Chapter 32

Rani’s Point Of View

Four days.

Four days since our plane touched down in Dubai, and not once had I stopped to think about work, my inbox, the looming business decisions waiting back in BGC, or even the tight ball of stress that usually lived inside my chest like an unwelcome tenant.

Because here… everything slowed down.

I woke up this morning wrapped in white linen sheets, sunlight streaming through the grand windows of Lamia’s childhood room in her grandparents’ mansion. The scent of oud and citrus still clung to the embroidered pillows. And Lamia, half-asleep beside me, her hair a dark wave against her cheek, one arm draped across my waist, looked so heartbreakingly peaceful, I didn’t move for nearly fifteen minutes. I just watched her. Breathed her in. Let the silence press against my skin like silk.

Now, hours later, we were seated in the mansion’s sun-drenched dining area, where every meal felt like a curated event. The long carved table had already been set, not just with food but with warmth. Jiddi Ishaaq was at his usual place at the head, newspaper folded neatly beside his plate, his reading glasses low on his nose. Jidda Maryam sat across from me, in a soft lavender hijab today, sipping hot tea like royalty. Their quiet affection for Lamia, and surprisingly, for me… was something I hadn’t anticipated but had come to deeply cherish.

Lamia sat next to me, dressed in beige linen slacks and a crisp collared polo, her hair in a high sleek ponytail. Even at breakfast, she looked like a Vogue editorial shot. I, on the other hand, was still trying not to drop crumbs on my skort. Her golf bag had already been wheeled to the front of the house by one of the staff. Mine, bright blue, because of course it had to match my sense of over-commitment, sat by the entrance like an impatient dog.

“We’ll take the Range Rover,” Lamia was saying casually as she cut into her plate of shakshuka, the tomato-spiced eggs still bubbling slightly. “The golf course is only twenty minutes away. Jiddi made sure they blocked off a private spot for us.”

“Of course he did,” I muttered under my breath with a smirk, earning a swift pinch under the table from her.

Faisal wasn’t with us this morning, and that alone felt foreign. I kept glancing toward the hallway as if I’d hear his excited squeal or the sound of his tiny palms smacking against marble. But he was with one of the maids, playing in the nursery garden, probably chasing butterflies or trying to eat grass.

“Eat more, Rani,” Jidda Maryam said gently, motioning to the silver tray of manakeesh. “You’ll need strength if Lamia is going to try to beat you today.”

I blinked, then grinned, taking another warm slice of the flatbread topped with za’atar. “I don’t think she’ll go easy on me.”

“She won’t,” Jiddi confirmed, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. “Our Lamia plays to win. Always has.”

“She’s ruthless,” I said dramatically, placing a hand to my chest. “The first day we played, she stole the last water bottle from the cooler and told me hydration was for champions.”

“I was the champion that day,” Lamia replied without looking up, a smug smile playing on her lips.

Jiddi laughed, and even Jidda cracked a rare, knowing grin.

It was so easy to forget everything else here.

Yesterday, Lamia introduced me to more of her extended family, aunts, cousins, even a great uncle who used to pilot private jets across Europe and now raised Arabian horses. They welcomed me like a long-lost relative, asking about Faisal’s milestones, about our wedding, and if we were planning another child (to which I nearly choked on my mocktail and Lamia smoothly deflected with a practiced laugh and a shoulder squeeze).

Every minute we spent here, I began to understand her in ways I never had back in BGC. This wasn’t just where she was from,this was who she was. The Lamia who was fluent in four languages, who stood tall with pride but melted like butter when her Jidda kissed her cheeks. The Lamia who held my hand as her relatives told stories of her who used to sneak dates from the pantry, and who once cried for an hour when her grandfather took away her pink tricycle.

I saw the real her here, not just the fierce CEO or the cold wife I once shared icy dinners with, but the girl behind the armor. The woman she tried to bury behind her poise.

And what shocked me most?

She let me in.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Lamia said now, glancing sideways while buttering a piece of warm khubz bread.

