Chapter 6: Nadia's Dying Wish
The whiskey burned going down, but Karim barely felt it.
He sat in the leather chair behind his desk, the same chair his father had died in—a fact he tried not to think about most days. The ledgers were spread before him, columns of numbers that meant nothing tonight. His mind was elsewhere. In a narrow bed two floors below. In the curve of a hip, the taste of salt on skin, the sound of his name torn from her throat.
Three days.
Three days since he'd had her. Three days since Samira had walked through his doors and reminded him of everything he couldn't have. Three days of watching Amara from across rooms, of feeling her presence like a second heartbeat, of pretending he wasn't counting the hours until he could touch her again.
He hadn't touched her since.
Not because he didn't want to. God, he wanted to. But Samira's presence in the house had changed things. Made everything more dangerous. He couldn't risk being caught—not yet, not until the lawyer found a way out of the contract.
So he stayed in his study and drank his whiskey and tried not to think about the way Amara had looked at him when he'd left her bed that night. Like she understood. Like she'd already accepted the inevitable end.
He poured another glass.
The door opened without a knock.
Nadia.
She stood in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the dim hallway light. She was wearing her usual uniform—dark dress, sensible shoes, hair pulled back in a severe bun. But something was different. Her hands were trembling at her sides. Her face was pale, almost gray.
"Nadia." He set down the glass. "What is it?"
She didn't answer.
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The click of the latch seemed to echo through the silence.
"Karim." Her voice cracked on his name. "I need to tell you something."
He rose from the chair, alarm spiking through him. In twenty years, he'd never seen his sister cry. Not when their father died. Not when their mother followed six months later. Not when Mira bled out on a hospital bed, taking their unborn son with her.
But she was crying now. Tears streaming down her cheeks, silent and relentless.
"Nadia—"
"I went to the doctor last week." She was shaking now, her whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm. "I've been having pain. For months. I thought it was nothing. Stress, maybe. The household. You. Everything."
She laughed—a hollow, broken sound.
"It wasn't nothing."
Karim's blood turned to ice.
"Nadia. What did they say?"
She met his eyes. For the first time in his memory, she looked small. Fragile. Like a girl instead of the iron-willed woman who'd raised him.
"Ovarian cancer." The words fell from her lips like stones. "Stage four. It's spread to my lymph nodes, my liver. They gave me six months. Maybe less."
The room tilted.
Karim gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles going white. "That's—no. No, we'll get a second opinion. A third. We'll fly in specialists from London, from New York. Money isn't—"
"It's not about money." She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I've seen three doctors. They all said the same thing."
"You're lying."
"I'm dying."
The words hit him like a bullet.
He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress. "You're not dying. I won't let you."
"You can't stop it, Karim." Her voice was gentle now. Resigned. "No one can."
He released her. Stepped back. His hands were shaking—when had they started shaking?
"How long have you known?"
"A week."
"A week." He laughed bitterly. "A week, and you're just telling me now?"
"I needed time. To process. To figure out what I wanted to say."
"And what did you figure out?"
She looked at him—really looked at him—and something in her expression shifted. Hardened. Became something he didn't recognize.
"I figured out what I want."
"What?"
"I want you."
The words didn't register at first. They hung in the air between them, nonsensical and wrong, like a sentence in a foreign language.
"What?"
Nadia stepped closer. Her hands found his chest and pressed flat against it.
"I want you, Karim. I've always wanted you. Since I was fifteen years old and you came home from school with your first black eye. I wanted to kiss it better. I wanted to hold you. I wanted—"
"Stop." He grabbed her wrists and pushed her away. "You don't know what you're saying. You're sick, you're not thinking clearly—"
"I'm thinking more clearly than I have in my entire life." Her voice rose, cracking at the edges. "I've spent forty-five years taking care of everyone but myself. I raised you. I buried our parents. I managed this house while you built your empire. I gave up everything—every dream, every chance at love, every possibility of a life of my own—so that you could have yours."
"I never asked you to—"
"You didn't have to." She was crying again, ugly and raw. "I did it because I loved you. Because you were all I had. Because I thought maybe, someday, you'd see me. Really see me. Not as your sister. Not as your housekeeper. As a woman."
