently toward the bed, every touch reverent and wild at the same time.

When the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, I collapsed onto it with a gasp. Lamia climbed on top of me in one slow, crawling motion, her palms framing my face again as she kissed me, kissed me, kissed me like she was trying to brand me with her mouth.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her breath hot and shaky. “Do you know that?”

I let out a soft moan, my eyes fluttering closed as I clung to her. “Yes,” I whispered back. “I’ve always been.”

And in that room, in that private, dimly lit palace where her childhood dreams once lived, we made something else. Not just love. Not just passion.

A covenant. A rebirth. A quiet, sacred vow without words.

And when she held me afterward, her lips on my shoulder, our bodies tangled under the softest sheets the Al-Gaddafi fortune could buy… I knew.

I would wear every ruined lipstick, every moan, every kiss she gave me like warpaint.

Because Lamia wasn’t just the woman I fell in love with.
She was the one I fought for.
And tonight, I’d won.

——

The morning sun spilled through the silk curtains like warm honey, draping the entire room in a soft gold light. The air still carried the heady scent of last night, jasmine from Lamia’s skin, the sweetness of my perfume now tangled in the sheets, and something else that couldn’t be bottled or replicated. It was ours. The scent of slow breaths after hours of closeness. Of peace.

Lamia was still sleeping beside me, one leg tossed lazily over mine, her arm slung across my bare waist like she owned me, which, frankly, she did. Her face was turned toward me, relaxed, lips slightly parted, lashes fluttering softly every now and then as she dreamed. She looked so young like this. Vulnerable. Almost innocent, if not for the faint bruises I’d left down her neck. I smiled. My goddess. My beautiful, spoiled, terrifying wife.

I stared at her for a long while, running my fingers gently down her spine, tracing patterns over her soft skin. I knew I had to say it now. I had to finally tell her.

Because I couldn’t keep it in anymore.

It’s been almost a month since I did it. And not a day passed that I didn’t want to scream it out or accidentally spill it during one of our playful arguments, or while she was feeding me mango slices in the kitchen, barefoot and looking like sin incarnate. But I waited. I wanted the perfect moment. A quiet, still morning like this. No guests. No business meetings. No loud laughter echoing from the living room downstairs.

Just us. Our sheets. Our story.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and shifted slightly. Lamia stirred with a soft groan, her arm tightening around me as her eyes slowly fluttered open. Her first instinct was to nuzzle my shoulder, her lips brushing softly against it.

“Mmm… what time is it?” she mumbled in her throaty morning voice.

I smiled. “Still early. 6:15.”

“Then why the hell are you awake?” she groaned dramatically, burying her face against my neck. “We don’t have to be anywhere. Not until lunch with Mama and Babba. Let me be soft and loved and spoiled for at least another hour, please.”

I chuckled softly and cupped her cheek, gently guiding her face back so I could look into those sleepy, golden eyes.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Her brows twitched, but she blinked the sleep away. “What is it?” she asked, propping herself slightly on one elbow. “You look weird.”

I bit my bottom lip, trying to calm my heartbeat, which was now slamming in my chest like it wanted out. “Okay… so remember when I was gone for two days last month and said I had that partnership meeting in Cebu?”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You said it was urgent and flew back the next morning.”

I nodded slowly, my heart in my throat. “Yeah… that wasn’t a meeting.”

Lamia’s expression shifted, all playfulness gone. “Rani. What did you do?”

I took a deep breath.

“I did IVF again,” I said quietly, holding her gaze. “Last month.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes widened. “Wait, you…”

“I used your frozen eggs,” I interrupted gently. “The ones you stored before we got married, remember? I wanted this to be us, fully and completely. And I did something else too…”

She was already sitting up, one hand clutching the covers against her chest, her gaze wild with confusion, shock, emotion.

“I wanted her,” I whispered, voice trembling. “I wanted the baby we lost. I wanted her back. So… I spent millions on PGT, had the embryos screened, and selected a healthy one… a girl.”

Lamia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Her whole body went still.

