Complicated love

In a dark street, a young girl in the prime of her youth was running from the unknown. She struggled to keep going, pausing for a few seconds to catch her breath. Behind her, a group of men armed with weapons shouted in unison:
"Wash away your shame with her blood!"

Their words only deepened her terror, making her small body tremble uncontrollably. She dashed into an alley, pressing her head against the cold wall, her breath shaky. The sound of approaching footsteps was like a slow death. Her hands instinctively moved to her swollen belly, and tears streamed down her face against her will.

Then, time pulled her back—six months into the past.

A soft voice called out, “Ellie, where are you, my dear?”

"Peek-a-boo! I'm here, Mom!" Ellie giggled, sneaking up behind her mother and wrapping her arms around her in a warm embrace. She buried her face in her mother's neck and inhaled deeply.

"I love your scent, Mom. It smells like babies."

Her mother, Hana, turned around, planting a tender kiss on Ellie’s forehead and playfully pinching her marshmallow-like cheeks. “When will you stop acting like a child?” she teased.

Their laughter was suddenly cut short by a deep, stern voice that sent chills down both their spines. “Stop spoiling her. You’ll ruin the girl.”

Ellie quickly scurried off to her room, while her mother, resigning to her husband's words, headed to the kitchen to make him tea.

That evening, at exactly 7 PM, Ellie stood in front of her mirror, admiring herself in an elegant pink dress. She grabbed her car keys and drove off to a party hosted by one of her friends.

The venue: Hotel Al-Qamar.

She parked her car and gracefully made her way inside, carrying a beautifully wrapped gift and a bouquet of white and blue flowers. As she entered, all eyes seemed to turn toward her, drawn by her elegance.

Laughter blended with soft classical music in the background. The hostess, Nada, approached her with a warm smile. “Ellie, here, your favorite juice.”

Ellie smiled back at her close friend and took the glass. Without a second thought, she drank it all in one go.

The night had grown late, and she decided to leave. But just as she took a step forward, a sudden dizziness overwhelmed her. The world around her spun. She collapsed to the ground.

Before everything faded to black, the last thing she saw made her heart drop—Nada’s face.

Her friend was smiling, but not with warmth. It was a sinister, mocking grin. And then came her final words, sharp as a dagger:

"Unfortunately, your fate will be no different from that of a common wh**."*

Darkness.

The next morning, golden sunlight streamed through the window, reflecting off long brown hair and pale skin as Ellie stirred in discomfort. A soft groan escaped her lips before she jolted awake in terror.

Her wide eyes scanned the unfamiliar room. Panic set in. She stumbled toward the bathroom, her breathing uneven.

Facing the mirror, she tried to deny what had happened. But the truth stared back at her—horrible, undeniable.

Her trembling fingers brushed over the marks on her skin. Scars of the night before.

A wave of nausea hit her. She scrubbed her body frantically, as if she could wash away the filth, the nightmare. But the water couldn’t cleanse what had been done.

Then, from the depths of her soul, she let out a piercing scream.

"I will get revenge if it’s the last thing I do before I die!"

And so, she ran.

She ran far away, but somehow, they still found her. The moment her family learned the truth, they deemed her a disgrace. Now, they were hunting her down, determined to erase their "shame" with her blood.

And now, here she was—in the present—shaking with fear, desperately trying to hide.

But fate was cruel.

In her panic, she accidentally knocked over a glass bottle. The sharp noise shattered the silence.

The men hunting her stopped. Their heads turned.

They had found her.

Terror gripped her chest. She bolted toward the main road. Her vision blurred, her heart pounding.

Then, out of nowhere—blinding headlights.

A car sped toward her.

Her feet froze.

The driver slammed the brakes just in time.

Ellie pounded on the car’s window, her hands trembling.

"Help me!" she cried, clutching her belly.

Pain twisted inside her—not just in her body, but in her heart, in her soul.

Would anyone save her? Or was this the end?




