Chapter 50

Lamia’s Point Of View

After nine months…

The breeze at Casa Al-Gaddafi was different from the one back in BGC.

It smelled of old citrus trees, salt from the distant sea, and something soft and grounded, like ancestral memory. I had grown up here, running barefoot through the tiled halls and hiding from tutors behind the thick curtains in the solarium. And now, on the eve of the biggest day of my life, the weight of those memories settled on my shoulders like a familiar shawl.

The sun was starting to dip, casting gold across the arched windows of the second-floor veranda where I stood now, nursing a glass of jasmine tea that had long gone cold.

Lameel was leaning against the balustrade beside me, her dark curls pulled back in a lazy twist, wearing an oversized shirt she must’ve stolen from my old closet. She looked like she belonged here more than I did like time hadn’t moved her the way it moved me.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So,” I said, my voice almost teasing, “tomorrow’s the day.”

She smiled at that, though her gaze stayed distant. “Mhm.”

“I’m marrying Rani,” I said softly, more to myself than to her. “We’re actually doing this. After everything.”

“About time,” Lameel said, nudging me lightly with her elbow. “It took you almost four years, two babies, and enough drama for three lifetimes.”

I laughed. “We like to keep things interesting.”

She hummed, but the sound didn’t carry joy. Something clouded behind her lashes, a shadow that hadn’t been there a second ago.

I turned to her more fully. “And you?” I asked, voice dipping gently. “How’s it going with Rabina?”

Lameel’s reaction was immediate and telling. Her shoulders tensed, and she looked away, down at the gardens below like they held the answer she didn’t want to say aloud.

“I don’t know,” she murmured.

I waited.

She finally sighed and leaned her weight forward, palms resting on the stone railing. “It’s… complicated.”

That word. I’d heard it a thousand times in my own life, but somehow, hearing it from Lameel… always so confident, so centered… felt different.

“She’s giving me mixed signals,” she admitted, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “One day she’s texting me like crazy, sending me pictures of food she cooked, memes about politics, weird videos of ducks, like she wants me involved in everything. And the next, she ghosts for two days and I find out she’s out drinking with her friends from college.”

I raised a brow. “Did you ask her about it?”

“She just laughs. Says I’m overthinking it. That she’s ‘free-spirited’ and doesn’t like labels.” She made air quotes with her fingers. “Whatever that means.”

I winced. “That’s… classic Rabina.”

“Exactly,” she groaned. “And the thing is, I like her. I really like her. She’s smart and weird and brave. And she makes me laugh. But then I start wondering if I’m just some side quest in her wild life, and I feel like an idiot for catching feelings.”

I reached over and squeezed her wrist gently. “You’re not an idiot.”

“I might be.”

“You’re not.”

She looked at me then… really looked, and I saw it clearly in her eyes: that unsure ache, that strange mixture of hope and hurt that comes when someone’s holding your heart with clumsy hands.

“She kissed me last month,” she blurted. “After Luqman’s new baby announcement. In the car.”

I blinked. “Wait… what?”

“She kissed me. Out of nowhere. Said something I’m attractive and then just… leaned in. And then she left the country two days later for a trip and didn’t even say goodbye.”

I stared at her. “Lameel…”

“Yeah.”

I rubbed my temple. “She’s chaos.”

“She’s Rani’s sister,” Lameel said with a shrug. “Should’ve known what I was getting into.”

That made us both laugh, even if it was tinged with something bittersweet.

“She’s scared,” I said after a pause. “That’s what this is. Rabina… she doesn’t know how to love quietly. Everything’s either all-in or runaway. But I’ve seen how she looks at you. You might be the first thing in her life that actually terrifies her in a good way.”

Lameel was quiet, her eyes studying the garden again. “Do you think she’ll come to the wedding?”

“She better,” I said, smirking. “Or Rani will personally drag her out of whatever beach shack she’s hiding in.”

That got a smile.

We stood there for a while, not saying anything. Just listening to the soft sounds of birds settling into nests and the staff downstairs preparing the final touches for tomorrow’s festivities.

“I’m happy for you,” Lameel said quietly, her voice steady now. “You and Rani. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.”

I reached over and hugged her, resting my head against hers. “It’s real,” I whispered. “And so is whatever this thing is between you and Rabina. Complicated doesn’t mean hopeless.”

“I don’t know,” Lameel said.

I turned toward her slowly, surprised by the tone more than the words.

She was still looking ahead, at nothing in particular, maybe the hills, maybe just the darkening edge of the horizon. Her expression unreadable, but her voice… it had that brittle softness, the kind that cracked even when it didn’t raise.