“I’m two weeks pregnant,” I whispered. “We’re having a daughter, Lamia.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears instantly, those rare, beautiful tears that she always tried to hide from everyone else, but never from me. Her lips trembled as she reached out, her palm covering my lower belly, which was still flat, still barely changing.

“Rani…” she breathed. “You… you did this? You planned this?”

I nodded, suddenly crying too. “I wanted to give her back to you. To us. The one we lost… I never stopped thinking about her. I still remember the name I chose in my head. Samira. I never told you. I kept it to myself all these months. But now… now she’s real. She’s alive in me.”

Lamia was sobbing now, full, silent tears rolling down her cheeks as she pulled me into her arms and held me so tightly I could barely breathe. Her body shook against mine.

“I love you,” she whispered again and again against my shoulder, her voice cracking with every word. “I love you. I love you. I can’t believe you did this for us.”

I held her back, fingers curling in her hair, my whole heart thudding against hers.

“We’re getting our daughter,” I whispered. “This time… no one’s going to take her from us.”

And in that quiet morning light, in the soft ruins of our night-before passion, we were reborn again. Two broken women who had clawed their way out of resentment, betrayal, and grief, now sitting together in the soft dawn of something infinitely more beautiful.

A second chance. A family complete.

——

The day had already unraveled like silk ribbon, soft, slow, and sacred. After I gave Lamia the news this morning, we stayed in bed for what felt like forever, just holding each other. We cried, we laughed in between sobs, and then we cried again, this time in complete silence, her head resting on my chest, my fingers threading through her raven-black hair. It was one of those mornings that didn’t feel real, like the universe had wrapped us in cotton and said, “Rest here. You’ve earned this.”

Now the sun was high, and lunch was done. The chatter of family still echoed faintly downstairs, Keona’s laughter cutting through every few seconds like champagne fizz. Aeris was probably still entertaining Babba with her ridiculous Dubai real estate stories, and Queen and Kristof had retreated somewhere near the garden, gossiping about guests in whispers loud enough to be heard. But we excused ourselves, politely, quietly, and Lamia took my hand as we made our way up the grand staircase of the Al-Gaddafi mansion, our fingers laced like second nature.

Back in her room, our room whenever we stayed here, it was just us again. She kicked off her heels the second the door shut and loosened her earrings with a soft sigh. I watched her in silence, my heart pounding again just like this morning. I had one last thing. One more gift. One final seal to this day… her day, that would make everything perfect.

She was standing in front of the mirror, brushing down the creases of her golden birthday dress, when I padded barefoot across the carpeted floor, the velvet box tucked under my arm.

“Lamia,” I called softly.

She turned, and instantly her eyes softened. “Hmm?”

“I have one more gift.”

Her brow lifted slightly, intrigued, as I walked over to her with the box, a pale ivory, just big enough to hold something special, tied delicately with a satin ribbon the color of rose gold.

She tilted her head. “Rani… what is this?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just placed the box in her hands, gently, like it was fragile glass. “Open it.”

She stared at me for another heartbeat, those honey gold eyes searching mine like she was trying to read the ending of a story I hadn’t finished telling yet. Then her fingers undid the ribbon with care, almost reverently, and she slowly lifted the lid.

And there it was.

The ultrasound.

The grainy black-and-white printout, nestled inside the soft folds of white tissue paper. A tiny bean-like figure, floating in the shadows.

Her brows pulled together for a second. Confusion. Then recognition. Then something broke in her, something unspoken. Her hand flew to her mouth again, eyes instantly glistening, as she slowly reached in and picked it up.

Her lips parted. “Oh my God…”

“That’s her,” I said softly. “That’s Rebecca.”

She looked up at me, stunned. Speechless.

I stepped forward, cupping her face with both hands. Her skin was warm beneath my palms, her pulse fluttering like a bird’s wing.

“Happy birthday, my love,” I whispered.

Lamia shook her head slightly, a trembling laugh breaking from her lips. “You… you planned everything, didn’t you?”

“I did,” I nodded. “Because I couldn’t give you just anything. Not today. I had to give you something… only I could give.”