Karim's stomach turned.
"Nadia, you're my sister—"
"I know what I am." She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing mascara across her cheek. "I know it's wrong. I know it's sick. I know you're probably disgusted right now. But I'm dying, Karim. I'm dying, and I've never been touched. Never been kissed. Never been held by a man. I've never felt anything but this—" she pressed a hand to her chest, "—this ache that never goes away."
He stared at her. His sister. The woman who'd bandaged his knees and packed his lunches and lied to their father about the fights he'd gotten into. The woman who'd held him while he sobbed after Mira died, who'd whispered that everything would be okay even when they both knew it wouldn't.
The woman who was standing before him now, begging him to fuck her.
"I can't," he said. "Nadia, I can't. You're not—you don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking." She stepped closer again, and this time he didn't push her away. "I'm asking you to give me one thing. One memory. One moment where I'm not invisible. Where I'm not just your sister, your manager, your keeper. Where I'm a woman, and someone wants me."
"You're sick—"
"Yes. I'm sick. And I'm dying. And I have nothing to show for my life except spreadsheets and a house that will pass to someone else when I'm gone. I have no children. No lovers. No one who will remember me as anything but the spinster who ran the Al-Rashid household."
"That's not true—"
"It is true." She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her breast. He felt the shape of it through her dress—the warmth, the softness, the trembling heartbeat beneath. "Feel that? That's the heart of a woman who's never been wanted. Who's never been desired. Who's spent her whole life loving someone who never saw her as anything but a burden."
Karim's hand shook.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, Karim. I'm begging you. Not because I'm your sister. Not because I'm dying. Because I'm human, and I'm scared, and I don't want to die without knowing what it feels like to be held."
He closed his eyes.
He thought about Mira. About the night she'd died, when she'd looked at him with such hatred and said, "You're a monster. You've always been a monster. And now you'll raise our daughter to be just like you."
He thought about Amara. About the way she looked at him like he was something worth saving. Something human. Something good.
He thought about the contract. The family. The obligations that had bound him his whole life.
And then he thought about his sister. Standing before him, broken and weeping, asking for something he had no right to give.
"I owe you everything," he said quietly. "You know that, right? Everything I am, everything I have—it's because of you. You kept the books. You managed the staff. You held me together when I wanted to fall apart. You've been my anchor, Nadia. My rock. My—"
He couldn't say it.
"Your sister," she finished for him. "I know."
He opened his eyes.
She was so close now. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and soft, not the usual sharp scent she wore. She'd put it on for him. She'd known what she was going to ask.
"This won't fix anything," he said. "This won't make you feel better. It won't give you the life you should have had."
"I know."
"It won't make you less lonely."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I want to know." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "Before I die, I want to know what it feels like to be touched. To be wanted. To be—"
She stopped.
"To be loved," she said finally. "Even if it's a lie."
Karim's throat tightened.
He thought about saying no. He thought about walking away, calling her a doctor, getting her help. He thought about all the reasons this was wrong—the illegality, the immorality, the sheer, staggering wrongness of it.
But then he looked at her face. At the hope and terror warring in her eyes. At the tears still streaming down her cheeks.
And he thought: she's going to die.
She's going to die, and she's asking me for this one thing. This one impossible thing.
And I owe her.
I owe her everything.
"Okay," he said.
The word felt like a knife in his throat.
Nadia's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really."
She kissed him.
It was quick, clumsy, unskilled—the kiss of a woman who'd never kissed anyone before. Her lips were dry. Her hands didn't know where to go. She pressed against him awkwardly, all elbows and angles.
It broke his heart.
He pulled back gently. "Slow down. Let me—let me do this right."
He led her to the leather sofa by the window. The moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
"You're sure?" he asked.
"I'm sure."
He unbuttoned her dress.
His hands were steady. That surprised him. He'd expected to shake, to fumble, to be as awkward as she was. But something had gone cold inside him—some part of his brain that had shut down to protect him—and he moved with mechanical precision.
The dress fell to the floor.
She stood before him in a plain white slip, her arms crossed over her chest. She was trembling.
