Dubai Sheikh Flew Her In For Marriage — She Discovered She Was Wife 14th, The Other 13 Were D3ad

July the 5th, 2023.

10:30 p.m.Dubai, United Arab Emirates.

Emily Carter is underwater and she’s dying.

Ahmed’s hands are locked around her throat.

Not gentle, not hesitant.

The kind of grip that says he’s done this before.

The rooftop infinity pool glows electric blue around them.

Luxury turned execution chamber.

Chlorine burns her eyes.

She can’t close them.

Can’t look away from his face hovering above the surface.

distorted through the water, watching her drown with the patience of a man who has time.

Her lungs are screaming.

Bubbles escape her lips, rising toward the surface she can’t reach.

Each bubble is a second of life leaving her body, 27 years old, 3 months married, 6 weeks pregnant with a child he doesn’t know about yet.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe that’s why tonight, why now? Why this pool under a sky so dark it looks like the world has already ended.

She’s thinking about her mother.

She’s thinking about Sarah, her best friend back in Chicago who begged her not to get on that plane.

She’s thinking about the Filipina maid Fatima who tried to warn her who died in a car crash 5 days ago trying to get Emily to the airport.

Fatima’s last words, “Run before you become number 14.” 14.

Emily’s vision tunnels.

Her body is giving up.

Somewhere in the back of her drowning mind, she remembers her phone hidden in the pool towel on the deck chair, recording everything.

If she dies tonight, at least there will be proof.

Her eyes start to close.

Welcome to Ultimate Payback.

Thanks for joining me on this journey into the darkest corners of human nature.

Don’t forget to subscribe and turn on notifications.

You won’t want to miss what happens next.

Where are you watching from? Drop your location in the comments.

Because what you just witnessed, that’s not the beginning.

It’s not even the end.

It’s just the moment Emily Carter realized the man she married, the shake, who promised her the world, had made that same promise to 13 other women.

All of them are dead.

All of them drowned, fell, or vanished into the Arabian desert.

All of them had their deaths ruled accidents.

Emily almost escaped twice.

The first time she made it to the villa gates before he found her.

The second time Fatima drove her toward freedom.

Fatima’s body is in a morg right now, closed casket because the steering wheel went through her chest.

This is the story of how a marketing assistant from Chicago became wife number 14.

How luxury became a locked cage.

How love turned into a death sentence.

How 13 families buried their daughters while a monster collected life insurance policies worth $20 million.

And how one woman’s hidden phone recording would either save her life or become her final testimony.

Does Emily survive the pool? Does Ahmed’s grip loosen? Or does she join the 13 before her? What you’re about to hear will answer those questions.

But first, you need to understand how she got there.

How a woman smart enough to earn a degree from Northwestern, cautious enough to research every restaurant before eating there, careful enough to read every contract twice, how she ended up in the hands of a man who has perfected murder.

You need to know about the warnings she missed.

The red flags she ignored, the moment she signed over $50,000 and her passport, and any chance of escape.

Because Emily’s story starts six months earlier on a cold January night in Chicago when she made a dating profile and swiped right on a face that would destroy everything.

[clears throat] Emily Carter was born on April 19th, 1996 in Oak Park, Illinois.

Rainy Thursday morning.

Her mother, Linda, worked as a teacher.

[clears throat] Her father, Robert, fixed cars for a living.

They divorced when Emily was 12.

The kind of split where nobody cheated, nobody hit anybody.

They just stopped loving each other.

Quiet ending, no drama, just two people who became strangers living in the same house until they didn’t live in the same house anymore.

Linda got the custody arrangement.

Robert got weekends.

Emily got a lesson she’d carry for 15 years.

People leave.

Even when they promise forever, even when they mean it at the time, people leave.

She learned independence early, made her own lunches at 13, did her own laundry at 14, paid her own phone bill at 16 with money from her job at Starbucks.

Linda was proud of her self-sufficient daughter.

Didn’t see the loneliness underneath.

Didn’t notice that Emily stopped bringing friends home, stopped asking for rides to parties, stopped needing anything from anyone.

By the time Emily graduated from Oak Park River Forest High School in 2014, she’d perfected the art of being alone without looking lonely, smiled at the right times, made small talk when required, had acquaintances, not friends, kept everything surface level because surface level couldn’t hurt you.

Northwestern University accepted her that fall.

Full ride academic scholarship, communications major.

Her mother cried at dropoff.

Her father helped carry boxes to her dorm room, hugged her stiffly, said he was proud.

Emily thanked them both and meant it.

Then she closed her dorm room door and exhaled for the first time in years.

College was supposed to be different.

Fresh start.

New people who didn’t know she was the quiet girl from Oak Park.

But Emily discovered something in those four years.

She was still quiet even when nobody knew her history.

Introversion wasn’t circumstance.

It was wiring.

She made one real friend at Northwestern.

Sarah Jenkins, accounting major.

Loud where Emily was soft.

Outgoing where Emily was reserved.

They met freshman year in a required economics class.

Got paired for a group project.

Discovered they balanced each other.

Sarah pushed Emily to parties.

Emily kept Sarah organized.

They rented an apartment together junior year off campus on Sherman Avenue.

Two bedrooms, terrible heating.

Best years of Emily’s life.

May 2018 graduation.

Emily walked across that stage, accepted her diploma, looked into the crowd for her parents.

They sat on opposite sides of the auditorium, hadn’t spoken to each other in 6 years.

That image stayed with her.

Two people who once promised forever couldn’t even sit in the same section.

She started at Apex Marketing 3 weeks later.

Entry-level position, marketing assistant, $42,000 a year, small office in the West Loop, 15 employees, midsized firm, specializing in digital campaigns for corporate clients.

Emily was good at her job, detailoriented, met deadlines, never caused problems, got decent raises.

After 3 years, she was making 58,000.

Had her own studio apartment in Lincoln Park.

Paid her bills, saved money, lived a perfectly fine, perfectly unremarkable life.

But god, she was lonely.

Dating in your 20s as an introvert in Chicago is a special kind of hell.

Bars were too loud.

Clubs were nightmares.

Dating apps felt like window shopping for humans.

But what choice did she have? Emily downloaded Hinge in 2020.

went on exactly four dates over two years.

Date one, Guy talked about his ex-girlfriend for 90 minutes straight.

Date two, Guy asked to split the bill, then ordered a $50 steak while Emily got a salad.

Date three, Guy was married, lied about it.

His wife called during dessert.

Date four, Guy seemed nice, normal, promising.

They went out three times.

On the fourth date, he told her he wasn’t looking for anything serious, just wanted to keep things casual.

Emily nodded, said that was fine.

Went home and cried for 2 hours because she wanted serious.

She wanted commitment.

She wanted someone to stay.

Sarah had gotten engaged by then.

December 2292.

Marketing analyst named Jake.

Nice guy.

Proposed with a ring that cost more than Emily made in 3 months.

Sarah asked Emily to be made of honor.

Emily said yes and meant it.

Went to dress fittings.

Helped plan the bachelorette party.

smiled through all of it while feeling like the universe was highlighting exactly what she didn’t have.

January 14th, 2023.

Emily’s 27th birthday.

Sarah threw her a party at their favorite wine bar in Wicker Park.

20 people showed up, co-workers mostly, a few acquaintances from college.

Emily drank too much pog grigio, laughed at the right moments, thanked everyone for coming.

But when she got home that night to her empty studio apartment, she sat on her couch and stared at the wall.

27, single, no prospects, no one waiting for her, no texts to answer, no plans for the weekend except laundry and meal prep and watching Netflix alone.

She opened her laptop, created a profile on an app she’d heard about but never tried.

Elite Singles for Professionals seeking serious relationships.

Uploaded her best photo, the one from Sarah’s engagement party where her smile looked real.

Filled out the questionnaire.

What are you looking for? Someone who stays.

She deleted that.

Wrote instead long-term relationship leading to marriage.

Posted the profile.

Closed the laptop.

Didn’t expect anything.

The next morning she had 47 matches.

January 15th, 2023.

Emily scrolled through matches during her lunch break at Apex.

Most were Chicago locals, lawyers, consultants, finance bros in their 30s.

Generic profiles, gym selfies holding fish they’d caught.

She was about to close the app when a profile loaded that made her stop.

Akmed Al-Mansour, 45, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, widowed entrepreneur in oil and real estate.

The photos were stunning.

Not in the gym selfie way, in the this man lives a life you’ve only seen in movies way.

Ahmed on a yacht.

white linen shirt, sunset background.

Akmed in a perfectly tailored suit standing in front of the Burj Khalifa.

Ahmed at what looked like a charity gala tuxedo, surrounded by people in evening wear.

His profile text was simple.

Building an empire is easy.

Building a partnership is rare.

Looking for someone who values depth over distraction.

Distance is irrelevant when the connection is real.

Emily stared at that last line.

Distance is irrelevant when the connection is real.

It felt like a message meant specifically for her.

She knew that was stupid.

Knew it was marketing language.

She wrote marketing language for a living.

But something about it stuck.

She swiped right.

Didn’t think he’d swipe back.

Why would a 45-year-old entrepreneur in Dubai swipe on a 27-year-old marketing assistant in Chicago? He messaged her 3 minutes later.

Emily, your profile says you’re looking for depth.

Tell me, what does that mean to you? Not, hey, not you’re beautiful.

A question that required thought.

Emily typed her response carefully.

It means someone who asks about my day and actually listens to the answer.

Someone who may remember small details.

Someone who doesn’t vanish when things get difficult.

Akmed’s response came 30 seconds later.

Then you’ve been dating the wrong men.

Depth requires patience.

Most people have neither.

They messaged for 6 hours that day.

Emily at her desk, phone hidden under her keyboard, typing between tasks.

Akmed asked about her childhood, her parents’ divorce, her job, her dreams.

She asked about his business, his life in Dubai, what he did for fun.

He answered everything with detail, with thought, with humor.

At 8:00 p.

m.

Chicago time, he sent a message that made her heart rate pick up.

I know this is fast, but I feel something with you I haven’t felt in years.

Would you be open to a video call? I want to see you hear your voice.

Know this is real.

Emily hesitated.

This was crazy.

She’d been talking to this man for 6 hours.