She looked down again at the ultrasound, tears now falling freely, splashing onto the corners of the glossy photo. “She’s real,” she whispered. “We’re really getting our little girl.”

“Yes,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I hope she grows up with your fire and your mind and your stubborn heart. But also your laugh, and your softness… the part no one gets to see but me.”

Lamia dropped the ultrasound gently back into the box and pulled me into her arms so tightly I felt the wind leave my lungs. But I didn’t care. I wrapped my arms around her, too, and melted into her touch like I always did.

“Thank you,” she whispered into my neck. “This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

I smiled, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes as I whispered back, “Then it was worth everything.”

She pulled away just enough to look at me, brushing a knuckle down my cheek. “Rebecca’s going to be spoiled.”

I laughed, breathless. “She already is.”

Then she kissed me, soft, slow, tender. A kiss that spoke of years ahead, sleepless nights, tiny pink dresses, first words, and messy ponytails. A kiss that said we survived, and now we’re thriving.

And as we stood there, wrapped in each other, our daughter floating inside me… our future, pulsing steady between us, I knew in the deepest part of me,

This is what love rebuilt looks like.

——

We stood at the top of the grand staircase of the Al-Gaddafi mansion, Lamia’s family mansion in Forbes Park, still surrounded by the afterglow of last night’s celebration. The echoes of music, laughter, and champagne toasts still lingered in the chandeliers, in the velvet drapes, in the very air we were breathing. But what we were about to share, it would outshine every last toast and gift from her birthday.

Lamia’s fingers were laced with mine tightly. She looked like she was still floating. Her free hand clutched the small ivory velvet box I’d given her upstairs, the one that held the ultrasound image of our daughter. Our daughter.

She kept looking at it like it was the rarest jewel she’d ever received.

We paused just before the final step. I glanced at her, breath caught in my throat. She looked back at me, her eyes still red-rimmed from crying, but smiling, glowing like she was made of stars.

“Are you ready?” I asked softly.

She nodded. “Yes. Let’s tell them.”

We descended the stairs, still hand in hand, like something ancient and divine was holding us up.

In the living room, the heart of the Al-Gaddafi estate, the entire family was gathered. Mama sat on one end of the massive cream couch, sipping tea from a porcelain cup, her silk robe tied neatly around her waist. Babba sat beside her, reading the news from a tablet with his signature scowl of concentration. Luqman Omar was in an intense debate with Latif, their voices rising in a half-playful, half-philosophical clash. And Lameel? She was sprawled on the shag carpet with her phone, probably browsing TikTok or pinning outfits on Pinterest.

None of them saw us coming.

“Everyone,” Lamia called out gently, and the room paused like someone pressed mute on a movie. Everyone turned to us.

Mama blinked. “Yes, anak?”

Lamia squeezed my hand. She didn’t look at me, she didn’t have to. “We have something to tell you,” she said, her voice calm but trembling.

I took the box from her and opened it.

The black-and-white ultrasound image stared up like a whisper of the future, small, fragile, powerful.

There was silence.

Babba slowly set down his tablet. Luqman leaned forward. Lameel blinked, sitting upright.

“I’m pregnant,” I said softly, the words tasting like velvet on my tongue. “We’re having another baby.”

Still silence.

“I had IVF again,” I explained. “Quietly. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure everything was stable. I used Lamia’s frozen eggs again… and this time, I did everything I could to make sure…”

I turned to Lamia, who was already tearing up.

“It’s a girl. Her name is Rebecca.”

It was Mama who stood up first.

Her teacup clinked against the saucer as she gently set it down, walking toward me with her hand pressed over her heart. “A girl?” she whispered.

I nodded.

And then her arms were around me, tight and warm, like a mother shielding me from every storm I’d ever survived.

“Thank you,” she whispered into my shoulder. “You’re giving us another blessing. Another reason to believe in love.”

Babba stood next. He didn’t say much, just walked over and placed his large hand on my shoulder, his eyes warm and unreadable, the closest thing to affection he’d ever shown me.