"Don't look at me," she whispered. "I'm not—I'm not beautiful like Mira. I'm not young like Amara. I'm old, and my body is—"
"Stop."
He took her hands and pulled them away from her chest.
"You're beautiful," he said. And he meant it—not in the way he meant it with other women, but in a different way. A sadder way. She was beautiful the way a faded photograph was beautiful. The way a dried flower was beautiful. There was something precious in her vulnerability, something sacred in her surrender.
He led her to the sofa and laid her down.
The leather creaked beneath her weight. She stared up at him, her eyes wide and wet, and he saw the girl she'd been—the girl who'd raised him, who'd sacrificed everything, who'd never gotten to be young.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For making you do this. For being so pathetic. For—"
He kissed her.
Not like before. Not clumsy and desperate. He kissed her the way he'd wanted to be kissed when he was young and terrified and alone—tenderly, slowly, like she mattered.
She whimpered against his mouth.
He felt her hands grip his shoulders, her nails digging in. She didn't know what to do with them. Didn't know where to put them. They fluttered uselessly, landing on his chest, his neck, his hair.
"Touch me," she breathed. "Please. Somewhere. Anywhere."
He moved his hand to her breast.
She gasped.
He could feel her heart pounding beneath his palm—racing like a rabbit's, terrified and alive. Her nipple hardened beneath his fingers, and she arched into him with a broken little cry.
"More," she said.
He pulled down her slip.
Her breasts were small and pale, the nipples dark against her skin. He bent his head and took one in his mouth, sucking gently, and she screamed.
It wasn't a scream of pain. It was a scream of shock, of wonder, of forty-five years of nothing exploding into everything at once.
"Karim—Karim—oh God—"
He sucked harder. Flicked his tongue. Used his teeth.
She sobbed.
Her hands found his hair and pulled, and he let her. Let her take what she needed. Let her use him the way he'd used so many women before—selfishly, desperately, without regard for anything but the pleasure coursing through her body.
He moved to her other breast.
She screamed again.
"Please," she gasped. "Please, I need—I need more. I need—"
He knew what she needed.
He slid his hand down her belly, past the waistband of her slip, through the soft curls between her legs.
She was wet.
Soaking.
He'd barely touched her, and she was dripping like she'd been waiting her whole life. Which, he supposed, she had.
"Shh," he said. "I've got you."
He pushed one finger inside her.
She screamed.
Her thighs clamped around his hand. Her hips bucked up off the sofa. Her face contorted—not in pain, but in something closer to agony, the kind of pleasure that bordered on unbearable.
"You're so tight," he murmured. "So fucking tight."
"I've never—" She gasped. "I've never—"
"I know."
He pushed another finger in. Then a third.
She wept.
He worked her open slowly, carefully, stretching muscles that had never been used. She clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, and he whispered things—nonsense, comfort, apologies—as his fingers moved inside her.
"When's the last time anyone touched you like this?" he asked.
"Never. No one. I told you—"
"No one?"
"No one. I've never—I've never even touched myself. It felt like—like a sin. Like something I wasn't allowed."
"Jesus, Nadia."
"I know. I know. I'm pathetic—"
He kissed her.
"You're not pathetic. You're—"
He didn't have words.
He withdrew his fingers. She whimpered at the loss.
"Turn over," he said.
"What?"
"Turn over. On your stomach."
She hesitated. Then she obeyed.
The slip pooled around her waist. He pushed it up, exposing the long line of her back, the curve of her ass, the pale expanse of skin that had never been seen by anyone.
He stood.
She looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide with fear.
"Are you going to—"
"I'm going to take my clothes off. Is that okay?"
"Yes. Yes, please."
He undressed quickly. Shirt. Belt. Trousers.
When he was naked, he saw her staring at his cock.
Her eyes went wide.
"That's—that's not going to fit."
He almost laughed. Almost.
"We'll go slow," he said. "I'll stop if you tell me to."
She swallowed. "Okay."
He climbed onto the sofa behind her. His knees bracketed her thighs. His cock pressed against her ass, hard and hot and ready.
"Spread your legs," he said.
She did.
