…
It was a woman’s voice saying something in Arabic.
City didn’t know the language, but the intonation was full of despair and pain.
The voice begged for something, then turned into a muffled cry that ended abruptly.
Silence fell.
City sat in the dark, her body covered in cold sweat.
She didn’t move, afraid to make a sound.
10 minutes later, she heard quiet footsteps in the hallway, moving away toward the master’s wing.
She didn’t sleep until morning.
As soon as dawn broke, she slipped out of her room and knocked on the door next door where Rosa lived.
The Filipina opened the door, sleepy and grumpy.
City stammered as she told her what she had heard during the night.
Rosa listened to her, her face growing more and more serious.
She pulled City into her room and closed the door.
“Forget about it,” she whispered, looking city straight in the eye.
“You didn’t hear anything, understand? Nothing.
” City didn’t understand.
But it was a scream.
Someone was asking for help, she insisted.
Rose’s face contorted with fear.
“Listen to me,” she said harshly.
“The girl who worked here before you was also Indonesian.
” “Her name was Anie.
” She also started asking questions.
She said she heard strange noises.
One day, she disappeared.
Ibrahim told us she was fired for stealing and deported.
But I don’t believe it.
None of us believe it.
We didn’t see her leave.
Her things were left in the room.
They were just thrown away.
If you want to survive here and help your family, you will keep quiet.
You saw nothing and heard nothing.
These words silenced city.
Fear for her own life and fear for her family’s future outweighed her curiosity and compassion.
She nodded to Rosa, promised to keep quiet, and went back to work.
But now, every rustle in the palace, every glance from the prince, every shadow in the corridor caused her to panic.
She tried to work faster, avoid unnecessary contact, and be invisible.
The nighttime scream would not leave her mind.
She imagined the face of that girl, Annie, and wondered what had become of her.
She continued to send money home, but now her joy at her family’s success was mixed with a bitter feeling of guilt and fear.
A week passed.
City almost convinced herself that she had dreamed the scream, that Rosa’s words were just an exaggeration.
She was gathering the prince’s clothes to send to the laundry.
She mechanically checked the jacket pockets as Ibraim had taught them.
In one of the inside pockets, her fingers found something hard and cold.
She pulled it out.
It was a key, an ordinary steel key, but not one for the palace rooms.
It was larger, more massive, with a non-standard beard.
City immediately understood which door this key was for.
Her heart was beating so hard that it seemed to be heard throughout the palace.
She looked around.
There was no one in the corridor.
Quickly slipping the key into her uniform pocket, she took the clothes to the laundry room.
All day long, she felt the key burning her thigh through the fabric.
She had a plan, a risky, crazy plan that could cost her everything, but she could no longer live in ignorance.
She had to find out what was behind that door.
The next day, she had a few hours off to buy some things for herself.
Instead of going to the market, she took a taxi to the old part of town where there were many small workshops.
She found a locksmith, an elderly Pakistani man sitting in a tiny shop cluttered with locks and keys.
With trembling hands, she handed him the key.
“I need a copy very urgently,” she said.
The man took the key, turned it in his hands, and grunted.
“It’s a complicated lock, $50,” he said.
It was almost all of her monthly savings, money she had been putting aside for a gift for her mother.
But City agreed without hesitation.
Half an hour later, she had two keys in her hands.
She discreetly returned the original to the pocket of the same jacket when it came back from the cleaners.
She kept the copy.
She waited for the right moment for almost 2 weeks.
The prince led an active social life, often leaving for night meetings and events.
City kept track of his schedule by eavesdropping on the staff’s conversations.
Finally, one night she learned that the prince had left for an official reception at the embassy and would not return until morning.
The palace fell silent after midnight.
The staff dispersed to their rooms.
City waited until 3:00 in the morning when everyone was in the deepest sleep.
She put on dark clothes, slipped her phone and key into her pocket, and slipped out of her room.
She walked through the sleeping palace like a ghost.
Every creek of the parket floor echoed in her ears like a gunshot.
She reached the service corridor and the steel door.
Her heart was pounding in her throat.
Her hands were shaking so much that she had trouble inserting the key into the keyhole.
It turned with a quiet click.
City held her breath and opened the door slightly.
Behind it was a narrow concrete staircase leading down into the darkness.
She turned on the flashlight on her phone and the beam revealed bare walls covered with mold.
Covering her mouth with her hand to keep from screaming, she began to descend.
At the bottom was a short corridor that ended in another door.
This time metal like a bank vault.
It was unlocked.
City pushed it and the door opened silently inward.
The smell hit her nose immediately.
a mixture of old blood, disinfectants, and human fear.
The room was small, about 4×6 m.
The walls were covered with dark gray soundproofing material.
Chains with handcuffs at the ends hung from the ceiling.
Dark brown stains were visible on the concrete floor, which she immediately recognized as dried blood.
In one corner stood a large metal cage, inside which lay a dirty mattress and a plastic bucket.
But the most frightening thing was in the other corner.