But something about his messages felt different, genuine, like he was actually interested in who she was, not just what she looked like.

She called Sarah.

I need your opinion.

I matched with someone on Elite Singles.

He’s in Dubai.

Wants to video call tonight.

Is this insane? Sarah’s voice came through.

Skeptical.

Dubai? Emily? That sounds like a scam.

I know it sounds bad, but read these messages.

Emily sent screenshots.

5 minutes later, Sarah called back.

Okay, he’s either a scammer or he’s real and really into you.

Either way, one video call won’t hurt.

Just don’t send money or nudes.

9 yards.

Emily’s studio apartment.

She changed clothes three times, settled on a casual sweater, minimal makeup, wanted to look approachable, not desperate.

The video call connected.

Akmed Al-Mansour appeared on her screen, even more attractive in motion than in photos.

Dark hair graying at the temples, strong jawline, eyes that crinkled when he smiled.

The room behind him looked like a hotel suite, floor toseeiling windows, city lights in the background.

Emily.

His voice was deep, warm, British influenced accent, precise English.

You’re even more beautiful than your photos.

She blushed.

Actually blushed.

Thank you.

You’re You look exactly like your pictures, which is honestly shocking for a dating app.

He laughed.

I could say the same.

Most people use photos from 10 years ago.

You’re refreshingly honest.

They talked for 2 hours.

He told her about growing up in Abu Dhabi, moving to Dubai for business, building his company from nothing.

She told him about Northwestern, about Apex, about wanting more than just a career, but not knowing how to find it.

He listened, asked follow-up questions, made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

At 11:00 p.

m.

, he said something that would replay in her mind for months.

Emily, I’m going to be direct with you because I don’t believe in wasting time.

I’m 45 years old.

I’ve built a successful life.

What I don’t have is someone to share it with.

My wife passed away 3 years ago.

Cancer.

I thought I’d never want to open my heart again.

But talking to you tonight, I feel something I thought was gone.

Emily’s throat tightened.

I’m sorry about your wife.

Thank you.

She was an incredible woman, but she’d want me to be happy.

And I haven’t smiled this much in 3 years.

They said good night at midnight.

Emily couldn’t sleep.

lay in bed, replaying every word, every smile, every moment he’d made her feel like the most interesting person in the world.

The next morning, a delivery arrived at her apartment.

Two dozen white roses.

The card read for the woman who made me believe in second chances.

A [clears throat] Sarah came over that night, saw the roses, and immediately got protective.

Emily, this is love bombing.

Classic manipulation tactic.

Or maybe he’s just romantic.

Nobody sends two dozen roses after one video call unless they want something.

Maybe he wants me.

Sarah grabbed Emily’s shoulders.

Listen to me.

I love you.

You deserve someone amazing, but this guy’s 45, lives in Dubai, and is moving way too fast.

Just be careful, please.

Emily nodded.

Said she’d be careful.

But she was already falling.

February 2023 was a blur.

Ahmed called every night, sometimes twice a day.

They talked for hours.

He asked about her work presentations, remembered her co-workers names, sent her articles he thought she’d find interesting.

On February 14th, Valentine’s Day, a Tiffany box arrived.

Diamond necklace, not huge, not ostentatious, just beautiful.

Emily called him in tears.

This is too much.

It’s not nearly enough.

You deserve to be cherished, Emily.

I wish I could be there to put it on you myself.

When can I meet you in person? Pause on his end.

Long enough to notice.

I want that more than anything, but my business keeps me traveling.

I’m rarely in the States.

Then I’ll come to Dubai.

Not yet.

I want our first meeting to be perfect.

Somewhere special.

Somewhere that means something.

Let me plan it.

Trust me.

She trusted him.

March passed.

More calls, more gifts, a designer handbag, a first edition book by her favorite author.

Flowers every week.

Ahmed knew her coffee order.

knew she liked mystery novels, knew she got anxious before big client presentations.

He’d text her good luck messages at exactly the right time.

He felt like the partner she’d been searching for her entire adult life.

April 2nd, 2023.

Evening video call.

Ahmed looked nervous.

Actually nervous.

Emily, I need to ask you something.

This is probably too fast.

Tell me if I’m crazy.

Her heart was pounding.

Ask me.

I love you.

I know it’s only been 3 months, but I’ve never been more certain of anything.

I want you in my life permanently.

I want to marry you.

Emily couldn’t breathe.

I’m not proposing over video call.

That would be disrespectful.

But I want you to know my intentions.

I’m flying to Paris next month, May 10th.

I have a business meeting there.

Come meet me.

Let me propose properly.

Let me show you what our life could be.

Emily should have said no.

should have said it was too fast, too soon, too insane.

But she was 27 and lonely and in love with a man who made her feel like she mattered.

Yes, I’ll be there.

May the 10th, 2023, Paris, France.

Emily landed at Charl Gaul at Tus P.

M.

Ahmed had booked her first class ticket, reserved a suite at the Ritz.

She’d never stayed anywhere that nice, never flown first class.

The room had marble bathrooms, a view of the plus vendome, champagne waiting on ice.

Ahmed met her in the lobby at 6:20 p.

m.

wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit, holding a single red rose.

When he hugged her, she felt safe for the first time in months.

You’re even more beautiful in person.

Dinner was at Ljul Vern [clears throat] inside the Eiffel Tower.

He’d reserved a private table with a view of the entire city.

The meal was six courses, wine she couldn’t pronounce.

Conversation that felt like they’d known each other for years, not months.

At 9:45 p.

m.

, Ahmed took her hand across the table.

Come with me.

They walked to the Eiffel Tower’s observation deck.

Paris spread out below them, lights sparkling like stars brought to Earth.

Ahmed turned to face her, reached into his pocket, pulled out a ring box.

Emily Carter, you walked into my life when I’d given up on finding love again.

You’re brilliant, kind, and stronger than you know.

I want to spend every day proving to you that you deserve to be cherished.

Will you marry me? The ring was 5 karat, emerald [clears throat] cut, flawless, the kind of ring that cost more than she made in a year.

She said yes.

They flew back to Chicago on May the 12th.

Emily told Sarah immediately.

Sarah’s face went pale when she saw the ring.

Emily, you’ve known him 4 months.

I know it’s fast, fast.

This is insane.

You’re going to marry a man you spent 48 hours with in person.

Do you hear yourself? I love him, Sarah.

You love the idea of him, the gifts, the attention, the fairy tale.

But what do you actually know about Ahmed? About his life, his past, his family? I know everything I need to know.

Sarah grabbed her hands.

Please just slow down.

Visit him in Dubai first.

Meet his friends, his colleagues.

See where he lives.

get to know him in his real life, not in Paris.

Emily pulled her hands back.

Why can’t you just be happy for me? Because I’m terrified you’re making a mistake.

Or maybe you’re jealous that I found someone and you’re Emily stopped.

Couldn’t believe she almost said it.

I’m what? Sarah’s voice was ice.

Nothing.

Forget it.

But the damage was done.

Sarah left.

They didn’t talk for 2 weeks.

May 20th, 2023.

Emily gave her notice at Apex Marketing.

2 weeks.

Her manager was shocked.

Her co-workers threw her a goodbye party.

Everyone asked where she was going.

She told them Dubai, getting married, starting a new life.

They smiled and congratulated her and probably talked about how crazy she was the moment she left the room.

[clears throat] Her last day was June 3rd.

She packed her apartment into boxes, put most things in storage, took two suitcases.

Everything she needed for her new life fit in two suitcases.

June 11th, the night before her flight.

Sarah called, “I’m sorry about what I said.

I’m scared for you, but you’re my best friend.

If this is what you want, I support you.

Thank you.

Just promise me something.

If anything feels wrong, anything at all, you’ll call me.

You’ll come home.

I promise.

” I looked him up.

M Ahmed al-Mansour.

He has no social media except that dating profile.

No LinkedIn, no Facebook, no digital footprint.

Don’t you find that strange? He values privacy.

Or he’s hiding something.

Sarah, please.

Okay, I’ll stop.

Just be safe.

Please be safe.

Emily promised.

Hung up.

Ignored the small voice in her head that whispered, “Sarah might be right.

Here’s what Emily didn’t know as she boarded that flight on June 12th.

What she couldn’t have known.

[clears throat] What Amed had made sure she’d never find.

His business license was registered March 2023, two months before they met.

The company had no employees, no office, no records before that date.

The property records for the Villa in JRA Beach residents showed six different owners in 8 years, all women, all foreign nationals, all deceased.

There were 13 life insurance policies in Ahmed’s name.

Beneficiary on all of them.

Total value $21 million.

All the insured parties were listed as deceased.

Cause of death varied.

Accidental drowning, fall from height, heat stroke in the desert, all ruled accidents, all closed cases.

And if Emily had searched harder, if she’d known where to look, she would have found a pattern.

13 women, all in their 20s, all introverts, all without strong family ties, all met on dating apps, all moved to Dubai for marriage, all died within 6 months of arrival.

But Emily didn’t search.

She trusted.

She loved.

She believed in the fairy tale.

And on June 12th, 2023, she boarded Emirates Flight 235 from Chicago to Dubai, wearing her engagement ring, carrying two suitcases, believing she was flying toward her future.

She had no idea she was flying toward her grave.

June 12th, 2023.

2:15 a.

m.

Dubai International Airport.

Emily steps off the plane into air so humid it feels like breathing through wet cloth.

The terminal is massive.

Marble floors that gleam under designer store lights.

Gucci, Prada, Cardier.

Everything expensive, everything polished.

Everything feels like a different planet.

Ahmed is waiting past customs, holding white roses.

When he sees her, his whole face lights up.

Pulls her into a hug that lasts long enough for her to relax.

Short enough to feel appropriate in public.

Welcome home, Habibi.

The Rolls-Royce is waiting outside.

actual Rolls-Royce, black, gleaming.

A driver in a uniform opens the door for her.

Emily slides into leather seats softer than her couch back in Chicago.

Ahmed takes her hand.

I know you’re exhausted.

We’ll get you home.

You can rest.

The drive to Jira Beach residence takes 20 minutes.

Emily watches the city pass.

Skyscrapers that look like something from science fiction.

The Burj Khalifa lit up in the distance.

