The sound of the door shaking under Akram's shoulder was like a death knell. Hadeel's mind, still thick with the drug's fog, suddenly snapped into a jagged, terrifying clarity. She looked up and saw him—Majed. The realization hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't Akram. The man she loathed was in her bed, his sweat dripping onto her skin.
A muffled, soul-crushing scream died in her throat. Her body, finally regaining a shred of autonomy, went into a violent, rhythmic frenzy. She began to strike him—claws digging into his shoulders, palms slapping his face with a desperate, sickening sound. She wasn't just fighting him; she was trying to beat the reality out of existence.
"Get out! Get out!" her mind screamed, even though her voice was just a ragged wheeze.
But then, the sound of Akram's voice again—closer, more frantic—hit a different nerve. Fear. Not of Majed, but of the aftermath. Her logic fractured. If Akram sees this... if he sees me like this... he won't listen. He'll think I let him in. He'll think the betrayal is complete. The "Strong Hadeel" was gone, replaced by a woman blinded by the terror of being judged. In a split second of pure, irrational madness, she stopped hitting him. Her hands, still trembling, grabbed his collar.
"Hide," she hissed, the word tasting like poison. "You have to hide. Now!"
She wasn't saving Majed; she was trying to save the wreckage of her life. She pushed him toward the balcony or the deep shadows of the walk-in closet, her eyes wild and unfocused. She didn't care about justice anymore; she just needed the evidence of her nightmare to vanish before the door gave way.
Back in the living room, the wood of the front door groaned. One more hit, and Akram would be inside. Hadeel stood in the middle of the bedroom, half-naked, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, trying to wrap a robe around her shaking frame.
She was about to let her husband in, carrying a secret that would burn them both to the ground.
Hadeel scrambled toward the front door, her mind a chaotic blur. She looked like a wreck—her mascara was smeared in dark, jagged streaks down her cheeks, her hair was a wild, tangled mess, and her robe was thrown over her shoulders so haphazardly it barely stayed on.
She yanked the door open just as Akram was about to throw his full weight against it again. He stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. He stared at her, horrified by the sight.
"Hadeel? Oh god... what happened? Why do you look like this?" His voice was thick with a mix of shock and rising panic.
Hadeel stood there, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thought it might actually break. Her throat felt like it was filled with broken glass; no words would come out. She looked guilty, broken, and completely lost.
But Akram, blinded by his own guilt from the hospital and his desperation to be forgiven, saw exactly what he wanted to see. He didn't see a crime scene; he saw a woman who had spent the night falling apart because he had abandoned her. He thought those smeared tears were for him.
"I'm so sorry," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I'm so, so sorry for leaving you alone like this."
Before she could even attempt an explanation, he pulled her into a crushing embrace, burying his face in her neck. He held her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded, kissing the top of her head over and over.
"I'm back, Hadeel. I'm never leaving again. Please, forgive me."
Hadeel stood frozen in his arms, her eyes wide and fixed on the bedroom door just behind him. She could almost feel Majed's presence through the walls—a dark, silent ghost watching them from the shadows. She was being held by the man she loved, while the man who had just destroyed her was only a few feet away, hidden by her own hand.
The irony was suffocating. Every kiss Akram pressed against her forehead felt like a brand of shame.
Hadeel stood there, her body a rigid, trembling shell as Akram held her. She wasn't feeling his warmth; her mind was a frantic engine, calculating every second. The bedroom. Majed. The door. The lock. Her thoughts were a tangled mess of "how" and "when," until Akram pulled back, his eyes soft with a concern that felt like a knife to her soul.
"You're freezing, Hadeel," he whispered, leading her by the hand to the dining chair. "Sit. Just breathe. I'm going to make you something to calm your nerves—hot lemon and honey. I'll be right back."
The second his back turned toward the kitchen, the world slowed down. This was it. Her only window.
Hadeel didn't wait. She didn't even breathe. As soon as the sound of the faucet running in the kitchen broke the silence, she bolted toward the bedroom. Her heart was a drum, deafening her.
She burst into the room, seeing Majed's dark silhouette near the closet. She didn't say a word; she just grabbed his arm with a grip that was surprisingly violent, dragging him toward the main hallway. Her eyes were wild, fixed on the kitchen door where Akram's shadow was flickering.
One floorboard creak, one heavy breath, and it would all be over.
She reached the front door, her fingers fumbling with the lock she had just frantically engaged minutes ago. Click. The sound felt like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. She pushed Majed out into the cold, dark corridor, her eyes burning with a silent, murderous promise: This isn't over.
She slammed the door shut and leaned her back against it, gasping for air just as Akram called out from the kitchen:
"Hadeel? Everything okay? I thought I heard the door."
The second Majed's shadow vanished behind the closing door, Hadeel didn't waste a heartbeat. She pivoted, her bare feet barely touching the hardwood floor as she made a silent, frantic dash back to the dining room. She collapsed into the chair, her chest heaving, trying to force her lungs to take steady, quiet breaths. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white, her heart still screaming from the adrenaline.