On a small metal shelf lay a neat stack of passports.
City moved closer, her legs feeling like cotton wool.
She took the top passport.
Indonesia.
She opened it.
A photo of a young smiling girl name Ani Suryani.
The very girl Rosa had talked about.
City leafed through the passports one by one, her hands shaking more and more.
Three Filipinos, two Ethiopians, one Kenyan, one Nepalese.
Seven passports in total, not counting an all young women, all domestic workers, judging by their visas.
The last page of each passport had a stamp showing entry into Saudi Arabia.
The dates ranged from 2018 to 2023.
None had an exit stamp.
Next to the passports lay a small leatherbound notebook.
city opened it.
It was a diary, a torture diary.
Prince Fisel kept detailed records of each session as he called them, dates, names, descriptions of what he did.
City read the lines and was overcome with horror.
He described the screams, tears, and blood with the cold, detached precision of an entomologist studying an insect.
The last entry was dated a week earlier.
The name in it was Arabic, which City didn’t know.
The entry ended with the phrase, “The subject became too noisy.
Had to stop the experiment.
” City realized she had to act.
She took out her phone and started taking pictures.
The room, the chains, the cage, every page of the passports, every page of the notebook.
She took picture after picture, afraid that her phone would run out of battery or that she would be caught.
She worked quickly, methodically, adrenaline drowning out her fear.
After taking about 50 photos, she put her phone in her pocket, left the room, and closed the metal door.
She climbed the stairs and locked the top door with a key.
She returned to her room when the horizon was already beginning to lighten in the east.
She knew she had signed her own death warrant.
Now, the only question was whether she would manage to drag her executioner to the grave with her.
Returning to her room, City sat on the edge of the bed, trying to stop herself from shaking.
Her mind was racing, considering the options.
Run.
Where, too? They wouldn’t let her into the airport without a passport, and her passport was in Ibrahim’s safe.
Go to the police.
Who would believe an Indonesian housekeeper accusing the king’s nephew of serial murder? She would most likely be arrested for slander and disappear just like the seven women in the passport photos.
There was only one way left.
She connected to the palace Wi-Fi, opened her messenger app, and found the contact details of her best childhood friend, Farah, who lived in Jakarta.
They wrote to each other almost every day.
She created an archived file with all the photos, password protected it, and sent it to Far.
Then she wrote a short message.
Farah, this is very important.
Don’t open the file until I tell you to.
The password is my mother’s name.
If I don’t get in touch within 48 hours, not a single message, not a single call, nothing.
Then you must open this file and publish its entire contents on Twitter, Facebook, everywhere.
You can tag all the news agencies, human rights organizations, our government.
Write that this was sent by me, Siti, who works at Prince Fil’s palace in Riyad.
Write that I am dead.
Promise me you’ll do it.
A minute later, Farah replied.
City, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.
City wrote, “Just promise.
” Farah replied, “I promise.
” City deleted the conversation from her phone and went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep.
In the morning, she acted as usual.
She got up at 5:00 am, put on her uniform, and went to clean the east wing.
She avoided looking other servants in the eye, afraid that her fear was written on her face.
As she was cleaning the prince’s office, he walked in.
This was unusual.
He was usually in the gym at this time.
He stopped in the doorway, looking at her.
City froze with the rag in her hand, her heart sinking.
Good morning, city,” he said in his usual polite tone.
But there was something new in his eyes, something cold and appraising.
“Good morning, your highness,” she murmured, not looking up.
He stood there for a few more seconds, then asked, “Did you sleep well tonight?” “No nightmares.
” Her blood ran cold.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
He knew.
Maybe he had found traces of her being downstairs.
Maybe there was a camera not only outside but also inside.
Or maybe one of the servants had seen her and reported it.
City felt the ground slipping away from under her feet.
“No, your highness, I slept well, thank you,” she replied, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
The prince nodded, his lips curving into a semblance of a smile.
That’s good, he said and left the office.
City leaned against the wall trying to catch her breath.
48 hours.
She had to hold out for 48 hours.
She worked all day as if in a fog.
Every minute dragged on forever.
She waited for them to come for her at any moment, grab her, drag her downstairs to that very room.
But nothing happened.
Life in the palace went on as usual.
In the evening, when she was finishing work, Ibrahim found her.
“The prince is calling you,” he said in his usual impassive tone.
City followed him, her legs feeling like lead.
“The prince was sitting in his chair in the living room reading a book.
He looked up when she entered.
” “Citty,” he said, “could you bring me some tea? English breakfast with milk and no sugar.
This was also unusual.
The prince’s tea was always served by another maid, an Ethiopian woman named Leila, who had been trained in the proper ceremony.
City nodded and went to the kitchen.
Her hands were shaking as she brewed the tea.
She placed the cup on a tray and carried it to the prince.
He took the cup, took a sip, thanked her, and sent her away.
City returned to the kitchen feeling completely devastated.
Ila, who was having dinner at the time, looked at her in surprise.
He asked you to bring him tea.