Construction cranes everywhere, building higher, grander, more.

They pull up to a gated community.

Security waves them through.

The villa appears.

Three stories of white stone and floor toseeiling windows.

Akmed helps her out of the car.

This is ours, our home.

Emily walks through the front door into a foyer with marble floors so polished she can see her reflection.

A chandelier hangs overhead, crystal, massive.

To the left, a living room with white furniture, gold accents, abstract art on the walls.

To the right, a dining room with a table that seats 12.

Straight ahead, glass doors leading to a pool that seems to drop off into the ocean beyond.

Ahmed, this is I can’t.

You deserve this.

You deserve everything.

A woman appears from a side hallway, early 30s, beautiful in a severe way, dark hair pulled back tight, fitted black dress.

She looks at Emily with eyes that don’t smile.

This is Mia.

She manages the household.

Hello.

Mia’s voice is flat.

Not rude, just empty.

Your room is prepared.

Our room, Emily thinks, but doesn’t correct her.

Ahmed shows her upstairs.

The master bedroom takes up half the second floor.

King bed.

Balcony overlooking the pool and the Arabian Gulf.

Bathroom with a tub big enough for three people.

Walk-in closet already half filled with clothes.

I took the liberty of ordering you some things.

If you don’t like them, we’ll get whatever you want.

Emily walks to the closet.

Designer labels, dresses in her size, shoes in her size, everything perfectly curated.

How did you know my measurements? I pay attention to details.

Something about that answer makes her pause, but the jet lag is hitting hard.

She’s been awake for 22 hours.

Ahmed kisses her forehead.

Sleep.

Tomorrow we’ll celebrate properly.

Emily falls into bed, asleep in minutes.

Doesn’t hear Ahmed’s phone ring at 3:47 a.

m.

Doesn’t hear his conversation in the hallway.

Doesn’t hear Mia’s voice asking, “How long will you keep this one?” June 13th.

Emily wakes at noon.

The bed beside her is empty.

She finds Ahmed downstairs in the living room working on a laptop.

Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.

I’m so sorry.

I didn’t mean to sleep that long.

You needed it.

Come.

Breakfast is ready.

They eat on the terrace by the pool.

Fresh fruit, pastries, coffee so perfect it makes Starbucks taste like dirt.

The sun is brutal.

The kind of heat that makes Chicago’s worst summer day feel mild.

Tonight, I have a surprise.

We’re going out.

Where? You’ll see.

That evening, Akmed takes her to the Burj Alarab, the sail-shaped hotel she’s seen in every Dubai photo.

They eat at Almahara, the underwater restaurant.

Fish swim past Florida floor to ceiling aquarium walls.

The meal is so expensive.

Ahmed doesn’t let her see the bill.

Tomorrow I want to take care of some business.

Banking.

Making you officially part of everything.

What do you mean? Joint accounts.

I want you to have access to everything.

No secrets between us.

Emily should find this romantic.

Instead, she feels uneasy.

Why the rush? June the 14th.

Dubai Mall.

The biggest mall Emily has ever seen.

They spend 3 hours shopping.

Akmed buying her things she doesn’t need.

Dresses, shoes, handbags.

She tries to protest.

He insists.

By the end, she’s carrying 10 shopping bags.

Now, the bank, the Dubai Islamic Bank branch inside the mall is all white marble and hushed voices.

Ahmed speaks to the manager in Arabic.

They’re ushered into a private office.

Papers are laid out.

This is a joint account.

I’m transferring my assets into it.

I want you to do the same.

Everything shared, everything equal.

Emily stares at the papers.

Ahmed, I don’t have much.

Maybe 50,000 in savings.

It’s not about the amount.

It’s about trust, about partnership.

She picks up the pen.

[clears throat] Something makes her pause.

Can I think about it? Ahmed’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes just for a second, then it’s back.

Warm, understanding.

Of course.

Take your time.

They leave the bank.

Emily’s hands are shaking.

She doesn’t know why.

In the car, she pulls out her phone, texts Sarah.

He wants me to put all my money in a joint account.

Is that normal? Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Emily, no.

That’s a red flag.

Don’t do it.

Please don’t do it.

Akmed glances at her phone.

Everything [clears throat] okay? Emily locks the screen.

Just Sarah checking in.

How is she? Good.

She says, “Hi.

” Tell her I say hello.

I’d love to meet her someday.

That night, Emily can’t sleep.

Gets up at 2:00 a.

m.

, walks downstairs for water, hears voices in Akmed’s study.

The door is cracked.

She peers through.

Akmed is on the phone speaking Arabic.

She doesn’t understand the words, but the tone is cold, business-like.

He’s looking at a document.

Even from this angle, she can see insurance letterhead.

He hangs up, turns, sees her in the hallway.

Aipi, you startled me.

Sorry, I was just getting water.

Come here.

She walks into the study.

He pulls her onto his lap, kisses her neck.

I was just finishing some work.

Boring business things.

What kind of business? Insurance, estate planning, making sure everything is in order for our future.

Ahmed about the bank account.

I’m just not sure I’m ready to His hand tightens on her waist.

Just slightly.

Just enough to notice.

You don’t trust me.

That’s not it.

I just after everything I’ve given you, everything I’ve done, you don’t trust me.

Ahmed, please.

That’s not fair.

He releases her, stands, walks to the window.

You’re right.

I’m sorry.

I’m pushing too hard.

It’s just my late wife and I, we shared everything.

I thought you’d want the same.

Guilt crashes over her.

I do.

I’m sorry.

I’ll sign tomorrow.

I promise.

June 15th, back to the bank.

Emily signs the papers, transfers her $50,000 into the joint account.

Ahmed pulls her close, kisses her forehead.

Thank you for trusting me.

Walking out of the mall, Emily calls Sarah.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

She tries again.

Still voicemail, texts instead.

I transferred the money.

I know you’re mad.

Please call me back.

No response.

Akmed takes her phone gently.

You’re on your honeymoon.

Let’s be present.

No phone for the rest of the day.

Just us.

He slips it into his pocket.

Emily wants to argue, doesn’t.

That night, her phone is returned.

13 missed calls from Sarah.

A voicemail that makes Emily’s blood run cold.

M.

I googled him.

Ahmed al-Mansor.

His business license was created 3 months ago.

3 months.

Right before you matched with him.

There’s nothing before that.

No company, no records, nothing.

This doesn’t make sense.

Please call me.

Please come home.

Emily deletes the voicemail before Amed can see it, but Sarah’s words echo.

3 months, the same timeline as their relationship.

June the 16th.

Agmed takes her out on his yacht.

It’s exactly like his dating app photos.

White, sleek, the kind of yacht that has a crew of three just to operate it.

They’re anchored off the coast, sun beating down.

Emily is in a bikini Ahmed bought her.

He’s in swim trunks, sunglasses, holding a drink.

You seem distracted.

Just thinking about my friend Sarah.

We had a fight before I left.

What about? She was worried I was moving too fast.

Akmed sips his drink.

Moving too fast.

That’s what people say when they’re jealous.

She’s not jealous.

Then why try to ruin your happiness? Why question the best thing that’s ever happened to you? Emily doesn’t have an answer.

I lost my wife 3 years ago.

Cancer she suffered for months.

I watched her waste away.

Do you know what that’s like? Ahmed, I’m so sorry.

After she died, I swore I’d never love again.

The pain was too much, but then I found you.

He reaches for her hand.

You brought me back to life.

Emily feels tears building.

I’m glad I met you.

Are you? Because sometimes I feel like you’re not fully here.

like you’re holding back, waiting for me to disappoint you.

That’s not true.

Then tell me about your family, your mother.

Do they know you’re here? I told them I was getting married.

My mom was happy for me.

Lee, her mother had cried on the phone, begged her to wait.

Emily hung up and blocked her number for a week.

Amed stands, walks to the railing, looks out at the water.

I had other relationships after my wife died.

Women who said they loved me.

Women who said they wanted partnership, but they all left.

Said I was too controlling, too intense, too much.

He turns to her.

Am I too much, Emily? No.

You’re perfect.

Then prove it.

Stop doubting this.

Stop letting your friend poison what we have.

Emily nods, agrees, ignores the voice in her head, screaming that something is wrong.

June 18th, 2:47 a.

m.

Emily wakes to a sound, crying faint.

coming from somewhere in the villa.

She sits up, listens.

There it is again.

A woman’s voice sobbing.

She gets out of bed.

Ahmed is asleep beside her.

She walks into the hallway.

The crying is louder now.

Coming from the third floor.

The floor Ahmed told her was storage.

Locked rooms.

Nothing important.

Emily walks up the stairs.

Three doors all closed.

She tries the first handle.

Locked.

The second locked.

The third.

The crying stops.

Suddenly completely.

She tries the handle anyway.

Locked.

Footsteps behind her.

She turns.

Mia is standing at the top of the stairs, still dressed despite the hour.

You should be sleeping.

I heard something crying.

The wind.

Old houses make noise.

It wasn’t the wind.

It was a person.

Mia’s expression doesn’t change.

Go back to bed.

Emily doesn’t move.

Who’s up here? Storage.

Like Mr.

Ahmed told you.

Go back to bed.

June 19th.

Emily brings it up at breakfast.

I heard crying last night from the third floor.

Ahmed doesn’t look up from his newspaper.

The third floor is empty.

Mia said the same thing, but I heard Emily.

He lowers the paper.

His voice is patient.

You’re jetlagged.

Adjusting to a new home.

Your mind is playing tricks.

There’s nothing up there.

Can I see? Why? Because I want to know what’s in my own house.

Ahmed’s jaw tightens.

It’s not your house.

It’s our house and I’m telling you there’s nothing up there worth seeing.

Old furniture, boxes, boring things.

Then show me.

He stands, walks to her, cups her face with both hands.

Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to create problems where there are none? I’m not.

I just want You want to prove I’m lying? You want to find something wrong so you can justify running back to Chicago, back to your small life, back to being alone? Emily’s chest tightens.

That’s not fair, isn’t it? You’ve been looking for reasons to leave since you got here.

The bank account, the phone calls with Sarah, and now this.

Hearing things that aren’t there.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry.

Just trust me.

