Her face was clearly clouded with anger, impatience written all over her. She checked the clock again and again, then glared at the bathroom door, sighing heavily:
“What kind of nonsense is this? More than an hour in the shower, only to hand me some worthless towel like you’re a princess.”
Before she could roll her eyes again, the bathroom door opened. A tall, graceful young lady emerged wearing only a tiny slip—no bra, nothing else. Embarrassed, she lowered her gaze, but the lady, unbothered, walked past, collected the towel, wrapped one around her chest and another on her head. She sat at the dressing table, and her maid began applying lotion, powder, and pink lipstick.
The maid then gave her underwear and an elegant modern outfit—skirt and blouse stitched perfectly. After zipping her skirt, she accessorized with jewelry, shoes, a handbag, and perfume. She stood motionless like a doll until everything was complete. Without waiting, she walked out casually.
With scorn, the other woman muttered:
“I can’t wait to see your husband’s house. Will he serve you like this, or will another maid?”
She tidied the room, locked it, and left.
At the dining table, she pulled out a chair without greeting anyone. Another maid began to serve her food, but when she added fries, she raised her hand sharply:
“That’s enough. I’m not like you people, shoving food down like bags.”
Her mother, offended, asked: “So you expect us to greet you first?” Reluctantly she replied, “Good morning.”
Her mother pressed further: “Am I the only one here?”
She looked at the young man seated opposite her. He smiled at her, but she shot him a harsh glare, turned instead to her father, then shifted back to her mother and said coldly:
“Just make sure he didn’t stagger in drunk last night. Only then will I greet him.”
Her mother flared: “What disrespect! How dare you speak to your father that way?”
She sneered: “So respect means coming home drunk? Don’t spoil my mood this morning.”
Despite holding back, tears streamed down her mother’s face. In a broken voice, she said:
“It’s not your fault. Do as you please.”
But her daughter ignored her pain, telling her father instead:
“Better stop worrying about someone who doesn’t care you exist.”
When she stood to leave, her father pleaded: “Please forgive me, my princess. I promise I won’t repeat it.”
She turned to the young man, “Tell that fool. Maybe he’ll believe you, but not me—Khairat.”
Storming out, one of her father’s guards hurried to take her bag and car keys, lest she unleash her fury on him too. As she was about to drive off, the young man called out, “Am I the fool?”
She turned, contempt dripping from her words:
“Who else but you? You sit here, day after day, stretching your legs in the house of a woman you claim to love. You think I’ll ever see you as a man? Forget it. Désolé.”
She sped off, leaving him seething. But he vowed, one day she would know who he truly was.
Breakfast and New Visitors
Later, before doing anything else, she had her messenger buy her fries with minced meat and onion sauce, while Habiba prepared her strong tea with honey. Just as she began her rich breakfast, Habiba returned politely:
“Madame, the manager wants to see you.”
Without looking up, she sighed, “Fine, let him in.”
She continued eating until they entered. She pointed to seats without even glancing at them. After finishing her meal and rinsing her hands with water by the window, she finally faced them:
“You said you wanted to see me, Manager. Why are you two here?”
The manager explained: “Yes, Madame. This young man has brought us a new design. I wanted your approval before we proceed.”
he Design and Approval
She cast another glance at the young man, noticing his eyes fixed on her henna-stained fingers with their pink polished nails. Though he usually disliked such things, her elegance mesmerized him. She ignored his gaze and focused on her food until she was done.
The manager pulled out a pair of shoes from his bag, explaining the new sample. She examined them closely. The design impressed her—it looked masculine, sturdy, even fashionable. She removed her own shoes and tried them on.
Both men stared, astonished by how perfectly they fit her feet, adorned with red henna and long artificial nails. Smiling faintly, she said:
“Go ahead and start production. Leave this pair with me. I’ll publicize it online, and I’m sure many will love it.”
Description
Tension and Contempt at Home
Her face was clearly clouded with anger, impatience written all over her. She checked the clock again and again, then glared at the bathroom door, sighing heavily:
“What kind of nonsense is this? More than an hour in the shower, only to hand me some worthless towel like you’re a princess.”
Before she could roll her eyes again, the bathroom door opened. A tall, graceful young lady emerged wearing only a tiny slip—no bra, nothing else. Embarrassed, she lowered her gaze, but the lady, unbothered, walked past, collected the towel, wrapped one around her chest and another on her head. She sat at the dressing table, and her maid began applying lotion, powder, and pink lipstick.
The maid then gave her underwear and an elegant modern outfit—skirt and blouse stitched perfectly. After zipping her skirt, she accessorized with jewelry, shoes, a handbag, and perfume. She stood motionless like a doll until everything was complete. Without waiting, she walked out casually.
With scorn, the other woman muttered:
“I can’t wait to see your husband’s house. Will he serve you like this, or will another maid?”
She tidied the room, locked it, and left.
At the dining table, she pulled out a chair without greeting anyone. Another maid began to serve her food, but when she added fries, she raised her hand sharply:
“That’s enough. I’m not like you people, shoving food down like bags.”
Her mother, offended, asked: “So you expect us to greet you first?” Reluctantly she replied, “Good morning.”
Her mother pressed further: “Am I the only one here?”
She looked at the young man seated opposite her. He smiled at her, but she shot him a harsh glare, turned instead to her father, then shifted back to her mother and said coldly:
“Just make sure he didn’t stagger in drunk last night. Only then will I greet him.”
Her mother flared: “What disrespect! How dare you speak to your father that way?”
She sneered: “So respect means coming home drunk? Don’t spoil my mood this morning.”
Despite holding back, tears streamed down her mother’s face. In a broken voice, she said:
“It’s not your fault. Do as you please.”
But her daughter ignored her pain, telling her father instead:
“Better stop worrying about someone who doesn’t care you exist.”
When she stood to leave, her father pleaded: “Please forgive me, my princess. I promise I won’t repeat it.”
She turned to the young man, “Tell that fool. Maybe he’ll believe you, but not me—Khairat.”
Storming out, one of her father’s guards hurried to take her bag and car keys, lest she unleash her fury on him too. As she was about to drive off, the young man called out, “Am I the fool?”
She turned, contempt dripping from her words:
“Who else but you? You sit here, day after day, stretching your legs in the house of a woman you claim to love. You think I’ll ever see you as a man? Forget it. Désolé.”
She sped off, leaving him seething. But he vowed, one day she would know who he truly was.
Breakfast and New Visitors
Later, before doing anything else, she had her messenger buy her fries with minced meat and onion sauce, while Habiba prepared her strong tea with honey. Just as she began her rich breakfast, Habiba returned politely:
“Madame, the manager wants to see you.”
Without looking up, she sighed, “Fine, let him in.”
She continued eating until they entered. She pointed to seats without even glancing at them. After finishing her meal and rinsing her hands with water by the window, she finally faced them:
“You said you wanted to see me, Manager. Why are you two here?”
The manager explained: “Yes, Madame. This young man has brought us a new design. I wanted your approval before we proceed.”
he Design and Approval
She cast another glance at the young man, noticing his eyes fixed on her henna-stained fingers with their pink polished nails. Though he usually disliked such things, her elegance mesmerized him. She ignored his gaze and focused on her food until she was done.
The manager pulled out a pair of shoes from his bag, explaining the new sample. She examined them closely. The design impressed her—it looked masculine, sturdy, even fashionable. She removed her own shoes and tried them on.
Both men stared, astonished by how perfectly they fit her feet, adorned with red henna and long artificial nails. Smiling faintly, she said:
“Go ahead and start production. Leave this pair with me. I’ll publicize it online, and I’m sure many will love it.”