That’s strange, she said.
City shrugged.
There was a teapot with leftover tea on the table.
City was exhausted and thirsty.
She poured herself a cup from the same pot, drank it in one gulp, and went to her room.
She lay down on the bed without undressing, and fell into a restless sleep.
She woke up an hour later with a sharp, piercing pain in her stomach.
The pain was so severe that she doubled over, gasping for breath.
She began to vomit.
Her body shook with convulsions, and she fell from the bed onto the floor.
She tried to call for help, but only a weeze came out of her throat.
Rosa, hearing the noise in her room, ran in and screamed in horror when she saw City thrashing on the floor with foam at her mouth.
Rosa called the other servants and they tried to help and called an ambulance.
But a few minutes later, Ibrahim entered the room.
He was calm as always.
“Cancel the call,” he ordered.
“It’s just food poisoning.
His highness’s personal physician is already on his way.
” The servants looked at him in confusion, but no one dared to disobey.
They carried City back to her bed.
Her convulsions were weakening, her breathing becoming intermittent.
She stared at the ceiling, her eyes frozen in the horror of realization.
Tea.
It was the tea.
He had poisoned her.
She thought of her family, her new home, her sister in college.
48 hours.
Please, Farah, don’t forget.
That was her last thought.
The prince’s personal physician arrived 40 minutes later.
By that time, Cityi was already dead.
The doctor conducted a quick examination.
He asked if she had any health complaints.
Ibrahim said she sometimes complained of heart palpitations.
The doctor nodded and filled out the death certificate.
The official cause of death was acute heart failure caused by an undiagnosed congenital heart defect.
City’s body was taken away that same evening.
The Indonesian embassy was notified of the death of their citizen from natural causes.
City’s family in the village was told that their daughter had died in her sleep from a heart attack.
Meanwhile, in Jakarta, Farah waited.
24 hours passed.
36 40 not a single message from city.
Farah wrote to her again and again, but the messages remained unread.
When 50 hours had passed since City’s last message, Farra realized that the worst had happened.
With trembling hands, she entered the password.
City’s mother’s name.
The archive opened.
Photos appeared on her laptop screen.
A torture chamber.
Chains.
Blood.
Passports of dead women.
The prince’s diary.
Farah screamed, covering her mouth with her hands.
She cried for several minutes, then pulled herself together.
She had promised.
She created an anonymous Twitter account and began posting the photos one after another.
She added hashtags to each one.
Justice for Cityi Saudi prince torture chamber tagging the BBC, CNN, Al Jazzer, Human Rights Organizations, Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International, and the official accounts of the Indonesian government and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
The first post appeared late in the evening, Jakarta time.
At first, no one paid any attention to it, but an hour later, an Indonesian journalist noticed it.
He retweeted it, then another.
3 hours later, the hashtagjack shockerjustice4i was trending on Indonesian Twitter.
By morning, the whole world was discussing it.
The post went viral.
8 million views in 12 hours.
Tens of thousands of retweets.
The world’s media picked up the story.
Photos of the torture chamber and the passports of the murdered women were on the front pages of all news sites.
Faced with a wave of public anger, the Indonesian government issued an official statement demanding that Saudi Arabia conduct an immediate and transparent investigation into city’s death and verify the information published online.
The governments of the Philippines, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Nepal joined the demand when they learned that their citizens might be among the victims.
Saudi Arabia found itself at the center of an international scandal.
Attempts to block posts on social media failed as the information spread too quickly.
Under enormous international pressure, the king was forced to order an official investigation.
A team of investigators arrived at Prince Fisel’s palace.
The prince denied everything, calling it a conspiracy by enemies of the kingdom.
But when the investigators presented him with a search warrant for the basement, he turned pale, the torture chamber was found exactly where City had described it, everything was in place.
Chains, a cage, dried blood.
However, the shelves with passports and diaries were empty.
The prince had managed to get rid of the main evidence, but he didn’t take one thing into account.
The investigators had brought sniffer dogs with them.
In the palace garden under recently planted rose bushes, the dogs found the remains of four women.
DNA testing later confirmed their identities.
They were the girls whose passports city had photographed.
The arrest of Prince Fisel was an unprecedented event in the modern history of Saudi Arabia.
A member of the royal family, the nephew of the ruling monarch, was taken into custody and placed in a detention center.
It was a shock to the entire country where the royal family had traditionally been above the law.
The search of the palace and the discovery of the remains turned an international scandal into a full-blown political crisis.
The king was faced with a choice.
Protect the family’s honor or sacrifice his nephew to preserve the country’s reputation on the world stage.
Under pressure from world leaders and the threat of economic sanctions, he chose the latter.
The trial was completely closed.
No journalists, no public.
The details of the investigation and court hearings were kept strictly confidential.
The official Saudi media covered the event very sparingly, reporting only that an investigation is underway into offenses committed by a member of the royal family.
The prince was defended by a team of the country’s best lawyers who tried to build a defense based on the fact that the prince suffers from a severe mental disorder and was not responsible for his actions.