He kisses her, walks away, leaves Emily standing in the dining room, wondering if she’s losing her mind.

June 20th, 11 a.

m.

Ahmed leaves for a business meeting.

Won’t be back until dinner.

Emily is alone with Mia and the staff.

She goes to the kitchen for coffee, finds an older woman there, Filipina, maybe 50.

Kind eyes, wearing a simple uniform.

Hello.

The woman’s accent is thick.

I am Fatima.

I cook.

Nice to meet you.

I’m Emily.

I know.

New wife.

Emily nods, pours coffee.

Fatima is chopping vegetables.

They stand in silence for a moment.

Then Fatima speaks.

Low urgent.

You leave, please.

Emily turns.

What? Fatima glances at the doorway.

Make sure they’re alone.

You leave this house before like others.

Emily’s heartbeat picks up.

What others? [bell] Fatima reaches into her apron, pulls out a photograph, hands it to Emily.

The photo shows a young woman, mid-20s, blonde, pretty, standing in this kitchen in this exact spot, smiling at the camera.

Who is this? Number 13.

She stay here 6 months ago.

She tried to run.

Fatima points to the balcony visible through the window.

She fall.

Emily’s hands start shaking.

A fall.

What do you mean fall? She die.

Police say accident.

But I see.

I know.

What did you see? Fatima looks terrified.

Please you leave tonight.

I help you.

I drive you to airport.

Fatima, you’re scaring me.

What are you talking about? Footsteps in the hallway.

Fatima snatches the photo back, shoves it in her apron, starts chopping vegetables again.

Mia appears in the doorway.

Emily, Mr.

Ahmed called.

He’s asking for you.

Emily looks at Fatima.

Fatima won’t meet her eyes.

Just keeps chopping.

Hands steady, face blank.

Emily walks out of the kitchen.

Her mind is racing.

Number 13.

Fall.

Die.

Police.

In the living room, she calls Ahmed.

Habibi.

How are you? Who lived here before me? Silence.

Long enough to count heartbeats.

What? Fatima just told me about another woman.

Number 13.

She says she fell from a balcony.

More silence than Ahmed’s voice.

Cold.

Put Mia on the phone.

Emily hands the phone to Mia.

Watches her face.

Mia listens.

Says yes three times.

Hangs up.

Mr.

Ahmed is coming home.

He says to wait for him in the study.

30 minutes later, Ahmed bursts through the door, walks straight to Emily, grabs her shoulders, not hard, but firm.

What did Fatima say to you exactly? She showed me a photo of a woman who lived here said she died.

Fatima is mentally unwell.

She’s been with us for years, but she has episodes.

Delusions.

I keep her employed out of charity.

She seemed perfectly sane to me.

That’s how delusions work, Emily.

They sound convincing, but they’re not real.

Then who’s in the photo? My late wife.

Fatima confuses past and present.

She thinks you’re in danger because she couldn’t protect my wife from cancer.

It’s sad.

It’s not real.

Emily wants to believe him.

Wants to believe there’s a logical explanation, but something in his eyes says he’s lying.

Show me the third floor.

What? If you’re telling the truth, if there’s nothing to hide, show me the third floor.

Ahmed’s expression shifts.

Anger flashes.

Then control.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key ring, selects one key, hands it to her.

Fine, go look.

I’ll wait here.

Emily takes the key, walks upstairs.

Her hands are shaking.

She unlocks the first room.

Empty.

Completely empty.

Dusty floors.

Nothing inside.

Second room.

Same thing.

Third room.

Empty.

She walks back downstairs.

Ahmed is sitting on the couch calm.

Satisfied.

Emily feels stupid.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be.

You were scared.

Fatima scared you.

But now you know there’s nothing to fear.

That night, Emily lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

Akmed is asleep beside her.

She can’t stop thinking about Fatima’s face.

The urgency, the fear.

At 3:00 a.

m.

, she gets up, goes back to the kitchen.

Fatima is there cleaning.

Fatima, I need to know the truth.

Fatima looks at her, tears in her eyes, reaches into her apron again.

This time, she pulls out a key.

Tomorrow you leave for work.

You go to third floor, middle room, behind wall panel.

Safe.

You see, you know.

She presses the key into Emily’s palm.

I help you leave tomorrow night, but you must see first.

Must know what he is, then you run.

Emily closes her hand around the key.

Why are you helping me? Fatima’s voice breaks.

Number 13.

She was my friend.

I do nothing.

She die.

Not again.

Never again.

June 22nd, 2023.

2:30 a.

m.

The villa is silent except for Ahmed’s breathing beside her.

Deep, steady.

The breathing of a man with nothing to hide.

Emily’s hand is wrapped around Fatima’s key so tight it’s cutting into her palm.

She’s been lying here for 3 hours waiting, making sure he’s really asleep.

She slides out of bed.

The sheets whisper.

Ahmed doesn’t move.

[clears throat] Emily holds her breath.

Counts to 60.

Nothing.

She walks to the hallway.

Every footstep sounds like a gunshot in the silence.

The stairs to the third floor creek on the fifth step.

She freezes, listens.

No movement from the bedroom.

The middle room.

Door locked.

Emily slides the key in.

It turns.

Click.

The sound echoes.

She pushes the door open.

The room is empty like before, but Fodit said behind the wall panel.

Emily runs her hands along the walls.

Smooth plaster.

Nothing.

She’s about to give up when her finger catches on something.

A seam barely visible.

She presses.

A panel swings open.

Behind it.

A safe.

Digital keypad.

Emily’s heart sinks.

She doesn’t have the code.

She tries Ahmed’s birthday.

Wrong.

Their wedding date wrong.

She has three more tries before lockout.

Think.

What would he use? She tries the date he said his wife died.

The safe beeps.

Green light.

Door swings open.

Inside 13 passports.

Emily pulls them out with shaking hands.

Opens the first one.

Rebecca Chen, American, born 1997.

Entry stamp to UAE.

January 2022.

Death certificate.

Paperclip to the passport.

Cause of death.

Accidental fall from balcony.

Date July 2022.

Second passport Amina Hassan, British, born 1999.

Entry stamp, March 2022.

Death certificate, heat stroke found in desert, August 2022.

Third passport, Suzanne Martin, Australian, born 1996.

Entry stamp, May 2021.

Death certificate, drowning in private pool.

October 2021.

Emily’s hands won’t stop shaking.

She keeps going.

13 passports.

13 death certificates.

13 women who came to Dubai and never left.

At the bottom of the safe, a journal leather bound.

Emily opens it.

The handwriting is feminine.

[clears throat] Neat.

March 3rd, 2022.

I arrived in Dubai today.

Ahmed is everything he promised.

The villa is beautiful.

I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

Emily flips ahead.

March 15th.

Something strange happened today.

I found photos in Ahmed’s study of other women.

When I asked about them, he said they were business associates.

But why would business associates be in our bedroom? Further, April 2nd.

I tried to access the bank account.

All my money is gone.

Transferred somewhere.

Ahmed says it’s a mistake that the bank will fix it, but he won’t let me call them myself.

April 20th.

I’m scared.

He locked me in yesterday.

Said it was for my safety that Dubai isn’t safe for women alone.

But the lock is on the outside.

May 6th.

I found a room upstairs full of women’s clothes, jewelry, personal items, all different sizes, all different styles.

When I asked, he said they were his late wife’s.

But there’s too much, too many different tastes.

The entries get more desperate.

June 10th.

I told him I want to go home.

He said, “No, just no.

Not let’s talk about it.

Not why, just no.

” And when I tried to call my mother, my phone was dead.

I went to get my charger and it was gone.

June 28th.

I’m going to run tomorrow.

Fatima is helping me.

She’s scared, but she agreed.

We leave at dawn while he’s sleeping.

If you’re reading this, if someone finds this, I’m Rebecca Chen.

I’m from San Francisco.

My mother’s name is Linda Chen.

Tell her I tried to come home.

Tell her I’m sorry.

The next page is the death certificate.

Date of death, June 29th, 2022.

One day after that entry, Emily’s vision blurs.

She can’t breathe, can’t process.

This woman tried to escape just like Emily is planning and she died the next day.

She keeps digging through the safe, finds insurance policies, life insurance.

Each woman insured for $1.

5 million.

Beneficiary, Ahmed Al-Mansour, 13 policies, $19.

5 million.

At the very bottom, a laptop, small, old.

Emily opens it.

No password.

The desktop has one folder.

Archive.

She clicks it.

Video files dated, labeled with names.

She clicks the first one.

Rebecca final.

The video loads.

Security camera footage.

Grainy.

Black and white.

A balcony.

Nighttime.

Rebecca walks out.

She’s on the phone, arguing with someone.

Then a figure appears behind her.

Ahmed.

Rebecca turns, starts backing away.

He keeps advancing.

She’s against the railing now.

He grabs her.

She fights, pushes at him.

He’s stronger.

His hands on her shoulders, pushing, pushing.

Rebecca tips backward over the railing gone.

The camera angle shifts, shows the ground below.

Rebecca’s body not moving.

Emily slams the laptop shut.

Runs to the bathroom.

Vomits everything she ate today.

Keeps vomiting until there’s nothing left.

Dry heaving.

Tears streaming.

She goes back.

She has to know.

Opens the next video.

Amina final different method.

Desert location.

Amina tied to a chair.

Drugged.

Barely conscious.

Ahmed pours water over her then walks away.

The time stamp shows hours passing.

The sun gets higher, hotter.

Amina stops moving.

Third video.

Suzanne final.

The pool.

This villa’s pool.

Suzanne’s swimming laps.

Ahmed appears, gets in the water, swims up behind her, grabs her, holds her under.

She thrashes, bubbles, struggles, goes still.

Emily can’t watch more.

13 videos, 13 murders, all recorded, all saved.

Why would he keep these? Why would anyone? And then [clears throat] she understands.

He watches them.

This is his trophy collection.

His proof.

His obsession isn’t the money.

It’s the control, the power, the act of taking life and getting away with it.

Emily’s hands are shaking so badly she can barely hold the laptop.

She needs to take this.

Needs evidence, but if she takes it, he’ll know.

He’ll know she was here.

Know she knows.

She photographs the screen with her phone, every passport, every death certificate, every insurance policy.