“I’m starting to lose interest, actually,” she said, voice low but clear.

I blinked, my brows pulling together slightly.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. Just kept speaking like the words had been waiting in her chest all day.

“I thought space would help, I tried to think deeply in Paris last week Lamia, for real.” Lameel continued. “I thought getting away from everything would clear my head. But it didn’t.”

Behind us, the garden buzzed quietly with preparations. But up here, on this old veranda, the air thickened. Slowed.

“I thought being apart from Rabina would make things easier to figure out,” she said. “Instead, it made me realize I don’t even know what I’m trying to figure out. And now… I don’t know if I want anything at all.”

That last part hung in the air between us like ash.

Lameel finally turned to face me, and her eyes, so much like mine yet laced with more hesitance than I’d ever seen, looked older. Not tired in the way that sleep could fix. But worn down by waiting. Worn down by hoping.

I placed my teacup on the ledge, steadying my voice before I spoke.

“Then do what you think is best,” I said gently.

She looked at me like she expected a lecture or a warning or some passionate plea to hold on. But I didn’t give her any of that. Only truth.

I tilted my head slightly, voice calm but weighty. “What’s happening between you two is not fair.”

Her jaw tightened.

I kept going, softer now. “You deserves someone who knows what they want. And she do too, Lameel.”

There was no storm. No tears. Just quiet reckoning.

She nodded once. Barely. Almost imperceptible.

I didn’t push further. I just reached out and gently rested a hand over hers on the balustrade. Warm. Steady. Present.

And somewhere below, the household hummed on the strings rehearsing in the courtyard, florists shuffling bouquets, cooks discussing the order of service for tomorrow’s celebration.

But up here, under amber light and the rising moon, it was just the two of us… sisters. One standing on the eve of forever. The other standing at the edge of uncertainty.

And I couldn’t help but think, for all the songs and poems about love… they never quite captured this part: the ache of maybe, the weight of almost.

——

The night had settled thick and quiet around Casa Al-Gaddafi. After Lameel quietly excused herself, murmuring something about wanting to lie down I stayed on the veranda a little longer, letting the stillness of the estate wrap around me like a velvet shawl. Somewhere in the courtyard, I could still hear the faint plucking of a violin. Probably rehearsals for the processional.

Tomorrow.

The word sat on my tongue like the first drop of wine, sweet, heavy, dangerous.

Tomorrow I marry her.

My hand itched for my phone.

I bit the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t supposed to. Not tonight. Tradition said we weren’t to see or speak, not until the ceremony. But the ache inside me was stronger than superstition.

I checked the time. 9:52 p.m.

She’d be back at her family’s estate by now. Rebecca would have had her last feed. Faisal was probably bouncing off the walls, demanding one more story, one more kiss.

I stared at my phone like it might combust if I touched it. Then I tapped her name anyway. My thumb hovered over the call button for a second… and then I pressed it.

One ring. Two.

She picked up.

“Lamia?” came Rani’s voice, soft, surprised, a little breathless.

I exhaled something I hadn’t realized I was holding. Her voice always had that effect on me, it cracked something open inside my chest.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk,” I murmured, stepping deeper into the shadowed edge of the veranda. “But I needed to hear your voice.”

There was a pause on her end. And then, the gentlest of chuckles. “You’re so bad at rules.”

“You love it,” I whispered.

“I do,” she whispered back.

For a moment we said nothing. I closed my eyes and let the sound of her breathing fill the silence between us. It made me feel closer somehow, like I was right there in the nursery again, sitting on the floor beside her while she hummed to Rebecca, while Faisal stacked blocks beside our feet and babbled in half-Arabic, half-gibberish.

“How are they?” I asked, my voice turning to syrup. “Faisal and Rebecca?”

That question alone felt like an ache.

“They’re perfect,” Rani said softly, and I could hear the smile behind her voice. “Faisal spent half an hour insisting on wearing your bisht. He swears he’s going to walk down the aisle with it on. He even asked if he could bring a cane like your grandfather’s.”

I laughed quietly. “He would look absolutely ridiculous.”

“He would look exactly like you,” she teased.

My chest swelled. Then settled.

“And Rebecca?” I asked, lowering my voice, as if even speaking her name too loudly would wake her from wherever she was curled up in the world.

“She’s asleep now. Finally,” Rani said, with a tired sigh I could almost feel across the line. “She was fussy earlier, but I think she knew you weren’t around. She kept turning her head like she was looking for you while feeding. Then she gripped my thumb and didn’t let go until she passed out.”

My throat tightened.

“Oh,” I murmured, pressing my fingers against my lips. “I miss her.”