A sophisticated woman in her fifties stepped out and took the young girl by the hand, leading her into the car. Moments later, the gang arrived, led by her father, Qatfar, who spoke in a sinister tone, “Return that bastard so I can cleanse this disgrace.” The woman glanced at her personal bodyguard, who stepped forward and tossed a bank card filled with money toward them. The gang erupted in laughter, and Qatfar mockingly declared, “The goods are all yours.”

A week passed. In Qatfar’s house, a grand funeral was held for his so-called "departed" daughter. His performance was overly dramatic, as if she had been his beloved child, while the mother was the only one truly consumed with pain and heartbreak.

Far away, in Italy, inside a luxurious villa, Ely sat at the breakfast table with Lady Anbar—the woman she had come to see as her guardian angel. Their conversation was lighthearted, filled with laughter and playful banter.

“You’re a mischievous girl,” Lady Anbar teased.

Ely sighed wistfully. “You know, my mother used to say the same thing.”

Anbar gently ran her fingers through Ely’s hair and reassured her, “The future will be better. You must take care of yourself—and your child.”

The scene shifted to Russia, inside a breathtaking skyscraper, in a suite fit for royalty. A towering man, clad in a black shirt and loose black trousers, sat listening to a phone call.

The caller reported, “Your mother is fine, but recently, she took in a young woman to live with her.”

The man’s expression remained unreadable as he responded, “I want all the information on her.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he hung up.

He slipped into his black coat and stepped out into the dead of night. While the world slept, he reveled in the silence of the darkness. But despite its calm, the night held the biggest secrets and bore witness to the bloodiest battles.

Jafar walked through the shadowed alleys without fear—after all, he was the most feared mafia boss, known as the Ruler of Darkness. He sensed footsteps trailing him and smirked. He ventured deeper into the dangerous streets, luring his prey into the trap. Then, in an instant, he disappeared—only to reappear behind the masked figure. With a swift motion, he snapped the man’s neck in silence, preserving the night’s eerie tranquility. He walked away as if he had merely crushed a cockroach.

Back in his suite, a black file awaited him. He opened it and skimmed through its contents.

Ely. Twenty-four years old. From the ** family. Graduated in business and management. Owns a perfume brand called “The Queen.”

She had been betrayed—set up by her closest friend, who harbored inexplicable hatred toward her.

Jafar clenched his fist, his jaw tightening in rage. He despised betrayal and injustice. He tossed the file aside, struck a match, and set it ablaze.

“She’s in safe hands now,” he murmured.

Just as he was about to close the file, he realized he had forgotten to look at her picture.

No matter. Perhaps… they would meet in the future.

At exactly 2:30 a.m., Ely was overcome with sharp pain and let out a scream, waking everyone in the mansion. Lady Anbar rushed into her room, trying to soothe her until the ambulance arrived.

Inside the hospital, the cries of a newborn filled the air. Ely held her baby in her arms, his dark eyes and radiant smile breathing life into her heart.

She swore to herself—she would be the best mother he could ever have.

Lady Anbar gently embraced her. “Congratulations.”




Three months later, they held a celebration for the baby, rejoicing over this little angel.

The story jumps ahead five years. While Eli was rummaging through the fridge for something to eat, a sudden noise startled her. She turned around quickly, only to crash into something solid—yes, it was him, Jaafar.

She wanted to scream, but he silenced her instantly. As she registered who he was—the son of Anbar—their eyes met. Embarrassed, she averted her gaze.

Jaafar broke the silence. "You know eating at this hour is bad for your health."

She responded sharply, "That’s none of your business."

Before he could reply, something small hit him on the leg. He looked down to see a little boy staring up at him, saying defiantly, "Don’t bother my mom, you giant man!"

Jaafar frowned at him, but Eli quickly scooped the child into her arms. "Don’t look at a little boy like that—you’ll scare him," she scolded.

Inside, Jaafar thought, If she were anyone from my world, she would have lost her tongue by now. But then Eli smiled mischievously. "Do you want to hold Liyth? He’s adorable—look at his chubby cheeks!"