Her phone storage fills up.

She deletes old photos.

Keeps shooting.

Evidence, proof, something to show police.

Then she remembers.

She took a pregnancy test 3 days ago.

Positive.

She She hasn’t told Ahmed yet.

Hasn’t told anyone.

She’s 6 weeks pregnant with a serial killer’s child.

The realization hits like a physical blow.

She’s carrying his baby.

If he finds out, what will he do? Keep her alive until birth then kill her or kill them both.

Emily puts everything back in the safe exactly as she found it.

Closes the wall panel, locks the door, runs downstairs back to the bedroom.

Akmed is still sleeping.

She gets into bed, lies there, stares at the ceiling.

13 women, all dead, all killed by the man sleeping 18 in away.

The man whose child is growing inside her.

She has to get out tonight now.

But it’s 4:30 a.

m.

Where does she go? How does she escape? June 22nd, 7:00 a.

m.

Ahmed wakes, kisses her forehead.

Good morning, Habute.

Emily forces a smile.

Good morning.

You look tired.

Bad dreams.

Just couldn’t sleep.

He studies her face.

Too long, too carefully.

Is something wrong? No, just adjusting still.

H.

[clears throat] He gets up, showers, dresses.

I have meetings all day.

Mia will take care of you.

He leaves.

Emily waits until she hears the car pull away.

Then she runs to the kitchen.

Fatima is there cooking breakfast.

Fatima, I saw I saw everything.

The safe, the videos, all of it.

Fatima’s face crumbles.

I am sorry.

So sorry.

You know, we have to go to the police.

No police.

Police here, they protect men like him.

Rich men, powerful men.

They will not believe you.

Then what do I do? You run.

You leave country.

You go home.

Will you help me? Fatima nods.

Tomorrow I help you.

I drive you to airport.

You take morning flight.

Before he know you gone.

Why tomorrow? Why not today? Today he test you.

He knows something wrong.

He watch.

Tomorrow he relax.

Tomorrow we go.

June 23rd.

Noon.

Emily hasn’t eaten in 2 days.

can’t keep anything down.

Fear or pregnancy? She doesn’t know.

Mia brings lunch to her room.

You not eating? I’m not hungry.

Mia sets the tray down, sits on the edge of the bed.

You found something.

I can see it in your face.

Emily’s heart races.

I don’t know what you mean.

The safe.

You went to third floor.

You saw.

How do you Because I was you once 8 years ago.

I came here from Thailand.

Believed his lies.

Fell in love.

Then I found the safe.

Then I tried to run.

Mia pulls up her sleeves.

Scars on both wrists.

Deep, old, white against her brown skin.

He found me at the airport, brought me back, locked me in basement for 3 days.

No food, no water.

Then he gave me choice.

Die like the others.

Or help him become his partner.

Live.

Emily’s voice cracks.

You chose to live.

Survival isn’t noble.

It’s not brave.

It’s just survival.

I help him find women online.

I help him manage the house.

I help him clean up.

After Mia’s eyes are dead, empty.

I am not innocent.

I am alive, but I am not innocent.

How many? How many women have you helped him kill? 13 before you.

You are number 14.

Why are you telling me this? Because Fatima is planning to help you escape.

And you will fail.

He knows.

I told him about the key, about your plan.

He is testing you, waiting to see what you do.

Emily’s blood runs cold.

You told him? I had to.

If I don’t, he suspects me.

If he suspects me, I become number one again.

The one in the grave instead of behind the desk.

Fatima is going to die because of you.

Fatima chose this.

She chose to help you.

I chose myself.

We all make choices, Emily.

I made mine 8 years ago.

You’ll make yours soon.

[clears throat] Mia stands, walks to the door, turns back.

If you want to live, stop trying to run.

accept this.

Become what I am.

Help him find number 15.

Maybe he lets you live.

I’d rather die.

You think that now? Wait until his hands are around your throat.

Wait until you’re drowning.

Wait until you feel your baby dying inside you because you’re dying.

Then see what you choose.

Mia closes the door.

The lock clicks.

From the outside, Emily is alone, locked in.

Mia told Akmed everything.

Fatima is walking into a trap and Emily has no way to warn her.

June 24th, 310 a.

m.

Emily hasn’t slept.

She texts Sarah from her phone.

Help.

Send police.

I’m not joking.

Dubai Ahmed is dangerous.

13 women dead.

I’m next.

Please help me.

Three dots appear.

Then Sarah’s response.

M.

What the [ __ ] Are you serious? Should I call embassy? Yes.

Call everyone.

Interpol.

FBI.

Anyone who will listen.

I found evidence.

I have proof.

But I’m locked in.

He’s going to kill me.

I’m calling now.

Sending help.

Hold on.

Please.

Hold on.

Emily packs a small bag, essentials, passport, phone, charger, the thumb drive she copied the safe videos onto.

She hides it in her bra.

If she dies, at least there’s evidence.

Morning comes.

Mia unlocks the door.

Mr.

Akmed says you can come down for breakfast.

Test.

This is a test.

Emily goes downstairs.

Akmed is at the table smiling.

Good morning.

You look better today.

I feel better.

Good.

I was worried about you.

You seemed upset yesterday.

It’s just hormones.

You know how women are.

He laughs.

Doesn’t he know? Can’t he tell she’s lying? I have a business trip.

3 days.

Abu Dhabi.

I leave tomorrow.

Will you be okay here alone? Of course.

Mia will stay with you.

Keep you company.

That’s kind of her.

Another test.

He’s not going anywhere.

He’s watching to see if she tries to run the moment he’s gone.

June 25th, 9:15 a.

m.

Ahmed’s car pulls away.

Emily watches from the window.

Waits 10 minutes.

then runs downstairs.

Fatima is in the kitchen.

He’s gone.

We go now.

Fatima nods.

Car is ready.

We go out back quick.

Emily grabs her bag.

They run through the kitchen.

Out the back door.

A small car is waiting.

Not the Rolls-Royce.

Something old, inconspicuous.

They get in.

Fatima starts driving.

The villa gates are open.

They’re through.

On the street, heading toward Shake Zed Road, the highway to the airport.

Emily’s breathing hard.

We made it.

Oh god, we actually made it.

Not yet.

Not until you on plane.

They’re 5 minutes from the villa when Fatima checks the rear view mirror.

Her face goes white.

No, no, no, no.

Emily turns Ahmed’s Rolls-Royce right behind them, gaining fast.

He followed us.

How did he GPS? Car has GPS.

I am stupid.

So stupid.

Fatima floors it.

The small car struggles.

Ahmed’s Rolls-Royce is faster.

Gets closer.

Pulls alongside.

Ahmed is driving.

He looks at Emily through the window.

Smiles.

actually smiles.

Fatima swerves, trying to lose him.

They’re weaving through traffic now.

Cars honking, people yelling.

Dubai streets aren’t ready for a car chase.

Airport is close.

2 km.

We can make it.

Red light ahead.

Fatima doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, runs it.

9:47 a.

m.

A delivery truck coming from the left.

The driver didn’t see them.

Didn’t expect a car to run a red light.

T-bones them.

Driver’s side.

The world spins.

Glass shatters.

Metal screams.

Emily’s head hits the window.

Everything goes bright, then dark, then bright again.

Silence.

She’s hanging from the seat belt.

The car is on its side.

Airbag deployed.

Smells like burning.

She looks left.

Fatima.

Fatima’s side took the impact.

The steering wheel is gone in its place.

A steering column through Fatima’s chest.

Blood everywhere.

Fatima’s eyes are open.

Not blinking.

Not breathing.

Fatima.

Fatima.

No.

No.

No.

No.

Emily’s door opens.

Hands grab her.

Pull her out.

Ahmed.

He’s cutting her seatelt, pulling her from the wreckage.

Emily.

Oh god.

Emily, are you okay? Talk to me.

People gathering, taking phone videos, calling police.

Ahmed is holding her, shaking, crying, playing the devastated husband.

She’s my wife.

There was an accident.

Please help her.

Police arrive.

Ambulance.

Ahmed explaining in Arabic, pointing at Fatima’s body at the truck at Emily.

A police officer approaches Emily.

Ma’am, what happened? Emily opens her mouth.

This is it.

Tell the truth.

Tell them everything.

But Akmed’s hand is on her shoulder.

Squeezing.

Not comfort.

Warning.

She’s in shock.

The maid was driving too fast.

Ran a red light.

Terrible accident.

My wife needs medical attention.

The officer looks at Emily.

Is this true? Akmed’s hand squeezes harder.

Emily can feel his fingers pressing into the pressure point.

Pain shooting down her arm.

Tell them.

Tell them about the 13 women.

about the safe, about the videos.

Tell them.

But Mia’s words echo.

Police here protect men like him.

Rich men, powerful men.

[clears throat] Emily looks at Vodma’s body being loaded into the ambulance.

Dead because she tried to help.

Dead because Emily trusted her.

Yes, she was driving too fast.

I told her to slow down.

It’s my fault.

I distracted her.

The officer nods, takes notes.

Ahmed helps Emily into his car.

They drive away.

In the rear view mirror, Emily watches them cover Fatima’s body with a sheet.

June 26th, Emily wakes in the villa in the bedroom, her head bandaged, ribs wrapped.

The doctor said she’s lucky.

Minor concussion, bruised ribs.

No serious damage, no serious damage, except Fatima is dead.

She tries the bedroom door, locked.

Of course, locked.

Ahmed is sitting in a chair by the window, waiting for her to wake.

How are you feeling? Let me out.

You need to rest.

You killed her.

You killed Fatima.

Fatima killed herself by helping you, by betraying me.

I want to go home.

Akmed stands, walks to the bed, sits beside her.

His hand finds her stomach, rests there, gentle.

You’re pregnant.

Did you know that? Emily’s blood freezes.

The doctor told me when he examined you at the hospital, 6 weeks.

Congratulations, Hubti.

We’re going to be parents.

Get your hand off me.

This changes things.

You see that, don’t you? I can’t let you leave now.

Not with my child.

This isn’t your child.

I’ll get rid of it the second I He slaps her hard across the face.

First time he’s hit her.

Her cheek burns.

Don’t ever say that again.

This baby is mine.

You are mine.