“I’m just taking it all in,” I murmured, brushing a crumb from my lap. “It’s… nice. The food. The house. The family.”

“You mean me,” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

I gave her a playful shove. “You’re a tolerable accessory.”

She huffed out a laugh and leaned closer. “Don’t fall too in love with Dubai, Rani. I might never let you go home.”

Something twisted in my chest, not fear, not doubt. Just the strange weight of hope. Heavy. Scary. Real.

“You know I wouldn’t mind staying a little longer,” I said honestly, brushing her pinky finger with mine under the table. “I mean, if you keep feeding me this well.”

“She’s only staying for the lamb,” Lamia deadpanned, turning to her Jiddi.

“Lamb is love,” I replied, slicing into a perfectly grilled cut of ouzi, letting the buttery rice and meat melt on my tongue.

The dining doors opened gently and one of the maids leaned in. “Madam Lamia, the car is ready when you are.”

Lamia gave a small nod, dabbing the corner of her lips with a cloth napkin. “Five minutes.”

We finished the last sips of mint tea, the room filled with low chatter and the soft clink of silverware. When we rose from our seats, Jidda kissed both my cheeks and whispered something that sent a little pang to my chest.

“Keep making her happy. She’s softer than she looks.”

I nodded.

“I will.”

And as we stepped out into the courtyard, sun beginning to blaze above the golden city, I realized:

I already was. Making her happy.

And for once, I was happy too.

All of us were.

The sun over Dubai was different. Hotter, but softer, like it knew how to kiss the skin instead of burn it. The breeze was dry and scented with something expensive, old money, perhaps, and jasmine.

Lamia and I had just stepped out of the mansion, the taste of cardamom tea still lingering on my tongue. The Range Rover gleamed in the driveway like a black diamond. Her golf bag, monogrammed in elegant gold letters, was already secured in the trunk. Mine leaned lazily against the car, as if it had no desire to be used at all today.

Lamia was quiet, eyes hidden behind oversized Dior shades, her fingers sliding across her phone. Probably checking the tee-off schedule or texting someone about our arrival at the course. I leaned back against the car, watching the way she moved, cool, unreadable, composed.

But just before I could ask her whether we’d play nine holes or a full eighteen, a pair of voices echoed through the stone arch of the courtyard entrance.

“Lamia!”

I blinked and turned toward the sound, and there they were, a guy and a girl, walking through the grand front gates like they owned the place. The girl was tall and graceful, wearing a long, flowing green tennis dress and pristine white sneakers. Her hair was tucked neatly under a pale pink visor. The guy beside her was broad-shouldered, charmingly disheveled in that deliberate way, like he’d spent thirty minutes trying to look like he only needed five. There was a kind of relaxed elegance to him, the kind you only earn by being born into wealth and never having to prove it.

The guy was the first to reach Lamia, pulling her into a half-hug, cheek-to-cheek in that Middle Eastern familiarity that should have felt normal.

But it didn’t.

“Oh my God, look at you!” the girl gushed, giving Lamia a squeeze. “It’s been ages!”

Lamia laughed, a real one, not her public-smile laugh, and pushed her sunglasses onto her head. “You two are still dramatic as ever.”

She looked radiant. Lit up. Familiar.

Like she had known them her whole life. And maybe she had.

“I invited them to join us for golf,” Lamia said offhandedly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Hafsa and Rashad, we grew up together. We used to live in the same villa cluster, went to the same private school, played every summer until our elbows bled.”

The girl, Hafsa, grinned at me and held out her hand. “You must be Rani. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I shook it. “Hopefully only the filtered parts.”

Hafsa laughed, but before I could say anything else, Rashad turned to me. His eyes scanned me, not lecherous, not disrespectful, just… assessing. Like I was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to be here.

“You’re Rani,” he said, more like a realization than a greeting.

Lamia stepped in, placing a gentle hand on my back. “Yes. My wife.”

Something sharp and bright flickered behind Rashad’s eyes, not disappointment exactly. Something murkier.