Jaafar hesitated but took the child into his arms. An unfamiliar sensation washed over him when Liyth rested his small head against Jaafar’s chest and, as if sensing something, started crying and burying his face into him. Jaafar didn’t resist the strange feeling and returned the embrace.

Eli, however, quickly took Liyth back and left, leaving behind a man tangled in emotions he couldn’t understand. His body trembled slightly, and he sank into a chair, trying to push all those thoughts away.

The next morning at breakfast, silence filled the air as Jaafar sat at the table. That silence was shattered when Liyth, completely unbothered by Jaafar’s intimidating presence, pushed a biscuit toward him.

The mighty mafia boss bent before this little angel, took a piece of the biscuit, and ate it.

That’s when Liyth dropped a bombshell: "My mom made that! Since you ate it, that means you love my mom, right?"

Anbar’s eyes widened in shock. Eli nearly choked on her coffee, her cheeks flushing red. She quickly grabbed Liyth. "We have to go before you’re late for school!"

Liyth innocently replied, "But today’s a holiday."

Not giving him a chance to argue, she carried him off, leaving the table in a hurry.

For a brief moment, the hint of a smile appeared on Jaafar’s face—only to vanish just as quickly. His mother, watching from across the table, rubbed her eyes in disbelief. Did my son just smile? Or am I hallucinating?

A month passed, and Jaafar hadn’t returned to the mansion. Meanwhile, at lunch, the housekeeper observed Liyth carefully. Slowly, suspicion crept into her heart, and day by day, that suspicion began to take shape into truth.

The scene jumps to one of Anbar’s family companies, where Eli had secured a position as a designer. Through her hard work and undeniable talent, she rose to become the head of the design department.

One afternoon, while she was sitting in her office, the door slammed open, and Naza stormed in, fuming with anger.

"How could you win the 'Gold Designer' title for the seventh time?! I’m sure my aunt—Lady Anbar—pulled strings for you to get here!"

Eli stood up calmly, walking toward Naza with an air of composed confidence. Leaning in, she whispered with a sly smirk, "No one takes what isn’t theirs. Everyone gets what they deserve. It’s not my fault if your skills are… at rock bottom."

With that, she grabbed her sleek black handbag and strode out of the office, leaving behind a volcano on the verge of eruption.

 



All of this passed under his dark eyes, and a sly smile crept onto his lips as he muttered, "This is her… this is my woman." Then, he left without anyone knowing who he was.

Back at Eli’s old house, in a dark room with shattered furniture—as if a war had taken place—a girl sat trembling on a disheveled bed. She clutched her phone in one hand while biting the fingers of the other, a clear sign of anxiety and distress. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, staring at his pictures. Yes… it was Jaafar.

"How could he get engaged to that woman? I won’t allow it… I will have you, even if I have to bathe in blood to reach you!"

But will she really reach him? And is the blonde woman in the picture truly the one who has taken her place on his throne? Or is there a hidden game being played in the shadows?

Three months passed—the calm before the storm. Inside his room in the grand mansion, every time Jaafar closed his eyes, those honey-colored eyes haunted him, stealing his sleep and tormenting his heart. Yet, his pride held him back, preventing him from approaching her.

Frustrated, he got up from his bed and walked toward the window, lighting that deadly poison known as a cigarette. He inhaled its smoke as if it were oxygen and slammed his fist against the railing. Then, suddenly, he burst into hysterical laughter, one hand clutching his forehead while the other rested on his hip.

After a whirlwind of thoughts and a desperate attempt to untangle his emotions, he had come to a realization—he had feelings for her.

He couldn’t even bring himself to say the words out loud.

"Since when does the tyrant, the head of the Russian mafia, the ruler of darkness since his youth… become a lover?"

He laughed bitterly, mocking both his thoughts and his emotions.

But the real question was—would his pride remain a barrier? Or would his emotions gain the upper hand and defy him?