And you will stay here until that child is born.

After that, he stands, walks to the door.

Well, we’ll see how useful you are after that.

The door closes.

The lock clicks.

Emily curls into a ball.

cries until there’s nothing left.

Fatima is dead.

Sarah’s calls to Interpol might take weeks.

She’s locked in, pregnant, and Akmed knows everything.

June 28th, Akmed brings her meals, lets her use the bathroom with supervision, treats her like a prisoner because that’s what she is.

I’ve been thinking about names.

If it’s a boy, Rasheed.

If it’s a girl, Amira.

I’m not naming it anything because I’m not keeping it.

Emily, let’s be realistic.

You have two choices.

Accept this.

Be a mother to my child.

live in comfort or resist and end up like the 13 before you.

I’m giving you an option they never had.

Be smart.

Why? Why do you do this? The other women, why kill them? Ahmed sits on the edge of the bed, looks at her, really looks.

Do you know what it’s like to have complete control over someone? To hold their life in your hands, to decide if they breathe or stop breathing.

It’s the purest form of power.

More than money, more than business, life and death, God’s power, and I have it.

You’re insane.

No, I’m honest.

Everyone wants power.

I just take it.

The insurance money was a bonus.

The first few, yes, I needed the money, but now I have more money than I can spend.

I do this because I can.

Because 13 times I’ve proven I’m smarter than the police.

Smarter than Interpol.

Smarter than everyone.

Someone will catch you.

They haven’t yet, and they won’t.

Because I’m careful.

Because I’m patient.

Because I choose women like you.

Women who are alone.

Women no one will miss.

Sarah will find me.

She’s calling everyone.

Interpol is coming.

Akmed laughs.

Let them come.

I’ll show them our happy home.

Our baby on the way.

My pregnant wife who clearly loves me.

Who will tell them everything is fine because you know what happens if you don’t.

June 30th 29 p.

m.

Doorbell rings.

Emily hears voices downstairs.

Mail official.

Amed unlocks her door.

Interpol is here asking about you.

Your friend called them.

You’re going to go downstairs.

You’re going to smile.

You’re going to tell them you’re fine, happy, that your friend worries too much.

And if you say one word about the others, about the safe, about anything, I will kill you.

Not today, but soon.

And I will make it slow.

His hand rests on her stomach again.

But first, I’ll make sure the baby doesn’t survive.

Do you understand? Emily nods.

They go downstairs.

Two men in suits, interpol badges, one speaks.

Mrs.

Al-Mansour, we received a report from a friend of yours, Sarah Jenkins.

She’s concerned about your welfare, said you sent her disturbing messages.

Ahmed’s hand is on her shoulder.

She can feel his fingers, ready to squeeze.

I’m fine.

Sarah is wonderful, but she worries.

I was upset a few days ago, homesick.

I may have exaggerated how I was feeling.

She said you claimed you were in danger that 13 women had died.

This is it.

Tell them.

Save yourself.

save the others from being forgotten.

But Akmed’s other hand moves to her stomach, hidden from the investigators, pressing, warning.

Emily puts her hand over his protecting the baby from his grip.

[bell] I was being dramatic.

I’m pregnant.

Hormones? I said things I didn’t mean.

I’m embarrassed.

She called you.

The investigators exchange glances.

Are you sure you’re safe here? Completely safe.

My husband is wonderful.

Look around.

This is paradise.

They stay for 20 minutes, ask more questions.

Ahmed is charming, shows them the nursery he’s already setting up, talks about baby names, plays the excited father to be perfectly.

They leave.

Emily watches from the window as their car pulls away.

Her last chance.

Gone.

Akmed closes the door, turns to her.

Good girl.

See, no one can save you.

The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.

July the 1st, 2023.

Emily has been locked in the bedroom for 6 days.

Ahmed brings meals three times a day.

Sets the tray on the nightstand.

Watches her eat.

Doesn’t speak unless she asks questions.

How long are you going to keep me here until I can trust you? You’ll never trust me.

Then I guess you’ll be here a while.

He leaves.

The lock clicks.

Emily stares at the walls.

The bedroom is luxurious.

King bed, silk sheets, view of the ocean.

But luxury doesn’t matter when you can’t leave.

Mia comes twice a day, brings fresh towels, changes the sheets, won’t make eye contact.

Emily tries talking to her.

Mia, please help me.

You know what he is.

Mia folds a towel.

Perfect corners.

I can’t help you.

You helped him kill 13 women.

Don’t you want to stop? Wanting and doing are different things.

You said you survived by helping him.

But you’re not surviving.

You’re just existing.

There’s a difference.

Mia finally looks at her, eyes red, like she’s been crying.

You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hate myself every single day? But I’m alive, and alive is better than dead.

Is it really? Mia doesn’t answer.

Just leaves.

July 2nd.

Ahmed announces he’s going on a business trip.

3 days.

Leaving tomorrow.

Mia will watch you.

Don’t try anything stupid.

Where would I go? You’ve made it clear I’m trapped.

Good.

You’re [clears throat] learning.

After he leaves the room, Emily lies in bed and thinks, “3 days.

He’ll be gone for 3 days.

This might be her only chance.

” July 3rd, 2:45 a.

m.

Ahmed left 6 hours ago.

Emily can’t sleep.

Hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

She gets up, tries the door, still locked, but she notices something.

The lock is electronic hotel style.

Card reader on the outside.

She remembers her marketing job, the tech training, how hotel locks work, how most systems have a master override, how if you know the admin code, you can unlock any door.

She looks around the room, [clears throat] finds Ahmed’s laptop.

He left it.

Mistake or test? Doesn’t matter.

She opens it.

No password.

Another mistake.

Or he doesn’t think she’s smart enough to find anything.

His email is open.

She scrolls, finds messages to the insurance company.

The most recent one is dated June 29th, 2 days after the car crash.

Policy the actor 14 needs to be activated.

Wife is pregnant.

Increase coverage to $2.

5 million.

Delivery expected February 2024.

Policy execution planned for March 2024.

Policy execution.

He’s planning to kill her in March after the baby is born.

After he’s collected another $2.

5 million, she keeps scrolling, finds a folder.

Archive.

The same folder from the hidden laptop in the safe.

But this one has more files.

Recent files.

Videos dated from the last week.

She clicks the first one.

Security footage.

Different angles of the villa, the bedroom, the bathroom, the hallway.

He’s been watching her.

Cameras everywhere.

She clicks another file.

This one is older.

Labeled favorites.

It loads.

Shows Rebecca.

The woman from the journal on the balcony.

The push.

The fall.

The same video Emily saw in the safe.

But this one doesn’t stop there.

He keeps playing.

Shows Ahmed walking down to where Rebecca’s body landed.

Standing over her, checking for a pulse, then walking away, calling police, playing devastated.

Emily’s stomach turns.

He not only kills them, he watches himself kill them over and over.

She checks the view count on the video file 47 times.

He’s watched Rebecca die 47 times.

The next video, Suzanne drowning in the pool.

View count 62 times.

The next Amina in the desert view count 38 times.

He’s not just a killer, he’s obsessed with reliving it.

The power, the control, the moment of death.

Emily finds the system controls for the door lock, remote access.

She can unlock it from the laptop, but if she does, he’ll know.

The system logs everything unless she deletes the logs.

She finds the security folder, deletes the last hour of footage, deletes the access logs, unlocks the door remotely, the lock clicks, green light.

She’s free, but free to go where? The villa is surrounded by walls.

The gates are locked.

Security cameras everywhere.

If she runs, he’ll find her.

If she stays, he’ll kill her.

She locks the door again, covers her tracks, closes the laptop, gets back in bed.

New plan.

She can’t run, but she can prepare.

She can gather evidence.

She can make sure that when he kills her, there’s proof.

There’s justice.

July 4th.

Ahmed returns, opens her door.

Did you miss me? Desperately, he laughs.

You’re learning sarcasm.

Good [clears throat] means you’re not broken yet.

What happens when I am broken? Then you’re boring and I get rid of boring things.

He sits on the bed, touches her face, gentle.

The same hand that pushed Rebecca off a balcony.

I’ve been thinking about us, about our future, and I’ve decided something.

Emily’s heart races.

What? Tomorrow night, you and me, romantic evening, pool wine conversation like a normal couple.

I’m pregnant.

I shouldn’t drink wine.

Then sparkling water.

The point is we need to reconnect.

You’ve been distant because you’re a serial killer.

Because you murdered 13 women because you’re planning to murder me.

Okay.

Tomorrow night.

Good.

Wear something beautiful.

I’ll have Mia bring you options.

He leaves.

Emily sits there.

Tomorrow night.

Pool.

The same pool where Suzanne died.

where the security footage showed her drowning.

He’s going to kill her tomorrow night.

She knows it, can feel it.

She has less than 24 hours.

July 5th, 6:6 p.

m.

Mia brings three dresses.

Expensive, beautiful funeral clothes.

Which one? Does it matter? Mia sits on the bed.

I called the police this morning after Ahmed left for his meeting.

I told them everything.

The 13 women, the insurance policies, the videos, everything.

Emily’s breath catches.

What? They’re coming tonight after Mia stops.

Can’t finish after he kills me.

They need evidence and attempt.

They can’t arrest him for murders with no bodies.

But if they catch him in the act, you’re using me as bait.

I’m giving you a chance.

He’s going to try to kill you tonight.

But I’ll be watching.

And when he does, I’ll make sure you survive.

I’ll make sure the police get here.

I’ll make sure this ends.

Why? Why now? Why not save the others? Mia’s face crumbles because I’m tired.

Because I can’t do this anymore.

Because Fatima died and that’s on me.

Because 13 women haunt my dreams.

Because if I help him kill one more, I’ll put those scars on my wrists back.

But this time, I won’t fail.

What if the police don’t get here in time? They will.

I promise you they will.

Emily wants to believe her.

Needs to believe her.

But Mia has lied for 8 years.

Why trust her now? because she has no other choice.

10 doctor Emily is in the blue dress, the one that shows her shoulders, her arms, makes her look vulnerable.

Ahmed is waiting by the pool, wearing white linen pants, no shirt.

He looks like a cologne ad, like a dream, [clears throat] like the man she fell in love with in January.

That man never existed.