“I’ll call for a full-time medical team to check in on you,” he said quietly. “You won’t lift a finger. Not this time.”

Luqman let out a long breath, then pulled Lamia into a tight hug. “You two never do things halfway, do you?” he said with a half-smile.

Latif did a small cheer, jumping from the couch. “Another baby! I’m gonna be an uncle twice!”

Lameel sniffled dramatically, already unlocking her phone. “Her name’s Rebecca?! Oh my God. Pinterest board, now. We’re doing a pink-and-emerald palette.”

They surrounded us then, a flurry of questions and laughter, people shouting over one another about baby showers and nursery plans and doctor recommendations. It was loud. It was chaotic.

And it was love.

Through it all, Lamia stood beside me, her hand never leaving mine, her face still shell-shocked with joy. She looked at me once, that quiet, reverent look that told me I had just given her the one thing money, empires, and status never could.

A family.

A future.

And this time, one with a daughter named Rebecca.

I wasn’t just the wife who returned after everything that happened, not just the woman who once wanted to run.

I was the mother of her children.

And standing in the middle of her family, finally embraced fully as one of them, I knew:

This was no longer their home.

This was ours.

——

The room was alive with warmth, laughter spilling over like the sun flooding through the grand windows of the Al-Gaddafi mansion. The steady hum of family chatter filled every corner, Mama and Babba exchanging proud smiles, Luqman and Latif debating baby names, while Lameel already scrolled through baby fashion ideas on her phone, Latif busily whispered to Siri reminders about gifts and nursery setups. It was chaos in the best possible way.

And then, the heavy mahogany doors creaked open softly.

Nina stepped in, carrying our little whirlwind of energy… Faisal.

At one year and four months, Faisal was no longer the sleepy baby we used to know. His little feet had learned to run, and his sweet baby talk peppered the room like music. He was the sun around which our worlds spun.

He looked around with big curious eyes, then spotted Lamia and me. His face lit up like a tiny fireworks show.

“Nina,” I said gently, my heart swelling, “bring him here.”

With a serene smile, Nina crossed the room, lowering Faisal into Lamia’s waiting arms. He snuggled close, clutching her necklace, whispering little sounds that made her smile glow even brighter.

Lamia rocked him gently, her laughter soft and full of love. “My little explorer.”

I stepped closer and ran my fingers over his soft curls, feeling the warmth of his body pressed between us. This was more than family. This was our fortress.

“Faisal,” I whispered, crouching to his level, “Mommy and Mama have a secret for you.”

His eyes sparkled, and with a shy smile, he babbled back, “Se-cret?”

Lamia laughed, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Yes, habibi, a special secret.”

“You’re going to be a big kuya,” I told him, my voice thick with emotion.

He clapped his hands, “Kuya! Big!”

Lamia smiled and kissed his forehead softly. “And you’re going to have a little sister soon.”

For a moment, Faisal was quiet, processing, then he broke into delighted giggles and babbled something that sounded like, “Sis-ter! Yay!”

I felt tears prick my eyes as I reached for the box on the side table. Inside was the ultrasound image, the first glimpse of our little Rebecca.

“We’re naming her Rebecca,” I said, showing him the photo. “She’ll have your smile and your curls. Maybe her eyes will be like Mama Lamia this time.”

Faisal squealed happily and reached up, tapping my lips and then Lamia’s, as if sealing our promise.

The whole room filled with laughter and cheer. Even Babba’s usual stern face softened into a rare smile.

Mama looked at us all and said warmly, “This house is going to be even brighter with Rebecca.”

Luqman chuckled, “Better get ready for the noise. Three kids are triple trouble.”

Lameel was already flipping through baby dresses, eyes sparkling with excitement. Latif was happily planning all the future playdates.

But none of it mattered as much as the feeling in that moment — the feeling of our family, whole and growing.

I looked to Lamia, and she caught my gaze, her eyes soft with the same fierce love and hope that I carried in my chest.

Our son’s laughter was the soundtrack of our new beginning.

And Rebecca… our daughter… was already the promise of tomorrow.