However, the evidence gathered by the investigation was too compelling.
Testimony from palace staff, Rosa, and other servants about the prince’s strange behavior and the disappearance of previous housekeepers.
financial reports showing that the prince had ordered special equipment found in the torture chamber through front companies.
Cell phone operator data that tracked his movements inside the palace.
The prosecution insisted on the maximum punishment, but the death penalty for a member of the royal family was unthinkable.
The trial lasted 8 months.
The outside world received information only through leaks and anonymous sources.
Finally, in mid 2024, the Saudi Arabian state news agency issued a brief official statement.
It said that Prince Fisizel had been found guilty of a series of murders and sentenced by a Sharia court to 30 years in prison.
The court also ordered him to pay monetary compensation to the families of all identified victims.
It was the harshest sentence possible under the circumstances.
The prince was transferred to a special prison for high-ranking officials where conditions were far from normal, but he lost his freedom.
The city family in an Indonesian village received $2 million in compensation.
The money changed their lives, but it did not bring their daughter back.
The father stopped working and the mother was able to receive quality medical treatment.
The younger sister graduated from college, became a teacher, and now works at a local school that was renovated with money donated by the family.
They built a new house, but City’s room remained empty, just as it was before she left for Saudi Arabia.
They never gave interviews, turning down all offers from TV channels and newspapers.
The only thing City’s father said to a local reporter was, “She wanted us to live better, but not at this price.
No amount of money can replace my daughter.
The scandal had far-reaching consequences.
Indonesia, the Philippines, and several other countries in Asia and Africa imposed a temporary ban on sending their citizens to work as domestic servants in Saudi Arabia and some other Gulf countries.
Negotiations were initiated to revise bilateral agreements which included new stricter requirements for the protection of workers rights, including mandatory registration with the embassy, regular inspections of working conditions, and the creation of emergency communication channels.
Recruitment agencies came under strict control, and many of them had their licenses revoked for sending workers without proper guarantees.
The city case became a catalyst for the movement for migrant workers rights in the Middle East.
Activists and human rights organizations used her story as an example of the systemic problems faced by millions of foreign workers.
Support groups appeared on social media where domestic workers anonymously shared their stories of abuse and exploitation, helping each other and drawing attention to the problem.
City’s friend Farah, who posted the photos, received thousands of threats from Saudi nationalists, but also tremendous support from around the world.
The Indonesian government provided her with protection.
She became an activist for the rights of migrant workers and founded the Siti Foundation, which provides legal and financial assistance to women who have suffered violence at the hands of employers abroad.
Prince Fisel’s palace was confiscated by the state and demolished.
A public park was built in its place.
The story of the abusive prince and the brave housekeeper who sacrificed her life for justice became a dark urban legend in Riad.
Whispered as a reminder that even behind the highest fences and the whitest walls, unimaginable evil can lurk.
A Pakistani taxi driver discovered that his wife was pregnant by an influential Emirati shake.
A few days later, they were both found dead in a forest outside the city.
Imran came to Dubai 7 years ago with one goal, to earn money for his family.
He was 27 years old with an unfinished education at a technical college in Karach and a huge responsibility on his shoulders.
After his father’s death, he became the sole bread winner for his mother and two younger brothers who were studying at university.
There were no jobs in Pakistan, and those that did exist paid peanuts.
Dubai seemed like the promised land, a place where anyone willing to work 14 hours a day could provide a decent life for their loved ones.
Imran borrowed money from relatives to pay for a work visa and a ticket, promising to repay the debt within a year.
The reality turned out to be harsher than expected.
For the first 2 years, he lived in a 10 square meter room which he shared with five other Pakistanis.
He worked as a taxi driver, 12 hours a shift, 6 days a week.
He earned about $2,000 a month, of which he sent a,000 home.
300 went to rent, food, and minimal expenses.
He saved the rest.
He dreamed of the day when he could return home with enough money to buy a small house and start his own business.
After 3 years, he had saved enough to get married.
Aisha was the daughter of a distant relative from his home village near Karach.
She was 20 years old, had finished school, and could read and write English, which was rare for girls from their social circle.
Their parents introduced them, and after 3 months of correspondence and several video calls, they got married.
The wedding was modest.
Imran flew in for a week.
They had the ceremony, and he returned to Dubai to arrange the paperwork for her to move there.
6 months later, Aisha received her visa and joined him.
They rented a one- room apartment in Dera, one of the oldest and cheapest areas of Dubai, populated mainly by migrant workers.
The rent was $600 a month.
The apartment was tiny with one window overlooking a narrow street lined with cars.
In the summer, the air conditioner ran around the clock.
Otherwise, it was impossible to stay inside.
But it was their home, and they were happy.
Aisha needed a job and after two months of searching she found work as a salesperson at the Dubai Mall, one of the largest shopping centers in the world.
She was hired in the section selling luxury Swiss watches.
The salary was $900 a month plus a small commission on sales.