He packed his belongings and slipped away into the darkness of the night, desperately trying to escape the shackles of his emotions.

Morning came, and all sovereignty belongs to God.

She got up, as usual, intending to steal a glance at him—but he wasn’t there. She assumed he had left early for work, unaware that the man known for his tyranny and coldness had, in reality, fled from the gentleness of her presence and the innocence of her smile.

As she searched for him with her eyes, she was suddenly startled by Laith, her mischievous little boy.

"Boo! Who are you looking for, Mom?"

She smiled softly. "No one… I’m just enjoying the fresh air."

He tilted his head, smirking. "And is the fresh air tall, tanned, with black hair… and named ( )?"

"You little rascal!" she laughed, grabbing him and tickling him until his giggles filled the air, their laughter echoing toward the sky.

Just then, Madame Anbar called out to them.

"It’s time to leave! The trip to Russia awaits!"

The biggest fashion event of the year was about to take place, and Madame Anbar had chosen Eli to be the special guest.

At the airport, a voice announced over the speakers:

"Passengers traveling to Russia on Flight 12 at 7 PM, please proceed in an orderly manner to the aircraft."

It was a private flight—exclusively for the elite and the incredibly wealthy.

Eli adjusted her coat, grabbed her suitcase, and strode forward with the grace of a professional model. She carefully secured her son in his seat so he wouldn’t wake up, then took out a novel—one of her all-time favorites:

"Inferno of My Revenge."

The story followed a man seeking vengeance for what her family had done to his. Yet, amidst his thirst for revenge, he found himself drowning in love—trapped between wanting to claim her and being unable to walk away.

As Eli reached the final pages, her eyes welled with tears.

The heroine, unable to bear the torment, had thrown herself from the top of a building right before his eyes, forcing him to taste the same agony she had endured.

Because their love had destroyed them both.

In the book’s final moment, the hero screamed her name, his heart shattering as he lunged after her, catching her in midair and pulling her into his arms.

"If you’re going to hell… then we’ll go together."

Tears streamed down Eli’s face uncontrollably. She removed her glasses, placed the novel back into her bag, and leaned over to kiss her son’s cheek.

Then, surrendering to exhaustion, she drifted off to sleep… letting the silence take over.



As the plane soared through the darkening sky, Eli’s dreams twisted into something surreal. Shadows danced behind her closed eyelids, merging the lines between reality and fiction.

Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, she found herself standing on the edge of a skyscraper, the wind howling in her ears. A deep voice—familiar, yet distorted—whispered behind her.

"If you’re going to hell… then we’ll go together."

Her breath hitched. She turned, expecting to see the tragic hero from her novel, but instead… it was him.

The same tall, dark figure who had vanished into the night without a word.

The same man whose presence haunted her in ways she refused to admit.

His obsidian eyes burned into hers, unreadable. The city below was nothing but a sea of lights, flickering like dying stars.

"Why are you here?" she asked, but her voice barely carried over the wind.

A smirk played on his lips. "Isn’t that what you should be asking yourself?"

Confusion churned inside her. She took a step back—only to realize there was no more ground beneath her feet.

She was falling.

A scream lodged in her throat, but before she could plummet into the abyss, arms wrapped around her, pulling her into an unrelenting embrace.

The world blurred.

And suddenly—

She was awake.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, cold sweat clinging to her skin. The plane was eerily silent. Too silent.

She glanced at Laith. He was still asleep, his small chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.

But something was wrong.

She turned her head, scanning the dim cabin. The seats were empty.

Every single passenger—gone.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Where was everyone?

Where was the crew?

The plane was still in the air, but there was no sign of movement—no voices, no footsteps, nothing but the low hum of the engines.

A creeping dread wrapped around her spine.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it.

A shadow, tall and unmoving, standing near the cockpit door.

Watching.

Waiting.

And then—

The intercom crackled to life, filling the cabin with a low, distorted whisper:

"If you’re going to hell… then we’ll go together."

The lights flickered.

The plane jolted.

And then—

Everything went black.