“We both do.”

There was a rustle on the other end, maybe she shifted on the bed or adjusted the phone. Then her voice again, softer now, almost like a lullaby. “It’s just one night, Lamia.”

“I know.”

“One night,” she repeated, “and then you’ll come to me.”

I stared out into the dark garden, the breeze lifting the jasmine from below and wrapping it around me like her voice did.

“I already belong to you,” I said quietly.

“I know,” she replied. “But still… I want the whole world to see it. Hear it. Witness it.”

There was a beat of silence, but not uncomfortable, more like the kind that made you wish the world paused in that moment and never resumed.

Then I smiled, leaning against the balustrade again, cradling the phone closer. “Tell Faisal not to eat too many sweets at breakfast.”

“He already made a deal with Nina to sneak extra strawberries,” Rani said, sighing with a kind of defeated affection. “Your son is as manipulative as you.”

“Your daughter is worse,” I grinned. “She already owns me and she can’t even talk.”

“She gets that from me.”

We both laughed softly. It felt like a balm.

“I’ll let you go,” I said reluctantly, though my hand didn’t move from the phone. “I just… needed this.”

“I know. Me too,” Rani said. Then, with the smallest whisper: “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible.”

I smiled wider, blinking back something hot in my eyes. “Goodnight, Habibti.”

“Goodnight, my wife.”

I ended the call.

The garden below was quiet now. Even the violin had stopped. All that was left was the hum of warm lamps, the scent of nightflowers, and the steady thud of my heart counting down the hours until I could touch her again.

I was still holding my phone in both hands, staring at the last message that glowed on the screen “Goodnight, my wife.” The words echoed, soft and slow, like the settling hush that follows a prayer. I felt it settle deep in my bones.

I was about to slip the phone back into my robe pocket when I heard the door open behind me.

The scent of cedar and oud entered before he did.

“Binti,” my father’s voice came, low and warm, always wrapped in calm, like a steady breeze brushing through the date palms outside.

I turned and met his gaze, my babba, in his white dishdasha, his silver hair neatly combed, the small creases by his eyes deepening as he offered me the gentlest smile. In the low light of the veranda, he looked just as he did when I was little, tall, composed, unfailingly loving.

“Babba,” I said softly, stepping forward.

He opened his arms without a word, and I melted into them.

He smelled of old books, orange blossom, and home.

He held me like he always did with a father’s firmness and a softness he never showed the world. Just for me.

After a while, he stepped back, just enough to look into my face. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter now. “A night before your wedding. You always used to say you would never marry.”

I smiled at him, tears pooling gently in my eyes.

“Shukran, Babba,” I whispered, my voice thick with feeling. “For everything. For trusting me… even when I didn’t know what I wanted.”

He tilted his head slightly, amused. “That sounds dangerously like a confession.”

“It is,” I said, laughing softly.

I leaned my back on the balustrade again, the wind gently brushing my loose hair over my shoulders. My eyes didn’t meet his yet, I was tracing thoughts, choosing words from the depths of my chest.

“I hated her, you know,” I said at last. “At first.”

He didn’t say anything. He just stood beside me, waiting.

“I resented her. Rani. For being loud, for being harsh, for being everything I wasn’t. For invading the walls I worked so hard to build.”

I let out a soft breath, my fingers tightening on the stone beneath me.

“But now,” I whispered, “I love her so much it aches. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone like this… to be seen this way, to be chosen even in my worst. And it’s all because you brought her into my life.”

I turned to him now. Really turned.

“Babba… thank you. From every corner of my heart. Thank you.”

He looked at me with a gaze I would never forget. Not in this life. Not in the next. It was quiet and proud, and deeply full.

Then he nodded slowly and placed a hand on my shoulder. “When Ramil and I spoke, before all of this,” he said, “he showed me a photo.”

“A photo?” I asked, brows raising.

“Yes,” he nodded. “A family picture. There she was. Rani. Not posing, not trying to be anything, just standing beside her siblings, eyes so alive. Your mother was beside me and whispered, ‘That one. She’s trouble.'” He chuckled at the memory, then his voice softened again. “But I knew. The moment I saw her. I knew she was the one.”

I smiled, my throat tightening again.

“She looked fierce. But also kind,” he went on. “Like she could turn a table upside down and then cry over a stray kitten five minutes later. That kind of soul… it’s rare.”

“She’s both,” I said, almost laughing. “Exactly that.”

He smiled wider, his eyes gleaming. “She’s gorgeous. Smart. And more than anything, she is brave enough to love you the way you need to be loved. And that… that made her the one.”

My heart twisted, unraveled, healed all over again.