He offered me his hand. “Pleasure.”

I shook it. Firm. Cold.

I didn’t like him.

And I didn’t like the way he kept looking at her.

The three of them fell into easy banter almost immediately. Hafsa was talkative, breezy, asking about Faisal and gushing over how she couldn’t wait to meet him. But Rashad… Rashad kept steering the conversation toward Lamia.

“You still do that swing where you lean too far forward?” he teased.

Lamia rolled her eyes. “I beat you four summers in a row. Don’t start.”

“I let you win.”

“You wish,” she smirked, nudging him with her shoulder, her shoulder. Her bare shoulder.

My jaw twitched.

I tried not to be obvious about it, but something about this man grated against my nerves. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, per se. He wasn’t crossing a line.

But he was standing on it.

Every time he smiled at Lamia, that slow, nostalgic grin of a man who once knew her favorite childhood snack and the sound of her laugh at thirteen, I felt something in me tense. Tighten.

Because he knew her.

And she let him.

He called her “Monique” once in passing, that nickname I only recently found out about, and it felt like he dropped a stone in my stomach.

I didn’t say anything.

Lamia noticed, though. Of course she did. Her hand slipped quietly into mine for a brief moment as Hafsa chatted away about the golf club renovations. It was discreet. But deliberate.

“You okay?” she murmured near my temple when the other two stepped ahead to the car.

I gave her a tight smile. “Yeah. Fine.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s Rani-code for absolutely not fine.”

I shrugged, squeezing her hand before letting go. “I’m not jealous. I just…”

“You don’t like Rashad.”

“Bingo.”

She laughed, almost too hard, like she’d been waiting for me to say it. “You’re not the first. Or the last.”

“Was he ever…”

“No,” she cut in firmly. “Never. Not even close.”

I looked at her. “But he wanted to be.”

She paused, eyes scanning my face. “Maybe once. When we were kids. But I’ve never seen him that way.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “He sees you that way now.”

Lamia let that sit between us for a beat before she leaned closer. Her voice was low, but her tone was steel.

“He’s irrelevant.”

And when she kissed the top of my head and whispered, “Let’s win today,” I believed her.

Still.

As we climbed into the car, with Rashad taking the front passenger seat like he belonged there and Hafsa chatting away with the driver, I held Lamia’s hand a little tighter.

Because sometimes it didn’t matter if the past was over.

What mattered was that I was here now.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

——

I’ve always thought of myself as someone composed, poised, even. I could handle backhanded compliments, industry sharks in glass offices, false friends who smiled too much and said too little. I’ve won awards with people who despised me sitting in the front row. I could sit across a boardroom table and smile at someone trying to cut me out of a deal, nod, sip my coffee, and then take everything they wanted right from under them.

But Rashad?

Rashad was testing every ounce of my restraint.

From the moment we stepped into the golf club’s private lounge, it was like he activated every nerve ending I had reserved for people I didn’t trust. His smile was too casual. His posture too relaxed. The way he talked about Lamia, like she was some artifact from his youth that he still had ownership over, made my blood simmer in a way I couldn’t hide anymore.

He walked just a little too close to her. Laughed just a little too long. And the way he always found a reason to touch her arm or shoulder or lean in to whisper something, it made my throat burn.

Even Hafsa noticed. At one point, while we were waiting for our golf carts to be prepped, she leaned beside me and whispered, “He’s always been like this. You’d think he never got the hint.”

“Oh, he got it,” I muttered. “He’s just pretending he didn’t.”

Hafsa chuckled, but I didn’t find it funny.

I kept my eye on Lamia. She was dressed in a fitted cream polo tucked into tailored navy slacks, her hair swept into a high ponytail under her branded cap. She looked sharp. Regal. Effortlessly intimidating. And yet, when Rashad made some offhand comment about how she used to always wear pink visors and yell at butterflies on the course, she laughed… full and genuine.

I had to look away.

Not because I didn’t trust her.

I did.