You look beautiful.

Thank you.

The pool glows blue.

underwater lights.

The infinity edge makes it look like the water drops off into the ocean into nothing.

There’s wine on the table.

He pours himself a glass, pours her sparkling water to us, to our future, to our child.

They toast.

Emily’s hand is shaking.

She sets the glass down before she drops it.

Come, let’s swim.

I don’t want to swim.

Emily comes swim with me.

Not a request, a command.

She walks to the pool edge, kicks off her heels.

The tiles are cool under her feet.

She slips off the dress.

Underneath a swimsuit, simple black.

Mia brought it with the dresses.

Aged is already in the water, swimming to the deep end.

The end without stairs.

The end where the only way out is climbing.

Hard to climb when you’re fighting for your life.

Emily gets in.

The water is warm.

Too warm.

Like bath water.

She swims toward the shallow end away from him.

Where are you going? I’m just swimming.

Come here.

He’s in the deep end, treading water, waiting.

Emily thinks about her phone, hidden in the pool towel on the deck chair.

Recording.

She activated the voice memo before she came down.

It’s been recording for 10 minutes.

Everything he says will be captured.

Everything he does will be audio evidence.

She swims toward him [clears throat] slowly.

Every stroke feels like swimming toward her own grave.

She reaches the deep end.

He’s right there, close enough to touch.

You’re different from the others.

What others? Don’t play stupid.

You know about the others.

You’ve seen the safe, the videos.

You know exactly who I am.

No point lying anymore.

Yes, I know.

And yet here you are swimming with me.

Why? Because I don’t have a choice.

There’s always a choice, Emily.

You could scream.

You could fight.

You could try to run.

But you’re not doing any of those things because you’d catch me probably.

But you’d try anyway if you thought you had a chance.

So why aren’t you trying? Emily’s mind races.

What does he want to hear? What keeps her alive longest? Because I love you.

He laughs.

Actually laughs.

No, you don’t.

You’re terrified of me.

I can see it in your eyes, but I appreciate the effort.

His hands find her shoulders.

Gentle at first, like a massage, like a lover’s touch.

Please let me go.

I’ll disappear.

I won’t tell anyone.

I’ll leave the country.

You’ll never see me again.

They all say that.

Rebecca said that.

Amina said that.

Suzanne said that while I was holding her underwater.

Let me go.

I won’t tell anyone.

But you will tell.

You all plan to tell.

It’s human nature.

I’m pregnant with your child.

I know.

That’s why I waited.

But here’s the thing, Emily.

The baby isn’t born yet.

Technically, you’re still just one person.

[clears throat] If I wait until after birth, that’s two murders.

messy.

But now it’s still just you.

And one murder is cleaner.

His grip tightens.

Not massage anymore.

Pressure.

You’re different because you fought.

You tried to escape.

You tried to warn people.

The others just accepted it.

Cried and begged but didn’t fight.

You fought.

I respect that.

Then let me live.

I can’t.

You know too much.

You’ve seen too much.

And honestly, his hands move from her shoulders to her neck.

I’ve been thinking about this moment since the day you arrived.

This is the best part.

The moment they realize it’s really happening.

The moment Hope dies.

He pushes her under.

The water closes over Emily’s head.

Ahmed’s hands are iron.

Unmovable.

She fights, kicks at him, scratches at his arms.

But he’s stronger.

So much stronger.

Her lungs scream.

Bubbles escape her mouth.

Rising toward the surface.

She can’t reach.

She can see the sky above.

the water, stars, the moon, [clears throat] beautiful, the last thing she’ll ever see.

She thinks about her mother, about Sarah, about the baby growing inside her who will never take a first breath, about Fatima’s kind face, about Rebecca’s journal, about 13 women who died alone.

She’s going limp, body giving up, brain shutting down, darkness creeping in from the edges.

The last thing she hears, muffled through water, is his voice.

Good night, number 14.

10:42 p.

m.

Everything stops.

Ahmed pulls Emily’s body from the pool.

Laser on the deck.

No pulse, no breathing, lips blue, eyes closed.

He checks his watch.

2 minutes and 14 seconds underwater.

His personal record.

Rebecca lasted 1 minute 40.

Suzanne only 1 minute 20.

Emily was special.

He pulls out his phone, calls Mia.

It’s done.

Number 14.

Pool drowning.

Come stage it.

You know what to do.

Mia appears from the villa, walks toward the pool, sees Emily’s body, sees the phone hidden in the towel, still recording, red light blinking.

Ahmed doesn’t see it.

He’s walking toward the house.

I’m going to shower.

Clean her up.

Make it look like an accident.

Grieving widow can’t swim.

Tragic.

Yes, sir.

He disappears inside.

Mia kneels beside Emily, grabs the phone, stops the recording.

11 minutes and 23 seconds.

Everything captured.

His confession, the drowning, everything.

She looks at Emily’s face.

Blue lips.

No breath.

Another one.

Another dead woman because Mia didn’t stop him.

She hears Fatima’s voice in her head.

Not again.

Never again.

Mia starts CPR.

Hard compressions.

Tilts Emily’s head back.

Breathes into her mouth.

Two breaths.

30 compressions.

Two breaths.

Come on.

Come on.

Don’t be dead.

Don’t let him win.

30 compressions.

Two breaths.

30 compressions.

Emily’s body jerks.

Water pours from her mouth.

She coughs, gasps, eyes fly open.

Quiet.

He’ll hear you.

Emily coughs more.

Gasping for air.

Alive.

Impossibly alive.

Police are coming.

I called them.

They’re 5 minutes away.

I gave them everything.

The videos, the insurance policies, the locations of the bodies, everything.

Emily can’t speak.

Can only gasp and cough and try to remember how to breathe.

He can’t know you’re alive.

Not yet.

Not until police get here.

Footsteps.

Akmed returning.

changed clothes, fresh shirt.

He stops when he sees Emily, conscious, breathing, alive.

His face changes.

Confusion, then understanding, then rage.

What did you do? Mia stands.

I saved her and I called the police.

They’re coming.

It’s over.

You called? He looks at Emily.

At Mia at the phone still on the towel.

You recorded it.

Everything.

Your confession, the drowning, all of it.

Ahmed lunges.

Not at Emily.

At Mia, hands around her throat.

You betrayed me.

After everything I did for you, I let you live.

Mia struggles.

You let me live in hell.

Emily tries to stand.

Legs won’t work.

Body still shutting down.

Rebooting.

She crawls toward them.

Has to help.

Has to do something.

But before she reaches them, sirens loud.

Close.

Getting closer.

Ahmed hears them, lets go of Mia.

Runs toward the villa gate.

Going to run.

Going to escape.

Police cars screech to a stop outside.

Officers pour through the gate.

Guns drawn.

shouting in Arabic and English.

Ahmed al-mansur, you are under arrest.

Ahmed stops, turns, sees Emily alive, sees Mia standing, sees his empire crumbling.

He runs at Emily.

One last attempt.

Going to finish what he started.

Three gunshots.

Ahmed drops.

Not dead.

Leg wounds, but down.

Officers swarm him, handcuff [clears throat] him, drag him away, screaming, “She’s mine.

The baby is mine.

You can’t take them from me.

” But they can, and they do.

Paramedics rush to Emily.

Oxygen mask, blankets, checking vitals.

She’s alive, but barely.

Hypothermia setting in.

Brain function diminished from oxygen loss.

They load her onto a stretcher.

Mia walks over, kneels beside the stretcher.

You’re going to be okay.

You hear me? You’re going to live.

Emily’s voice is barely a whisper.

Fatima.

Fatima would be proud.

The ambulance doors close.

Emily is rushed to the hospital.

Mia stands in the empty villa.

Police everywhere.

Crime scene tape going up.

Evidence being collected.

An Interpol agent approaches her.

You’re Mia Chen, the one who called this in.

Yes.

We need your full statement.

Everything you know about the 13 victims, the burial locations, all of it.

I want immunity.

I can’t promise that.

Then I want a deal.

I’ll tell you everything.

Where the bodies are, how he did it, all the evidence you need.

But I don’t go to prison.

I helped him kill 13 women.

I know that.

But I also saved number 14.

And that has to count for something.

The agent looks at her, studies her face.

We’ll discuss terms, but you start talking now.

Mia talks for 6 hours straight.

Tells them everything.

Every location, every method, every woman’s name.

The police take notes.

Record it all.

Thank her.

She’ll get immunity eventually.

Not because she deserves it, but because without her testimony, Akmed walks.

And 13 families finally get their daughters back.

July 6th, 2023.

Dubai Police Headquarters.

Ahmed Al-Mansour is formally charged with 14 counts of attempted murder, 13 successful, one attempted.

The prosecutor lays out the evidence.

Insurance policies totaling $21.

5 million, 13 death certificates, security footage of three murders, Emily’s recording from the pool.

Mia’s testimony detailing every kill.

Ahmed’s lawyer argues self-defense.

Claims the women were mentally unstable.

Claims Emily tried to kill herself and he tried to save her.

Claims Mia is lying for immunity.

No jury believes him.

The trial begins September 18th, 2023.

International media descends on Dubai.

The shake who killed 14 wives becomes global news.

Emily’s face is plastered everywhere.

She doesn’t leave her hotel room for 3 weeks.

September 29th, the verdict.

Guilty on all 14 counts.

Guilty of conspiracy, guilty of fraud, guilty of evidence tampering.

The UAE doesn’t have the death penalty, but life imprisonment means exactly that.

Ahmed Almansour will die in prison.

No parole, no appeals.

His assets are seized.

$23 million distributed to victims families.

Rebecca Chen’s mother flies to Dubai for the verdict.

Watches Ahmed get led away in chains.

She’s crying, but not sad tears.

Relief tears.

We thought she ran away.

Thought she didn’t love us anymore.

For 18 months, we believed that.

Now we know the truth.

She tried to come home.

He stopped her.

Amina Hassan’s sister reads a statement outside the courthouse.

Amina sent me a text 3 days before she died.

If anything happens to me, it wasn’t an accident.

I thought she was being dramatic.

I told her she watched too many crime shows.

I didn’t believe her.

I will regret that for the rest of my life.

Suzanne Martin’s father is there too.