He turned toward the garden, the soft hum of distant voices still rising from the estate as the staff continued the wedding preparations. “You’ve grown, Lamia. You’ve become more than I ever dreamed you’d be. You are not just a leader. You are a woman who loves without fear.”

I swallowed hard.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Tomorrow, you begin again. Not alone. With someone who walks beside you.”

My tears finally slipped free.

“I hope I make you proud,” I said, quietly, in Arabic.

“You already do,” he replied, simply.

He kissed my forehead with that sacred kind of love only fathers have, then whispered something in my ear. A prayer. Old, soft, protective.

Then he left me to the stars, to the night, to my thoughts.

And I stood there long after he was gone, looking out at the quiet horizon, where my past and my future met in the middle of the dark.

I was still wiping the last trace of tears from my cheek with the sleeve of my robe when I heard the faint sound of a door creak open behind me again.

For a second, I thought Babba had returned, maybe to say one more piece of advice, one more holy proverb. But the heavy footfalls were different, more sure, more deliberate, familiar in their rhythm.

I didn’t have to turn.

“Yalla, you made the old man cry again, didn’t you?”

A scoff slipped out of me as I looked over my shoulder.

There, leaning by the wooden beam like he always did when he wanted to appear casual but was clearly eavesdropping, stood my eldest brother, Luqman Omar Al-Gaddafi, firstborn. His black shirt was half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, and the soft edge of a prayer mark showed on his forehead.

He walked toward me, arms folded, a quiet smirk on his lips. “What did Babba tell you this time? That you’re the moon? His pride? His little thorn?”

I gave him a dry glare. “Nothing dramatic. I just thanked him.”

He raised his brows, like he didn’t quite believe that. “That’s it?”

I nodded. “That’s it.”

Luqman leaned beside me against the balustrade. He didn’t speak for a while, letting the quiet wrap around us the way siblings do when too many words have already been spoken over the years. He was the only one of my brothers I let talk to me like that, freely, honestly, even if it cut deep.

“You know…” he began, not looking at me, his voice level but laced with something heavier beneath, “I’ve never said this to your face… but I am so proud of Rani.”

I blinked.

Of all the things I expected from him, that wasn’t on the list tonight.

He shook his head slowly, then looked at me with a half-laugh that wasn’t mocking… just real. “That woman, Allahhumma barik laha, she’s got the patience of a thousand prophets.”

I smirked faintly, unsure if I should be insulted or agree.

He went on, his tone tightening just a little. “Two years ago, Babba and I would stay up at night in the study, door closed, lights dimmed, just talking about you. Every damn week. Trying to figure out how to fix it.”

“Fix what?” I murmured, even though I already knew.

“You,” he said bluntly. “How you treated Rani… it was out of this world, Lamia. Even I didn’t get it. And I’ve known you since the day you were born.”

I stayed quiet, my jaw tight.

“You were cold. Vicious, even. Sometimes, I thought… maybe this marriage is cursed.”

The air felt heavy again, but I didn’t interrupt him.

“You were angry,” he added, softer now. “We knew. You hated the arrangement. You hated Babba for agreeing. You hated yourself. But Rani… she didn’t deserve what you put her through. And still, she stayed.”

I closed my eyes, the weight of old memories slamming back into me like waves on a stone shore. The late-night arguments. The icy silences. The time I walked out and didn’t come home for days. The time I called her…

I shook my head to kill the thought.

“I remember 2 years ago,” Luqman continued, his voice lower, “Babba and I are on panicked when we found out that Rani wanted to divorce you.”

That made me look at him.

“She said she didn’t want to cause a scandal. She said she was hurt so much and that’s enough. Said maybe being parents in one child can work even if their parents is divorced. Divorce you with no fuss.”

I swallowed hard.

“I sat in that study with Babba while he paced the floor like a man possessed. I was ready to tell her to go,” Luqman said, eyes dark now with the weight of that memory. “Because I thought you’d never change. And she would never change her mind no matter how we convince her not to.”

The silence that followed that statement was brutal.

It stretched between us like a punishment I had long accepted.

“But she stayed,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “That stubborn, soft-spoken, beautiful woman stayed. And somehow, somehow, she melted whatever frozen hell you had in your chest.”

I breathed slowly. Quietly.

“I saw it,” he added, turning to look at me fully now. “The way your voice changed when you spoke about her. The way you’d watch her with Faisal when you thought no one was looking. And the day she lost that baby…”

I froze.

He didn’t say it with pity. He said it with reverence.

“…was the day you lost yourself. And the day you began to really love her.”

I didn’t speak.

What could I say?

