Real hate this time

That was my mistake—accepting Farhad's suggestion. I should have known better. He wasn't someone to ignore things once they were offered. I had pushed myself into this.

I asked my mother to keep Baran safe for a few months. I told her it was for an important work-related matter, and that was the beginning of that damned time.

Nights blurred into each other—sex with a man who meant nothing to me, walking through foreign cities and ancient buildings without any real pleasure. Everything felt hollow, like I was just going through the motions.

I used it as an excuse to come back, to pull myself out of this numbness. I told myself it was all for a bigger purpose, but deep down, I knew it wasn't.

One night, Darya called me. Her voice was tense.

"I need money," she said. "I want to sell the only thing our father left me. Please, buy it."

I hesitated. "I can't. I don't have money outside business expenses. And I'm abroad. Isn't there anyone else who wants it?"

"You know that garden belonged to my mother's family," she said. "And you know there are two graves there."

Dina's grave. And their mother, Maryam.

I didn't need to think. "Okay, I'll buy it."

An idea had already formed in my mind.

I used that excuse to come back and Once the paperwork was done, I messaged Aamz:

"I need to sell the garden with Dina's grave in it. If you want it, I'll sell it to you at a low price. I'm in need."

His reply was immediate:

"I don't want it. I have no use for that. And why are you asking me?"

I typed, That's the grave of the one you deeply loved.

His response cut through me.

"That was not love."

I clenched my jaw. "Why do you think that way?"

"Because love isn't twisted by plans and control. Love isn't done the way Dina did things. I found love—simple and real. Marya. And I still haven't even been able to fully express it to her. Because time and time again, your family's influence dragged me back, trapping us, preventing us from experiencing love in the way we deserve."

Marya.

That name burned in my mind.

The girl I had once helped reach Aamz—with a simple confession that had put me under Aamz's cold indifference and Kaveh's raging jealousy.

And Aamz—after all this time, after everything—I had nothing left but anger.

Time passed, and he was still stuck in limbo, unsure of the status of his duties. Farhad sent me another recording—this time, Aamz was looking for a way to buy his duties off with money.

I immediately asked Farhad, "Is that possible?"

He sighed. "Yes, he found a way. But I can still stop him. Honestly, though, I'm tired of this. Let's just let him go."

Anger flared up in me. "No, Farhad. No!"

I needed to act fast. Without thinking twice, I called Aamz.

"Listen, don't interrupt or hang up. I just want to inform you—I'm destroying your once-love's grave. Dina's and her mother's. I need to clear the land to sell my garden more easily. I'll send you a video of it tomorrow. If you want to do something, act now. Otherwise, just wait for it."

I wanted to reignite something in him—to shake him, to make him feel something.

But his voice was calm, detached. "I have only one love now. And she is my wife."

Then he hung up.

Wife?

How? How could he have managed that in the middle of all these problems?

I was full of questions. So he married her at last? How could that be? Now, all that remained between us was anger and revenge.

In a moment of bitter frustration, I sent him a message:

"You idiot! Your former love was nothing more than a street hooker. You never had any right to expect more..."

His reply was curt and indifferent:

"You be true or not— it doesn't matter to me."

That response stung, fueling the fire of my resentment. I sat in the dim light of my room, the screen's glow reflecting the tumult in my mind. How could he be so callous? How could he dismiss everything with a few cold words?

In that instant, I realized that my anger wasn't just about him—it was about everything I had lost, every opportunity I had missed while I was busy being overlooked. I had let him get away with everything, and now it was time to reclaim my power.

I began to plan my next move, not for him, but for myself. I decided that revenge wouldn't be a violent act—it would be strategic, calculated. I'd use everything I had built, every connection, every ounce of influence, to ensure that his success would come at a cost.

I stared at my phone, feeling the weight of that message. The next steps were clear: I needed to gather evidence of his misdeeds, exploit the networks that once supported him, and slowly dismantle the power he wielded over our lives. This wasn't just a personal vendetta anymore—it was a battle for respect, for truth, for what was rightfully mine.

With a steely resolve, I began to draft my strategy. Every detail mattered: the names, the dates, the hidden recordings Farhad had sent me. I would expose his hypocrisy, his cold indifference. I would make sure that everyone knew the real price of his choices.

And so, as the night deepened, I prepared myself for the next chapter—a chapter where revenge and retribution would slowly, methodically, pave the way for my own redemption.