Older man, quiet.

He doesn’t speak to the press, just stands there watching Ahmed being taken away.

Later, Emily meets him in the courthouse lobby.

He hugs her.

This stranger, this grieving father.

Thank you for fighting.

Suzanne didn’t get to fight, but you did.

And because you did, we get to bury our daughter.

We get to say goodbye properly.

Thank you.

Emily cries.

Can’t stop crying because she survived and they didn’t.

Because [clears throat] Fatima died and she lived.

Because the guilt is crushing and won’t go away.

The doctor said she was lucky.

Brain damage minimal.

Physical recovery complete within weeks.

But the mind isn’t so simple.

Emily miscarries at 8 weeks.

July 20th in the hospital.

The pregnancy that might have saved her life also couldn’t survive it.

The stress, the drowning, the trauma.

Too much for a 6 week embryo.

She’s relieved.

hates herself for being relieved, but carrying Akmed’s child would have been carrying a piece of him forever.

Now she doesn’t have to.

August 15th, 2023.

Emily lands at O’Hare International Airport, Chicago.

Home.

Sarah is waiting at arrivals, crying before Emily even reaches her.

They hug for 5 minutes straight.

Don’t speak.

Don’t need to.

Sarah drives her to her apartment, the one Emily left in June.

[clears throat] It’s exactly as she left it.

Sarah’s been paying rent, keeping it ready.

I knew you’d come home.

I [clears throat] knew it.

Sarah moves in that day.

Doesn’t ask.

Just brings her stuff over.

Sleeps on Emily’s couch for 6 months.

Wakes Emily up when the nightmares get bad.

Holds her when she cries.

Doesn’t try to fix anything because nothing can be fixed.

Emily can’t work.

Can’t leave the apartment most days.

Panic attacks start in September.

She’s walking to Starbucks and someone speaks Arabic behind her.

She collapses right there on the sidewalk, hyperventilating, crying, convinced Amed had found her.

Sarah picks her up, takes her home, calls a therapist.

Dr.

Patricia Morrison, trauma specialist.

Emily sees her three times a week, sometimes four.

They work through PTSD, through survivors guilt, through the question that haunts Emily every night.

Why did I live when they died? Dr.

Morrison doesn’t have an answer.

just asks questions that force Emily to find her own.

You survived because you fought, because you trusted Fatima because Mia chose to save you.

Those were choices, your choices, their choices.

You don’t dishonor them by living.

But Emily can’t look at pools, can’t go near water.

Showers are hard, baths are impossible.

She washes her hair in the sink, takes 30 secondond showers with the door open, and Sarah standing guard.

She can’t watch TV.

Too many crime shows.

Too many stories about women being killed.

Too many reminders.

She can’t date.

Can’t imagine trusting anyone that way again.

March 2024.

Emily receives an invitation.

International online fraud summit London.

They want her to speak, share her story, help create legislation to prevent romance scam murders.

She says no at first.

Can’t imagine standing in front of people telling them how stupid she was, how easily she fell for it.

Dr.

Morrison pushes back.

You weren’t stupid.

You were human.

Lonely people aren’t weak.

They’re just lonely.

And predators know how to exploit that.

Emily flies to London in April.

Stands on a stage in front of 200 law enforcement officers, legal experts, dating app executives.

Tells them everything.

The gifts, the love bombing, the isolation, the red flags she missed, the bank transfer, the locked rooms, Fatima’s warning, the escape attempt, the pool.

She shows them the recording audio only.

They hear Ahmed’s confession, hear her drowning, hear her silence.

Some people cry, most look angry when she finishes.

Standing ovation, 3 minutes long.

These hardened investigators crying for her for the 13 others for Fatima.

Legislation passes 6 months later.

Dating apps now required to verify high-V value users.

International marriage fraud becomes an Interpol priority.

Red flag training for domestic workers in Gulf States.

It’s something.

Not enough, but something.

May 2025, Emily starts a foundation, Fatima’s Hope, named after the woman who died trying to save her.

The mission: help domestic workers escape abusive employers, provide legal aid, shelter, plane tickets home.

The first year, they help 43 women.

The second year, 112.

By year three, they’re operating in 15 countries.

Emily runs it from Chicago, works 12-hour days, throws herself into it because saving others helps her process not being able to save Fatima.

Not being able to save the 13 before her.

Rebecca Chen’s mother volunteers.

Amina Hassan’s sister donates money.

Suzanne Martin’s father joins the board.

They’re a family now.

Bound by tragedy, but building something good.

November 2025.

Emily is invited back to Dubai.

They’re opening a memorial.

13 plaques, one for each victim.

Their names, their faces, their stories.

Emily doesn’t want to go.

Can’t imagine returning.

But Dr.

Morrison convinces her.

You left Dubai as a victim.

Go back as a survivor.

Show yourself you’re stronger than the place.

She flies there with Sarah.

They visit the memorial together.

It’s beautiful in a park overlooking the water.

Each woman’s face etched in stone, their dreams listed, who they wanted to be.

Rebecca Chen wanted to be a photographer.

Amina Hassan wanted to be a human rights lawyer.

Suzanne Martin wanted to teach children.

They never got to become those things because a man decided his obsession was worth more than their lives.

Emily stands at Fatima’s plaque, separate from the others.

Honorary victim, hero, the woman who broke the cycle.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.

I’m sorry you died because of me.

But I promise you didn’t die for nothing.

>> [clears throat] >> The foundation will make sure of that.

She leaves flowers, white roses, Fatima’s favorite.

Before she leaves Dubai, Emily does one more thing.

Visits the prison where Ahmed is held.

She doesn’t go inside.

Doesn’t need to see him.

Just needs to know he’s there.

Behind walls, behind bars, powerless.

A guard tells her he gets no visitors, no letters.

No one cares about him anymore.

He sits in his cell and watches nothing because they took away his screens.

His videos his proof of power.

Good.

Emily flies home that day.

Feels lighter.

Not healed.

Healing isn’t linear but lighter.

February 2026.

Emily goes on a date.

First one since Ahmed.

Her therapist idea.

Low stakes coffee shop.

Mutual friend setup.

His name is David.

He’s a teacher.

Quiet.

Kind.

Asks about her favorite books.

Listens when she answers.

doesn’t push when she says she needs to take things slow.

They go on five dates over 3 months.

On the sixth date, he tries to kiss her.

She panics, pulls away, has a panic attack right there on the street.

I’m sorry, I can’t.

I thought I could, but I can’t.

David doesn’t get angry, doesn’t push, just sits with her on the curb until her breathing slows.

I know your story.

Our mutual friend told me, “I’m not trying to rush anything.

We can go as slow as you need.

” They don’t date after that, but they become friends.

Good friends.

Sometimes friendship is enough.

Here’s the question that haunts Emily 3 years later.

Should Mia have gotten immunity? She helped Ahmed kill 13 women, set up bank accounts, lured them into feeling safe, cleaned up crime scenes.

She was complicit in every murder.

But she also saved Emily, called the police, provided evidence.

Without her, Ahmed might still be killing.

The prosecutor offered a deal, testify fully, reveal everything, served two years in a minimum security facility, then freedom.

Mia took it, served her time, was released in September 2025.

Emily runs into her by accident, November 2026, at a trauma survivors conference in New York.

They see each other across the room, freeze.

Mia approaches slowly.

I don’t expect forgiveness.

I’m not sure I have it to give.

I understand.

I just want you to know I think about them every day.

Rebecca, Amina, Suzanne.

All of them.

Their faces won’t leave me.

Good.

They shouldn’t.

Silence.

Uncomfortable.

Heavy.

You saved my life, Emily says finally.

You also helped end 13 others.

Both of those things are true.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Neither do I.

They don’t become friends, don’t stay in touch, but they acknowledge each other.

Two survivors of the same monster.

connected forever by the worst experience of their lives.

So, what do you think? Did Mia deserve immunity? Did she deserve prison? Did she deserve worse? The answer depends on what you value more.

Justice for the past or preventing the future? There’s no easy answer, just like there’s no easy ending.

Emily Carter is 30 years old now.

She runs a foundation.

She speaks at conferences.

She helps other women escape monsters like Ahmed.

But she still can’t look at pools.

Still has nightmares three times a week.

still wakes up gasping, convinced she’s drowning.

Survival isn’t the same as healing.

Living isn’t the same as thriving.

She’s doing the best she can.

Fatima died trying to save someone she barely knew.

That’s heroism.

Akmed spent years perfecting murder because he could.

That’s evil.

Emily survived because she fought when others gave up.

Because she trusted when trust seemed impossible.

Because she had people who refused to stop looking for her.

This story is based on real patterns.

Romance scams that turn deadly.

Insurance fraud murders.

Domestic workers who disappear in Gulf States.

Women who go to foreign countries for love and never come home.

These cases exist.

These dangers are real.

The man might not be named Ahmed.

The location might not be Dubai.

But the pattern repeats.

So ask yourself, what warning signs would you miss? Would you transfer your life savings to someone you met online? Would you quit your job for a stranger? Would you trust a fairy tale? Emily did.

She’s not stupid.

She’s not weak.

She was just lonely.

And loneliness makes us vulnerable to people who know how to exploit it.

What would you have done differently? Would you have trusted Fatima? Would you have believed Sarah? Would you have gotten in that car? Leave your thoughts in the comments.

Tell us where you would have seen the red flags.

Tell us what you think about Mia.

Tell us if Emily should forgive her.

If this story moved you, share it.

Share it with women who date online.

Share it with people who think fairy tales are real.

Share it with anyone who needs to understand that evil doesn’t always look like evil.

Sometimes it looks like a prince.

Subscribe to Ultimate Payback for more stories that reveal what humans are capable of when no one’s watching.

Because understanding darkness is the first step to avoiding it.

Stay safe.

Trust your instincts.

And remember, if something feels wrong, it probably is.

Your gut knows.

Listen to it.

Thank you for watching.

Emily’s alive because people didn’t give up on her.

Fatima’s memory lives because we refuse to forget her.

The 13 others finally have justice because someone fought for them.

[clears throat] Be that someone for the people in your life.

Be the person who asks questions, who doesn’t accept easy answers, who trusts their gut when something feels off.

Because one day that might save a life.