He sighed and gave me a soft punch on the arm like we were kids again. “You’re not easy to love, Lamia. But she made it look effortless.”

“I know,” I said hoarsely.

He looked up at the stars, then down at the quiet garden, his voice barely above a whisper. “When you say your vows tomorrow, don’t just say them for her. Say them for the woman you were, too. The one she held even when you didn’t want to be held.”

I felt my chest crack open.

A sob threatened to escape me, but I buried it deep. Instead, I reached out and took his hand. Brief. Strong. Full of a thousand shared memories.

“I don’t deserve her,” I whispered.

Luqman shrugged. “No one ever really deserves a woman like that.”

He glanced at me again and gave a small, rare smile. “But the good news is… she already chose you.”

And with that, he patted my back once, stood up straight, and headed for the corridor. Just like Babba had. No fanfare. No advice I didn’t ask for. Just love, in the only language he knew how to speak it.

——

The night had grown deeper, velvet black above Casa Al-Gaddafi, the stars shining like scattered salt on silk. The wind was gentler now, almost reverent, as if even the air knew something sacred was drawing near.

I was still on the veranda, sitting cross-legged on the old cushioned bench where Babba used to read to us as children. The faint scent of jasmine drifted up from the garden below, mixing with the cedar oil they’d lit in the hallway lanterns. I could still hear the quiet murmurs of household staff downstairs, final arrangements, last-minute changes, servants calling to one another in soft Arabic.

But up here, in this moment, I felt suspended. Between the past and the future. Between fear and something so overwhelming it made my chest ache.

Love.

That impossible, terrifying thing.

I pulled my phone closer on the small mosaic table beside me. I stared at it for a long moment. Just the wallpaper, a photo of Rani asleep, Rebecca on her chest, Faisal curled beside her like a cat. The glow from the screen lit up my face, and I bit my lower lip to keep the tears from pushing up again.

I wasn’t usually like this.

So sentimental. So fragile.

But tonight… it felt like I had shed every layer of armor I had ever worn. Tomorrow, I would marry the woman I once couldn’t even look in the eyes without feeling fury. And now?

Now, I didn’t know how to breathe without her.

My fingers hovered above the keyboard for a moment before I gave in and typed.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
I love you so much, Rani…

Then I stared at it.

Simple. Quiet. But real.

It didn’t feel enough.

So I typed again beneath it.

I don’t think you’ll ever understand how deeply. It’s not even something I can measure. It’s in my spine. In my palms. In every breath.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
When I look at Faisal, I see your patience. When I hold Rebecca, I feel your heart beating through me. And every time I say your name in my mind, I feel calm.

I paused. Swallowed hard.

Then added one more.

Lamia Al-Gaddafi
Thank you for not leaving.

My thumb hovered. Then… send.

A moment passed.

Then another.

No response yet. Of course. It was late. She was probably asleep, curled on her side with Rebecca tucked against her chest, breathing that soft, slow rhythm she always did when she was dreaming.

I smiled faintly.

I wanted to hold her tonight, but tradition held me here. The eve before the wedding, the bride must sleep apart, in her family’s home, away from her beloved. It was meant to symbolize patience. Restraint. A return to purity.

But all I wanted was to bury my face in her hair and whisper all the vows I’d written for tomorrow straight into her skin.

I set the phone down, rested my elbows on my knees, and stared out into the quiet garden below. My mind drifted again to everything that led to this night, how we hated each other at first, how we broke each other in a million quiet ways… and then how slowly, stubbornly, we began to heal.

She forgave me before I even asked for it.

She loved me before I ever believed I deserved love.

And now she was mine.

Not because Babba arranged it. Not because of politics. Not because of duty.

But because, against all odds, we chose each other again and again and again.

My phone buzzed lightly against the wood.

My breath hitched as I grabbed it.

Rani’s name lit up the screen.

I opened the message with a hand that trembled slightly.

Habibti
You don’t know what it means to hear that from you. I was just staring at our daughter a while ago, whispering your name into her tiny ear. I told her Mama Lamia will be the most beautiful bride in the world tomorrow.

Habibti
You broke me before, but you also built me into someone stronger. Someone softer. Someone who can survive anything because she’s loved by you.

Habibti
I love you more than air. And I would still choose you even if I had to relive all the pain that came before this night. I’d do it again. Just to reach you again.

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.

Then another.

And another.

I pressed my forehead against my knees, whispering her name like a prayer.

“Rani…”

My voice broke.

And I stayed like that, curled up in my family’s ancient veranda, heart wide open, grieving for the woman I used to be and utterly devoted to the woman I would marry tomorrow.