Now they earned almost $3,000 between them, sent a,000 home and saved and spent the rest on living expenses.
Imran and Aisha’s life was measured and predictable.
Imran worked from 6:00 in the morning until 6:00 in the evening, driving tourists and locals around the city, listening to their conversations in languages he didn’t understand and dreaming of the future.
Aisha stood behind the counter from 10:00 in the morning until 8:00 in the evening, smiling at wealthy customers, showing them watches worth tens of thousands of dollars, and returning home exhausted.
On Fridays, they went to the mosque.
On weekends, they cooked homemade meals and video called their relatives.
They planned their lives 5 years ahead, save $50,000, return to Pakistan, buy a house, open a shop or a small factory, maybe have children.
These plans were their anchor.
What made them endure the heat, fatigue, homesickness, and humiliation they sometimes had to endure from arrogant customers? Rashid al-Maktum first appeared in the store where Aisha worked in early spring.
He was 45 years old, belonged to one of the influential Emirati families, owned a chain of hotels, and had a reputation for spending money easily and generously.
He came accompanied by his personal assistant, dressed casually but expensively.
He asked to be shown the most exclusive models.
Aisha, as expected, showed him one watch after another, telling him about the mechanisms, the history of the brands, and the uniqueness of each model.
He listened inattentively, but looked at her intently.
That day, he bought a watch for $45,000, paid by card, and left, leaving Aisha a generous tip of $500, which was unusual, but not prohibited.
He returned a week later, and again a week after that.
Each time he bought something expensive, lingered at the counter and asked questions, sometimes personal ones, where she was from, how long she had been in Dubai, whether she liked it here.
Aisha answered politely but briefly, feeling uncomfortable.
She told Imran about a regular customer who spent tens of thousands per visit.
Imran shrugged, “Rich, they have nothing else to do.
” But after a month, Rashid’s visits became more frequent.
And one day, he made an unexpected offer.
He came at the end of the working day when there were almost no customers in the store.
He asked Aisha to show him the new collection.
And then when she finished the presentation, he said, “Aisha, I can see that you are a talented salesperson.
You understand taste and know how to communicate with customers.
I need a personal shopping consultant.
I often buy gifts for business partners and family members.
I want you to help me with my choices.
A few hours a week in your free time.
I’ll pay you $5,000 a month in addition to your salary.
Aisha was taken aback.
$5,000 was more than she and Iran earned together.
She said she had to consult with her husband.
Rashid smiled and gave her his business card.
Of course, think about it and call me.
That evening, Aisha told Imran about the offer.
Imran was cautious.
Why did he choose you? There are many salespeople in the store.
Aisha shrugged.
Maybe I’m really good at it.
It’s just shopping, consulting, nothing bad.
Imran thought about it.
$5,000 meant they could save up for a house in 2 years instead of five.
That his brothers could finish college without debt.
That his mother could get better medical care.
He nodded.
Okay, but if something goes wrong, you quit immediately.
Promise me.
Aisha called Rasheed the next day and accepted.
For the first two months, everything was exactly as he had promised.
He sent a car to pick her up two or three times a week after her workday.
They went to boutiques and she helped him choose watches, jewelry, and accessories.
Rasheed was polite, kept his distance, and was always accompanied by a driver or assistant.
He paid exactly $5,000 in cash at the end of each month.
Aisha brought the money home, and she and Iran opened a separate savings account.
Their dream was getting closer every day.
But after 2 months, something changed.
Rasheed started giving Aisha gifts.
At first they were small and he explained that they were a token of gratitude for her excellent work.
A box of Swiss chocolates, a bottle of French perfume.
Then the gifts became more expensive.
Gold earrings worth $3,000.
A designer Hermes bag for $12,000.
Aisha tried to refuse, but he insisted.
It’s nothing to me.
You deserve it.
She brought everything home and showed Imran.
Imran frowned.
This is too much.
No one gives gifts like this for no reason.
Aisha defended herself.
For him, it’s really nothing.
You’ve seen how much he spends.
Maybe it’s their culture to give generous gifts.
But Iran felt that something was wrong.
In the third month, Rasheed invited Aisha to a business dinner.
He explained that he was meeting with an important business partner to whom he wanted to give an exclusive watch and he needed her advice.
The meeting was scheduled at the Burj Al- Aarab Hotel restaurant, one of the most expensive and prestigious places in Dubai.
Aisha hesitated.
She had never been to such places and felt that this was beyond the scope of their agreement.
But Rasheed convinced her that it was purely a business meeting, that the partner had already confirmed his attendance and that it would take a maximum of 2 hours.
She agreed, telling Imran that she had a business meeting with a client.
Imran frowned but said nothing.
When Aisha arrived at the restaurant, only Rashid was there to greet her.
He explained that the partner was running late and asked her to sit down and wait.
He ordered dinner.
The waiter brought champagne.
Aisha refused, explaining that she did not drink alcohol due to her religious beliefs.
Rashid insisted gently, convincing her that it was just a symbolic toast, that one glass was not a sin, that everyone did it here.