But because I hated how much he thought he could get away with. How he acted like I wasn’t even there, or worse, like I was some temporary chapter in her life.

We climbed into the carts. Lamia drove ours, her gloved hand casually resting on the wheel, while I sat beside her, legs crossed, silent for once.

“You’re mad,” she said, not even looking at me.

“Nope.”

“Rani.”

“I’m not mad,” I said coolly, “I just don’t particularly enjoy watching a man try to flirt with my wife using childhood trauma and nostalgia as weapons.”

She exhaled a laugh. “He’s not flirting.”

I shot her a look. “Then he’s just naturally irritating and inappropriate?”

She glanced at me, amused. “You’re jealous.”

I leaned toward her, voice low. “No, Lamia. I’m territorial. Big difference.”

We reached the first tee box and Hafsa joined us while Rashad stood to the side, stretching like he was in a Nike ad. Lamia hit first, a perfect drive down the green. She looked smug about it too, tossing her club into the cart like a warrior sheathing her sword.

When it was Rashad’s turn, he turned to her, grinning. “Think you can keep that up, Monique?”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw 2005.

“I always do,” Lamia said easily, wiping sweat from her brow.

When Rashad teed off, he made a show of it, twisting his body too much, showing off his form like he thought this was a casting call for the next Bond villain. His ball sliced hard to the left and vanished into a sand trap.

“Maybe you should stretch more,” I said sweetly.

He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “We can’t all be naturally athletic.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about your swing,” I replied, tilting my head.

Lamia coughed into her hand to hide her laughter.

And then, for a brief moment, Rashad’s smile cracked. He looked at me, really looked, and something shifted behind his eyes. Not fear. Not annoyance. But acknowledgment.

Good. He could feel me now.

The game went on like that. Every chance he got, Rashad tried to insert himself between Lamia and me. Making jokes, bringing up the past, talking about “the time we ran away from the clubhouse with stolen marshmallows” and “remember when we buried your Barbie under the sand and forgot where we left her?”

Lamia took it all in stride. She laughed, teased back, even punched his arm once when he made some ridiculous joke about her once crying during a tournament.

And all the while, I stood there with my hand gripping my club like it was a weapon.

I didn’t know this version of Lamia. Or rather, I didn’t know this part of her. The version she left behind in Dubai, buried under desert heat and gilded summer memories. She was lighter with them, like they carried a piece of her youth I had never touched.

And yes it bothered me.

Because I loved her. And the idea that someone else knew a part of her I didn’t, that they once had access to her days, her laughter, her trust… it burned.

But it wasn’t insecurity.

It was rage.

Because Rashad wasn’t playing fair. He wasn’t just reminiscing. He was undermining me. Quietly. Subtly. Like he thought I was a temporary placeholder. Like I was playing house with someone who belonged to another world.

When we hit the eighth hole, I finally had enough.

As Lamia walked ahead with Hafsa, Rashad lingered beside me.

“She’s always had a soft spot for people who challenged her,” he said casually, watching her walk.

I didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t open up easily. Not even back then. But once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

I looked at him then, eyes steady. “You’re not in, Rashad.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I said, stepping closer, keeping my voice low and calm. “You’re not in. You might have been. You might have memories and stories and little anecdotes that make her smile, but you don’t know her now. I do. I know what brand of moisturizer she uses, how she takes her coffee in the morning, what lullaby she sings when our son won’t sleep.”

He flinched slightly at the word our.

“She doesn’t cry during golf tournaments anymore,” I continued. “But she does cry when Faisal laughs in his sleep. She doesn’t wear pink visors, but she wears her old university hoodie when she misses her parents. You don’t know her anymore. So stop acting like you do.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then Lamia called out, “Rani, baby, you ready?”

I smiled at Rashad, polite and poisonous.

“Always.”

And as I walked toward my wife, I felt that familiar fire return to my chest.

Let him watch.

Let him remember.

Because no memory would ever compare to what Lamia and I were building now.

Every morning.

Every breath.

Every moment.

——

The sun was unforgiving.

