WHO IS MY HUSBAND?

WHO IS THE MURDERER? (1)

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After tumultuous weeks marked by exhaustion and the torments of postpartum struggles, I embarked on the dark and relentless path of vengeance, driven by the sacred flame of my lost parents' memory.

Thus, with my heart clenched by the echo of painful memories, I launched into a frantic race toward Belhi, my hometown, where every alley, every stone seemed to whisper their names.

Why had fate deemed it necessary to inflict such a trial upon me? The faces of my parents, innocent victims of the cruelest injustice, haunted my days and nights, turning my sorrow into an unbearable burden. The pain had transformed into an inescapable weight, a titanic load that only justice—or revenge—could lighten.

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Six months passed, marked by the fierce struggle between the torments of the past and the unconditional love I bore for my precious daughter, Farah. Despite the relentless pain gripping my heart, I raised her with all the tenderness and devotion of a determined mother. Yet, the specter of the past never ceased to loom over me, casting a melancholic shadow over every moment of happiness.

One afternoon, as I played with Farah on the plush couch, laughing and savoring these fleeting moments of peace, the door suddenly burst open.

Christopher appeared, his imposing silhouette and severe gaze slicing through the room like lightning in a storm.

I froze, my heart pounding wildly, while Farah, innocent and carefree, continued to laugh.

This man, who had once been a gentle and attentive figure, the one who had won my heart with his humility and charm, now seemed like a distorted shadow of himself. Indifferent to our daughter, he had wandered like a lost child, letting her grow up nourished only by my love.

Without a word, he stepped forward and, in a sudden and bewildering gesture, tore Farah from my arms, his enigmatic smile lighting up his face. Before I could react, he pressed a kiss to my cheek, a familiarity that felt like provocation.

"Farah, is that her name?" he asked, a dazzling smile on his lips, as if rediscovering the existence of his own daughter.

I remained frozen, my breath caught. How could he forget his own child's name? Anger and confusion swirled within me.

"You must be joking, right?" I managed to say, my voice laced with perplexity and bitterness.

But he persisted, still with that strange smile, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He looked at me tenderly and asked in a falsely light tone:

"Have you eaten yet, doll?"

My mind wavered between doubt and anger. Unsure of his intentions, I replied softly, my voice almost trembling:

"Yes, I have. And you?"

A heavy silence settled, broken by his deep voice, piercing my soul.

"Yeah… I’m fine. How have you been feeling lately?" he asked, his gaze assessing me, searching for any emotion that might betray my thoughts.

I clenched my fists, the unspoken questions in my mind ready to burst forth.

"Where have you been this past week?"

His voice, deep and laden with an almost solemn intensity, cut through the silence like a blade:

"I was in meetings with the Senate Chamber, debating crucial matters that will determine the fate of this nation. Every word, every decision weighed on my shoulders because the future rests on these choices. But tell me, during my absence, did your heart feel the void, the abyss my distance left behind?" he murmured in a husky voice, his gaze seeking mine with a troubling intensity.