Aisha, feeling pressured and not wanting to appear rude, drank.
It was her first sip of alcohol in her life.
Her head spun almost immediately.
Her partner never showed up.
An hour later, Rasheed admitted that he had lied, that there was no meeting, that he had invited her because he wanted to be alone with her.
Aisha tried to get up, overcome with panic.
She said that it was wrong, that she was married, that she had to leave.
Rasheed took her hand, his voice firm.
He said he had been in love with her from the first day, that he thought about her constantly, that he wanted her to be part of his life.
Aisha tried to free her hand, but he held it tight.
Then he leaned over and kissed her.
She pushed him away, jumped up from the table, and ran out of the restaurant.
She took a taxi home, crying all the way.
Imran was at home.
Seeing her condition, he immediately understood that something terrible had happened.
Aisha told him everything except about the kiss.
She said that Rashid had confessed his feelings to her, that she had left immediately and that she would never return.
Imran was furious.
He wanted to go to Rashid immediately, but Aisha begged him not to.
She was afraid of a scandal, afraid of losing her job, afraid of deportation.
Imran calmed down and said that she should cease all contact with Rashid, that $5,000 was not worth their honor and safety.
Aisha agreed.
The next day, Aisha ignored Rashid’s calls and messages.
He called 10 times, wrote apologizing, begging for a meeting to explain himself.
She did not respond.
On the third day, the store manager called her.
He said that she was being transferred to a different shift, to a different department, to a position with a lower salary.
No reason was given.
Aisha realized that this was no coincidence.
Rashid really did have connections, just as he had threatened.
She called him and demanded that he stop.
Rasheed agreed to meet, but only in person.
They met in a cafe.
Rashid was calm, but insistent.
He told her straight out, “The store’s contract with the shopping center was controlled by a company owned by his cousin.
One word from him and the store would lose its lease and all employees would be fired, including her.
And without a job, her visa would be automatically revoked.
She would be deported.
And Iran, too, because his visa depended on the stability of his job.
and a taxi driver whose wife had been caught having an affair with another man would become persona non grata.
Aisha listened to him feeling the walls closing in around her.
Rasheed continued.
He wasn’t asking her to do anything shameful right now.
He just wanted her to give him a chance to spend time with him to get to know him better.
He had rented a separate apartment for her in the Dubai Marina area, a luxurious one with a view of the bay.
He wanted them to have a place where they could meet, talk, and be together.
If she refused, he would ruin her life and her husband’s life.
If she agreed, he would take care of them both, secure their future in a way they could never have done themselves.
Aisha felt cornered.
She saw no way out.
Rashid was an influential man.
He had connections, money, power.
She was a nobody, a foreign worker with no rights, completely dependent on her visa and her job.
She agreed, hating herself for it.
Rasheed gave her the keys to the apartment and said he would contact her in a few days.
Aisha returned home feeling like a criminal.
She couldn’t tell Imran the truth.
She was afraid that he would do something reckless and ruin both their lives for good.
The next four months were a nightmare for Aisha.
She met with Rashid two or three times a week in that apartment.
At first he really just talked to her, had dinner, watched movies, but gradually the boundaries blurred.
He touched her and she didn’t resist.
Paralyzed by fear and a sense of hopelessness.
Then he began to demand more.
Aisha resisted, cried, begged him to stop.
Rasheed didn’t stop.
He reminded her that her whole life depended on a single phone call from him, that he could make her and Imran’s life unbearable.
Aisha gave in every time, returning home with feelings of shame and self-hatred.
Imran noticed the changes.
Aisha became distant, silent, and avoided physical intimacy with him.
When he asked what was wrong, she replied that she was tired, that she was stressed at work.
Imran didn’t know how to help her, but he felt like he was losing his wife.
He tried to be patient and caring, hoping that things would get better with time.
Aisha thought about telling him the truth every day, but her fear was stronger.
She was afraid of losing everything they had built over 7 years.
the fear of ending up on the street without a job, without a roof over her head.
Sent back to Pakistan empty-handed and with her dreams shattered.
4 months later, Aisha felt that something was wrong with her body.
Her period was 3 weeks late.
She felt nauseous in the mornings and her breasts were swollen and sore.
She bought a pregnancy test at the pharmacy and took it without Imran knowing.
Two lines.
She was pregnant.
The horror she felt at that moment was absolute.
She knew for sure that the child was not Imran’s.
They had not been intimate for several months.
She had been avoiding his touch under various pretexts.
The child was Rashid’s.
At 8 weeks pregnant, Aisha went to the doctor.
She wanted to make sure the test was wrong, but the doctor confirmed it.
She was pregnant about 2 months along.
The doctor, a middle-aged woman, congratulated her, asked about her husband’s health, and whether they both needed counseling.
Aisha couldn’t take it.
She burst into tears right there in the office.
The doctor, alarmed, asked what was wrong.
Through her tears, Aisha confessed, “It’s not my husband’s.