Just as she straightened her robe, Akram stepped out of the kitchen, the steam from the mug of lemon and honey rising in the dim light. He looked at her, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Hadeel? Did you move?" he asked, his eyes flickering toward the front door for a split second. "I thought I heard the lock, and for a moment, I didn't see you here."
Hadeel felt a cold shiver run down her spine, but she didn't look away. She forced a weak, trembling smile, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I just got up to check the door. I'm still a bit jumpy, Akram. Everything feels... loud tonight."
Akram's expression softened instantly. He set the mug down in front of her, the warmth of the steam hitting her face, a sharp contrast to the cold terror she had just pushed out of the house. He knelt beside her, taking her shaking hands in his.
"It's okay. You're safe now. I'm here," he murmured, completely unaware that the safety he was promising was built on a foundation of shattered glass.
Hadeel took a sip, the liquid burning her throat, but all she could taste was the metallic tang of fear. She was sitting across from her husband, playing the role of the grieving wife, while the air in the room still carried the faint, suffocating scent of Majed's cologne.
Akram leaned in, his hand reaching out to cup her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone with a tenderness that should have been her anchor. He leaned closer, intending to press a soft, apologetic kiss to her lips—a silent promise to make everything right.
But the moment his skin brushed hers, Hadeel flinched. It wasn't just a pull-away; it was a violent, electric jolt, as if his touch had physically burned her. She gasped, her eyes snapping wide with a flicker of pure, unadulterated terror that she couldn't hide fast enough.
Akram froze, his hand hanging in mid-air, the rejection stinging worse than any argument they'd ever had. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the space between them.
"I... I think you just need to wash the day off, Hadeel," Akram said, his voice low, trying to mask the hurt. He stood up, pulling her gently to her feet. "Go take a long, hot shower. It'll help you relax. You've been through too much today."
Hadeel nodded wordlessly, her legs feeling like lead as she moved toward the bathroom. She didn't dare look back.
As the bathroom door clicked shut, Akram stood alone in the dining room, staring at the empty chair. A cold, nagging sensation started to claw at his gut. It wasn't just anger. It wasn't just exhaustion. There was something "off"—a dark, heavy energy radiating from her that he couldn't put his finger on. He looked around the silent apartment, the familiar walls suddenly feeling like they were keeping secrets from him.
He knew Hadeel. He knew her moods, her silence, her fire. But the woman who just "electrified" at his touch? That was a stranger. And for the first time, Akram felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
Hadeel stepped under the scalding water, but she didn't feel the heat. She began to scrub her skin with a desperate, violent intensity, as if she could peel away the layers Majed had touched. Her hands moved like claws, turning her skin raw and red, trying to wash off a stain that water couldn't reach.
She collapsed into the tub, the sound of the spray drowning out her world. She broke down into a rhythmic, hysterical sob, but it was a silent one—she pressed her hands over her mouth, biting her own knuckles to keep Akram from hearing her through the door. Her whole body racked with a pain that felt physical, a bone-deep violation that made her want to scream until her lungs gave out.
In a split second of frantic clarity, she thought, I have to tell him. I can't breathe with this secret. She wiped her eyes, her face set in a mask of grim determination. She almost stood up, almost reached for the handle to go out and confess everything.
But then, the image of Akram flashed in her mind—not the tender husband who just made her tea, but the man he would become if he knew. She saw the darkness in his eyes, the cold blood of a protector turned killer. She knew with a terrifying certainty that if Akram found out what Majed had done, he wouldn't call the police. He would end Majed's life, and in doing so, he would end his own future.
The weight of that realization crushed her. She sank back into the tub, the steam swallowing her whole. She felt a devastating sense of hopelessness—she was trapped. To save Akram from becoming a murderer, she had to stay a prisoner of her own silence.
Akram stepped into the bedroom, intent on finding Hadeel's softest pajamas. He noticed the state of the bed—the sheets were pulled and messy, the pillows scattered. He paused for a second, his brow furrowing as he looked at the tangled duvet.
She must have been tossing and turning all night, he thought, a wave of guilt washing over him. She was probably struggling, having a breakdown right here in this bed while I was away. To him, the messy bed didn't look like a crime scene; it looked like the evidence of a woman who had spent hours in a restless, lonely agony.
Then, a faint, unfamiliar scent caught his attention. It was sharp—a lingering trace of something heavy in the air. He sniffed, trying to place it. It didn't smell like his cologne, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Maybe it's a new cleaning product? Or maybe Hadeel sprayed something to try and calm her nerves? He shook his head, refusing to let his mind wander into dark places. He was already feeling paranoid enough from the stress of the hospital. He straightened the pillows quickly, wanting to make the room look peaceful for her. He didn't want her to come out and see the mess of her own breakdown.
He laid the pajamas on the edge of the bed and stepped back, taking a deep breath. The room felt heavy, yes, but he convinced himself it was just the weight of their unspoken problems. He wasn't ready to see the shadows for what they really were. Not yet