Even in Dubai, where you expect the heat to be just part of the scenery, it felt like the sun was trying to prove something today… something personal. After hours of playing under it, my skin was beginning to feel too tight. My arms were tingling and even under the shade of my golf visor, I could tell I’d burn if I didn’t reapply soon.

“Come with me to the car?” I asked Hafsa as we finished the last hole.

She nodded immediately. “Alhamd lilah. I’m practically roasting. I think I left my balm in my tote too.”

We made our way toward the parking area, crossing the cobblestone path that curved around the manicured hedges.

We won.

Team Rani won.

By two points, thank you very much.

I could still hear Lamia’s cheeky chant from earlier, “Monique always wins, but today? Monique lost to Rani!”

She’d said it with a smirk, then leaned in and kissed my temple while Hafsa groaned in mock horror. “Please,” she muttered, “some of us are single and suffering.”

I smiled remembering it as Hafsa and I reached the Range Rover. The car’s cool interior air smelled like Lamia, oud, bergamot, and sunblock. I rummaged through my bag while Hafsa pulled out her balm and sunglasses from the center console.

“You know…” Hafsa said, her tone shifting. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

I paused, looking at her.

She gave me a small smile. “Rashad. He’s always been like that, charming and annoying. But I know Lamia. She doesn’t look at him the way she looks at you.”

I closed the sunblock, heart fluttering a little. “Still. I don’t like people who don’t respect boundaries.”

She nodded. “Fair. He’s always had this weird superiority thing, like just because he knew her since they were five, he has a right to… something.”

“Well,” I said coolly, adjusting my visor, “he’s about to learn that proximity is not the same as connection.”

We walked back, sunscreen freshly applied and bodies cooler now. The breeze carried the scent of the grass, the faint perfume of honeysuckle, and…

Lamia’s laugh.

I smiled instantly, ready to slip right into her side again, maybe plant a kiss on her cheek while she glared playfully for “being indecent in front of her staff.”

But then I stopped.

So did Hafsa.

Because ahead, by the edge of the course where the golf carts were parked, we both saw it.

Rashad.

Standing far too close to Lamia.

A small velvet box in his hand, already opened.

Lamia wasn’t reaching for it, but she also hadn’t walked away yet. She stood there with that unreadable look on her face, arms crossed as if deciding whether to slap him or wait for him to finish. Rashad’s expression was one of practiced sincerity, the kind men wear when they’re rehearsing a confession they think they’ve earned the right to give.

My stomach dropped.

“I just need to say it, Monique,” Rashad was saying. “I’ve loved you for so long. Even when you moved to Manila. Even when you married that…”

He didn’t finish.

Because I was already there.

I didn’t remember moving, but suddenly I was stepping between them, gently but firmly placing myself in front of Lamia, shielding her like some instinctive wall.

“Oh, please,” I said sweetly. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Rashad blinked, caught off guard. “Rani, I…”

“No, no,” I interrupted with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “You were just in the middle of something. Something dramatic and outdated. Don’t let me ruin your… tragic little climax.”

Behind me, I could feel Lamia tense.

I turned slightly, looking over my shoulder at her. “Did you know he brought you jewelry? That’s brave. A confession and a gift? Wow. Is this a proposal or a delusion?”

“Rani,” Lamia said quietly, reaching for me.

But I wasn’t done.

I turned back to Rashad, stepping closer now. “You really thought this was the moment, didn’t you? After everything… after she moved on, married me, had a child with me, built a life with me, you still thought a little nostalgic speech and a shiny object could undo all of it?”

Rashad’s face hardened. “I just needed her to know…”

“She knows,” I snapped. “She knows who she loves. She knows who comes home to her. Who wakes up next to her. Who dances with her when Faisal cries at midnight. She doesn’t need reminders from the past trying to pretend they have a future.”

He looked to Lamia, desperate. “Monique…”

“Don’t call her that,” I said, fire in my voice. “That name isn’t yours to use anymore. That name belongs to the people who earned it. People she loves. People she trusts. People who never make her uncomfortable like this.”