I don’t know what to do.
” The doctor listened to her without judgment.
She explained that Dubai has strict laws regarding extrammarital affairs and that if the truth came out, Aisha could face deportation or even imprisonment.
She offered options, an abortion, which could be done legally for medical reasons or trying to hide the truth.
Aisha couldn’t think.
She left the clinic and wandered aimlessly through the streets for several hours before deciding to return home.
Imran was at home.
He had taken the day off.
Seeing her face, he immediately understood that something irreparable had happened.
He asked directly, “Are you pregnant?” Aisha nodded.
Imran hugged her joyful.
“That’s wonderful.
Why are you crying?” Aisha broke free from his embrace, sat down on the sofa, and covered her face with her hands.
“Imran, it’s not yours.
” The silence that followed lasted an eternity.
Imran stood motionless, trying to comprehend what he had heard.
Then he sat down next to her, his voice quiet but firm.
Explain.
Aisha told him everything about Rashid, about his threats, about how she was forced to meet with him, about how she couldn’t refuse, about how she was afraid to tell him, about how she was now pregnant.
She spoke without stopping through her sobs, expecting Imran to hit her, to kick her out, that their marriage was over.
Imran listened silently.
When she finished, he sat for a long time, staring at the floor.
Then he got up and put on his jacket.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and left.
Aisha was left alone, not knowing if he would ever return.
Imran returned 2 hours later.
He was calm, but his face was pale.
He sat down opposite Aisha and took her hands.
“I don’t blame you,” he said.
“You were cornered.
That man used his position to manipulate you.
It’s not your fault.
But now we have to decide what to do.
” Aisha looked at him with gratitude and despair.
“We can have an abortion.
Forget about all this,” Imran suggested.
Aisha shook her head.
I can’t kill a child.
It’s a sin.
I’ve already committed so many sins.
I can’t add another one.
Imran realized she was adamant.
Then what? We can’t raise his child as our own.
I can’t do that.
Aisha didn’t know the answer.
They sat in their small apartment, two people whose lives had been destroyed by forces beyond their control, trying to find a way out of a situation from which there was no way out.
The night passed in heavy silence.
Imran and Aisha lay in the same bed, but there was a gulf between them.
Imran lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts racing between rage, pain, and the search for a solution.
By morning, he had made his decision.
He got up, put on his best clothes, and said to Aisha.
“I’m going to see him.
He has to answer for what he did.
” Aisha jumped up and grabbed his arm.
“No, please.
That will only make things worse.
He is an influential man.
He has connections.
He will destroy us.
” Imran freed his hand, his face hard.
“He has already destroyed us, but I will not let him get away with it.
Imran knew where Rashid’s office was.
He had driven passengers to that area many times and had seen the tall building with the glass facade that housed the headquarters of his hotel empire.
He arrived there in the morning and walked through the revolving doors into the marble lobby.
The guard at the desk stopped him and asked who he was there to see.
Imran gave Rashid al-Maktum’s name.
The guard looked at him suspiciously at his simple clothes and worn shoes.
“Do you have an appointment?” Imran replied, “No, but he will see me.
Tell him that Aisha’s husband is here.
” The guard called upstairs, spoke to someone, hung up the phone, and said coldly, “You are not allowed to go up.
Leave the building.
” Imran did not move.
I will not leave until I speak to him.
The guard called for backup.
Two other guards approached, took Imran by the arms, and began to lead him away.
Imran broke free and shouted, “Rashed al-Maktum, come out, you coward.
My wife is pregnant with your child.
You destroyed my family.
” His voice echoed through the hall.
Several employees passing by stopped and turned around.
The security guards grabbed Imran more tightly and dragged him to the exit.
He continued to shout until they pushed him out onto the street and threatened to call the police if he didn’t leave.
Imran stood on the sidewalk, breathing heavily, his hands shaking with rage and helplessness.
He realized that direct confrontation would not work.
Rashid was hiding behind the walls of his office, behind security and authority.
Imran returned to his car, got behind the wheel, and sat there for several minutes trying to calm down.
Then he decided to try something he had almost given up on.
Turning to the law, he drove to the nearest police station in the Deerra district.
He went inside and approached the officer on duty at the desk.
The officer, a middle-aged Emirati in uniform, looked at him questioningly.
Imran tried to explain the situation.
His English was broken, but he tried to be clear.
He said he wanted to file a report that an influential man had coerced his wife into a relationship, threatened her with deportation, and used his position of power, that she was now pregnant, and it was not his child, that he wanted justice.
The officer listened without emotion.
When Imran finished, he asked one question.
Do you have any evidence of coercion, witnesses, recordings of threats, medical reports of violence? Imran was taken aback.
No, but she will tell you herself.
She will confirm it.
The officer shook his head.
Without evidence, it’s her word against his, and he is a respected citizen of the UAE.
Do you understand that extrammarital affairs are illegal in our country? If there is no evidence of coercion, then according to the law, your wife committed adultery voluntarily.
This carries a penalty of deportation or imprisonment.
Are you sure you want to file a report?” Imran felt the ground slipping away from under his feet.
He was trying to protect his wife, but the system was against them.
The officer continued, “My advice to you as a human being is to go back to your country.
Solve these problems there.
The law is not on your side here.
Imran left the station feeling completely defeated.
All avenues were closed.
Appealing directly to Rashid had not worked.
Appealing to the law would have backfired on Aisha.
They were cornered, helpless before a man who had all the power.
Imran returned home late in the evening.
Aisha was waiting for him, her face pale with anxiety.
He told her everything about the attempt to break into Rashid’s office, about the visit to the police, about the officer’s words.
Aisha listened, and with each word, the hope in her eyes faded.
“What now?” she asked quietly.
Imran sat down next to her and hugged her.
“I don’t know, but I won’t leave you.
We’ll figure something out.
” Over the next two days, they discussed their options.
go back to Pakistan.
But how could they explain Aisha’s pregnancy to their family a few months after their return? Have an abortion? Aisha categorically refused, try to hide the truth, pass the child off as his own.
Imran knew he couldn’t live like that, that every time he looked at the child, he would see Rashid and what he had done to their lives.
There was no way out.
They were trapped with no escape.
On the third day in the evening, Imran received a message from an unknown number.
It read, “Meet me tomorrow at 10:00 in the morning.
The coordinates are attached.
Come alone.
” The coordinates led to a place outside the city in a wooded area near the highway leading to Alin.
Imran showed the message to Aisha.
“It’s from him,” he said.
Aisha was frightened.
“Don’t go.
It could be dangerous.
” Imran shook his head.
Maybe he wants to negotiate.
Maybe he’ll offer money.
Help.
I have to go.
Aisha begged him not to go.
But Iran was adamant.
The next morning, he drove to the address.
The place was deserted, far from the main roads, surrounded by sparse trees and bushes.
Imran parked his car and got out.
No one was in sight.
He waited for about 10 minutes when a black SUV appeared from behind the trees.
Rasheed got out alone without security.
He walked up to Imran and stopped a few meters away.
“You made a scene in my office,” Rashid said calmly.
“You yelled across the hall.
It was stupid.
” “Irrand clenched his fists.
” “You ruined my life.
My wife is pregnant.
What are you going to do about that?” Rasheed smirked.
I’m not going to do anything.
That’s your problem, not mine.
Iran took a step forward.
You coerced her.
You threatened her.
You used her.
Rashid shrugged.
Do you have any proof? No.
Then it’s her word against mine.
And we both know whose word carries more weight.
Imran felt rage wash over him.
He lunged at Rashid and punched him in the face.
Rasheed staggered and fell to the ground.
Imran pinned him down and continued to beat him.
Rashid tried to defend himself, but Imran was stronger, driven by rage and despair.
They wrestled on the ground, kicking up dust.
Then Rashid found a rock lying nearby and hit Imran on the head with it.
Imran recoiled, blood running down his face.
Rasheed jumped up, breathing heavily, his expensive shirt torn and stained.
You made a mistake, Rasheed croked, wiping the blood from his split lip.
You attacked me.
Now I can call the police and you’ll go to jail for assault.
Imran stood up, swaying.
Do whatever you want.
I don’t care anymore.
Rashid looked at him with contempt.
You’re pathetic.
You know what? Take your wife and get out of the country.
I don’t want to see you here.
I don’t want this story to become public knowledge.
Take her and get out.
That’s the only offer you’re going to get from me.
Imran turned silently and walked to his car.
He got behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove away without looking back.
Rashid stood watching him go, then got into his SUV, and drove off in the opposite direction.
Imran returned home with a bruised face and bloodstained clothes.
Aisha gasped when she saw him.
He told her about the meeting, the fight, and Rashid’s last words.
Aisha cried as she treated his wound.
“What are we going to do?” she asked over and over again.
Imran did not answer.
He sat staring into space, his mind blank.
That night, they went to bed exhausted and broken.
Imran lay awake, thinking that their lives were irrevocably ruined.
Whatever they did, there was no way out.
If they went to Pakistan, they would face disgrace.
If they stayed in Dubai, Aisha would be deported or imprisoned when the truth about her pregnancy came out.
Rashid had won.
He had all the power, and he knew it, and they were nobodies.
Imran felt something inside him break completely.
The next few days passed in painful silence.
Imran went to work like a robot, drove passengers around, answered their questions in monosyllables, and in the evening returned home and sat by the window looking at the city lights.
Aisha also continued to work.
Although her morning sickness was getting worse, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide her pregnancy, she wore loose clothing, but she knew that in a few weeks it would become obvious.
Her colleagues had already started asking questions, noticing her palenness and frequent trips to the bathroom.
She laughed it off, saying she had stomach problems, but she felt the walls closing in around her.
Imran was no longer angry.
The rage that had burned inside him after meeting Rashid had burned out, leaving only emptiness and fatigue.
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Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