There was silence.

The kind that stretches.

The kind that hums with a thousand unspoken things.

And then Lamia stepped forward, placing her hand on my waist, anchoring me.

Her voice was low. Controlled. “You had no right, Rashad.”

He stared at her, his eyes filled with disbelief. “I just… You were supposed to be mine…”

“I was never yours,” she cut in, cool as winter. “Not then. Not now. And never after this.”

Rashad stepped back, wounded pride all over his face. He looked at me, then Lamia, then Hafsa, who was already shaking her head in quiet disgust.

He walked away without another word.

The box still in his hand.

I exhaled slowly, the fire finally dimming in my chest. Lamia turned to face me fully now, her arms sliding around my waist.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

I looked at her, this woman who was once a stranger, then an enemy, then a reluctant wife, and now?

Now she was mine.

I nodded. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

She nodded too, then pulled me closer until our foreheads touched. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I murmured. “He underestimated us.”

She smiled, soft and proud. “He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

“No,” I said with a smirk. “But he does now.”

And then I kissed her, there in the middle of the golf course, the sun burning overhead, the staff watching, Hafsa smiling like she just saw the most satisfying plot twist of her life.

Lamia pulled back slightly. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Too late,” I teased. “You already married me.”

I was still close enough to Lamia that I could feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest beneath my fingertips. Her arms were wrapped around my waist like she didn’t want to let go, and I didn’t want her to. The breeze had started to pick up again, and her long curls swayed with it, tickling the side of my face. I stayed there for a second longer, just breathing in her scent, just… grounding myself.

Because that whole thing with Rashad? It wasn’t just irritating, it shook something in me. Not because I didn’t trust Lamia. No. It was because I hated the idea of someone still thinking they had the right to reach for her like that. Like they could snatch her away from the life we were building.

As if she wasn’t already mine.

As if I wouldn’t fight for her every single damn time.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Lamia whispered after a beat, her thumb brushing over my lower back. “But I’m glad you did.”

“I know I didn’t have to,” I replied softly, tilting my head up to meet her gaze. “But you’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to deal with things like that by yourself.”

She smiled, her lips pressing briefly against mine again, this time slower, more tender. A wordless thank you.

“I’ve never seen you like that before,” she murmured after the kiss, her brows slightly raised, eyes glittering with that familiar glint of mischief and admiration. “Like a lioness.”

“I was already pregnant once because of a lion,” I smirked, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t tempt me to start biting again.”

Lamia snorted, leaning her forehead against mine again with a chuckle. “Noted.”

And just as we were wrapped in that quiet moment, a familiar voice broke through with an amused tone, laced in mock offense.

“Well, if you two are done being the hottest dramatic couple Dubai has ever seen…”

Lamia and I turned our heads simultaneously to see Hafsa striding toward us, her perfectly arched brows high, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, and her lips curled into the widest grin.

“…I’d like to say thank you for the front-row seat to one of the most satisfying takedowns I’ve ever witnessed,” she said, dramatically placing a hand over her chest. “Seriously, Rani. You slayed.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I wasn’t trying to put on a show.”

“No,” Hafsa replied, coming to stand beside us with her hands on her hips. “But you did. That wasn’t just a slap. That was a slam poetry performance, a whole monologue with punctuation, climax, and emotional payoff.”

Lamia groaned beside me and let her head fall onto my shoulder. “Please don’t encourage her.”

“I’m just saying,” Hafsa added with a smug grin. “Rashad needed that. I told you, he’s always been entitled. Thinking he had some golden ticket just because he knew you back when you still wore pigtails and called everyone ‘sir.'”

Lamia cringed at the memory. “I was polite. You were the wild one.”

“And look where we ended up,” Hafsa said proudly, then turned to me, her expression shifting into something gentler, more sincere. “For real, though, Rani… the way you stepped in? That was love. No drama, no passive-aggressive jabs. Just fierce, clear boundaries. That’s rare. I admire it.”

I blinked, a bit caught off guard by her sudden tenderness. “Thank you. That… actually means a lot coming from you.”

“You’re welcome.” Hafsa smiled warmly, then turned her eyes to Lamia. “You’re lucky.”

“I know,” Lamia said, her voice quiet but firm. “I know exactly how lucky I am.”

There was a pause.

A warm, reverent silence between the three of us, like the dust had finally settled, like we could all take a breath again.

Then Hafsa broke it with a clap of her hands. “Now! That being said, can we go get some drinks or something? Because I’ve been baking under the Dubai sun like a damn cinnamon roll, and if I don’t get hydration in the next five minutes, I’m going to melt into my golf shoes.”

Lamia laughed, straightening up, still holding onto my hand. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t side with Rashad during the game, because your swing is tragic,” Hafsa shot back, sticking out her tongue.

As the two of them bantered, I followed, still slightly wrapped in awe. It hit me, how easy this had become. Not just standing beside Lamia, but belonging beside her. She was comfortable showing me off. Letting me fight for her. Laughing with me in public. Holding me like I was more than just her wife, but her person. Her home.

The way Hafsa accepted me, the way Lamia looked at me even with people from her past around, this wasn’t just a vacation.

This was something I didn’t think we’d ever get to.

And now that we were here?

I was never letting anyone or anything take it away from me.

Not even some childhood crush with a velvet box and bad timing.

Lamia turned to me as we approached the shaded veranda, the staff already setting up refreshments. “Hey,” she said, her voice just for me now. “You okay?”

I smiled. “Now? More than okay.”

She raised a brow, amused. “Feeling victorious, Mrs. Al-Gadaffi?”

I leaned in, brushing a kiss on her cheek. “Always, Monique.”

She gasped, turning wide-eyed. “You used the name.”

I winked. “Only because I earned it.”

And she kissed me again, right there in the Dubai sunlight, like I was hers and she was mine.

Because we were. Finally. Unapologetically. Completely.

——

By the time we got back to the mansion, the sun had dipped below the dunes, leaving the sky streaked in burnt rose and lilac. The marble steps gleamed under the golden porch lights, and faint music played from inside the grand halls. The staff opened the towering front doors for us before we even reached them, bowing politely. I had Faisal in my arms again, his head resting on my shoulder after a long, exciting day filled with too much sun, too much squealing, and too many sweets handed to him when we weren’t looking.

Lamia was beside me, her hand brushing the small of my back as we walked in, whispering something about having our dinner by the garden instead of the formal dining hall tonight. I nodded absently, still wrapped in the warmth of everything we’d shared that day, the yacht, the golf game, the stolen glances, the laughter under the sun, her kiss after the win. My heart still carried the echo of her lips whispering “I’m yours” when no one was listening.

But that warm bubble burst the moment we stepped past the arched hallway and into the grand sitting room.

There was someone already there.

A man.

Tall, effortlessly handsome in a refined, old-money kind of way. Dressed in a crisp cream linen suit with a patterned keffiyeh draped stylishly around his neck, like he’d just come from a photoshoot in Marrakesh. His posture was elegant, his jawline sharp, and his smile, oh, God… his smile was the kind of smooth that made you instantly suspicious.

He was sitting on the velvet couch, holding a cup of Arabic coffee in one hand while the other rested casually over his knee, mid-conversation with none other than Jiddi Ishaaq and Jidda Maryam.

My brows furrowed.

Lamia’s entire body tensed beside me.

And before I could ask, Jidda Maryam noticed us. She smiled, lifting her hand to wave us over. “Ah! Finally, the girls are back.”

Jiddi Ishaaq stood up, his posture still as tall and dignified as ever. “Come in, come in. We’ve had a guest waiting.”

Lamia didn’t move.

She didn’t say a word.

And then the man stood, his smile widening, his eyes settling directly on Lamia.

And in that one heavy second, I knew.

I didn’t even need anyone to say his name.

“You haven’t changed,” he said with a voice that was velvet over steel, low and rich. “Still fashionably late, and still beautiful, Monique.”

Lamia flinched at the name, just barely, but I caught it.

And I wanted to strangle him.

She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “Zaki,” she said simply. No warmth. No venom. Just his name. Like she was tasting it again after years of forgetting it existed.

Zaki.

Of course, that was his name. The first boyfriend. The one Keona once teased Lamia about when we were tipsy and hiding in the penthouse balcony late at night, back when we still hated each other. The Zaki who Lamia once called her “first heartbreak.” The one her parents never approved of, but her grandparents adored.

And here he was.

Standing in the middle of Lamia’s grandparents’ sitting room, sipping qahwa and acting like he belonged here more than I did.

“Rani,” Jidda Maryam said gently, beckoning me forward. “This is Zaki. He flew in from Doha this morning. He and Lamia used to be… very close.”

My jaw tightened, but I forced a smile. “Yes,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’ve heard the name.”

Zaki turned toward me, finally acknowledging my presence. “You must be the wife,” he said, not unkindly, but not warmly either. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I handed Faisal to the waiting maid before I extended a hand toward him. “Rani Hidalgo-Al Gadaffi,” I said with deliberate clarity. “The wife. The mother of Lamia’s child. Yes.”

His smile faltered for the briefest second before he chuckled softly, letting his hand fall without touching mine. “Of course.”

The room fell into a quiet tension. Only the clinking of teacups and distant music kept it from being suffocating.

“We were just catching up,” Jiddi Ishaaq said, clearly pleased. “Zaki’s family’s been expanding their investments in the Emirates. We thought it would be good to reconnect, since Lamia’s here for the week.”

“I didn’t know you’d invited him,” Lamia said softly, glancing at her grandparents.

Jidda Maryam waved a dismissive hand. “We thought it would be a nice surprise. You haven’t seen each other since university.”

And there it was, the sharp sting under my ribs. University. That long, sacred era I was never a part of. The version of Lamia that I didn’t know. That Zaki did.

I stood straighter, one hand resting on the curve of my belly where Faisal used to lay just moments ago. “Well,” I said sweetly. “Surprise.”

Zaki let out a soft laugh. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… wanted to say hello. And congratulate you both. Your son is beautiful.”

Lamia forced a polite nod. “Thank you.”

The conversation stumbled awkwardly forward, mostly Jiddi Ishaaq talking about Zaki’s latest business ventures, Maryam recalling fond stories of them as teenagers. I stood still, quietly fuming, offering small smiles when needed. Lamia didn’t say much. Her gaze occasionally flicked to me, like she was checking in, but I didn’t meet her eyes.

Because it wasn’t jealousy I was feeling.

It was protectiveness.

It was knowing exactly the kind of man who thinks he still has a hold just because he was here first. It was the patronizing charm, the casual arrogance, the soft digs masked as compliments. It was the way he looked at Lamia like she was some great poem he’d once written, confident that no one else could ever read her the same way.

He was wrong.

I read Lamia every single day.

In the way she curled into me at night when she thought I was asleep. In how she held Faisal when he cried like she was trying to memorize the shape of his pain. In her favorite side of the bed, her shampoo scent on the pillows, the way she still sometimes whispered “Do you really love me?” like she couldn’t believe she finally found someone who wouldn’t leave.

He may have been her first.

But I was her forever.

Still, I stayed quiet.

Because I knew Lamia would speak.

And after a few more painful minutes, she did.

“Jiddi,” she said softly, rising from the couch. “It’s been a long day. I think Rani and I are going to turn in early.”

Maryam opened her mouth to protest, but Ishaaq nodded. “Of course, of course. Rest well, habibti.”

Zaki stood too, moving as if to follow, but Lamia didn’t even look at him. She turned toward me instead, held out her hand.

I took it.

Her fingers laced through mine, tight, firm, deliberate.

And as we walked out of that sitting room, the heavy air trailing behind us, I knew one thing for sure:

Zaki could have the past.

But the future?

It was mine.