He could see her cunt now—pink and wet and impossibly small. The lips were puffy, swollen from his fingers. The entrance stretched open, glistening in the moonlight.
"Last chance," he said. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He pressed the head of his cock against her.
She whimpered.
"Relax," he said. "Breathe."
He pushed.
She screamed.
Not the good kind. Not the pleasure-soaked screams from before. This was pain—raw and sharp and tearing.
"Shh, shh, shh—" He froze, buried just past the tip. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know it hurts—"
"It hurts—Karim, it hurts—"
"I know. I know. Do you want me to stop?"
"No. No, don't stop. Keep going."
"You're sure?"
"Keep going. I need—I need you to—"
He pushed deeper.
She clawed at the leather, her nails leaving marks. Tears streamed down her face. She was panting, gasping, making sounds he'd never heard from her before.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just—just keep going. Please. I need this. I need—"
He bottomed out.
For a moment, neither of them moved. He was fully inside her—the tightest cunt he'd ever felt, hot and clenching and wet with something that wasn't just arousal.
He looked down.
There was blood.
Just a little. Just a smear of red on his cock, on her thighs. But it was enough to make his stomach lurch.
You're fucking your sister. You're fucking your sister, and you've made her bleed.
"Nadia—"
"Don't stop." Her voice was raw. "Please. Don't stop."
He closed his eyes.
He thought about Mira. About the promise he'd made her on their wedding night—the promise to love her, to cherish her, to protect her. He'd broken that promise long before she died.
He thought about Amara. About the way she smelled. The way she tasted. The way she said his name like it was a prayer.
He thought about Nadia. About the girl she'd been—the girl who'd read him bedtime stories and kissed his scraped knees and protected him from their father's fists.
He thought about all of it, and then he let the thoughts go. Let them dissolve into the dark.
And he started to move.
Slowly at first. Gently. Rocking into her with a care he'd never used with any woman before. Each thrust was measured, controlled—he pulled out to the tip, then pushed back in, stopping every time she tensed.
"You're doing so good," he murmured. "So good, Nadia. Just breathe."
She sobbed.
Her body was shaking beneath him. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were fisted in the leather. This wasn't pleasure—not yet. It was something primal. Something sacred. A ritual older than words.
He reached around and found her clit.
She jolted.
"Shh. Let me help you."
He rubbed slow circles against her clit as he fucked her. His rhythm was off—he'd never had to coordinate this, had never had to be this careful with a woman before—but he found it. A pattern. A dance.
In, out. Circle. In, out. Circle.
Her breathing changed.
"That's it," he whispered. "That's it. Let it happen."
"I can't—I can't—"
"You can. I've got you. Let go."
She came.
It wasn't a scream this time. It was a shudder—deep and long and silent. Her whole body convulsed around his cock, squeezing him like a fist, and he felt her gush against his thighs.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh. Oh my—"
Then she was crying.
He stopped moving. "Nadia? Are you okay? Did I—"
She shook her head. "No. No, I'm fine. I'm—I'm more than fine. I just—"
She sobbed.
"I didn't know," she said. "I didn't know it could feel like this. I didn't know—"
He pulled out slowly.
She gasped at the loss. "Karim—"
He gathered her in his arms and flipped her onto her side. Then he lay beside her, face to face, his cock still hard against her belly.
"Look at me," he said.
She looked.
Her eyes were red, her face swollen from crying, her hair a tangled mess. She looked ruined. She looked beautiful.
"That was—" She swallowed. "That was—"
"Just the beginning. If you want more."
She nodded. Fast. Desperate.
"I want more. I want everything."
He kissed her.
And then he pushed back inside.
This time, it was easier. She was wet, stretched, open. He slid in without resistance, and she moaned—a sound of pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
"Okay?" he asked.
"So okay. So—so good—"
He started to move. Harder this time. Faster. He'd been gentle; now he'd give her the other thing. The thing she'd never had. The thing she'd never imagined.
He fucked her.
Formally, deeply, with all the skill and power he'd honed over twenty years of experience. He drove into her again and again, each thrust pushing her up against the arm of the sofa. She cried out with every stroke—sharp little yelps that turned into gasps, that turned into sobs.
"Fuck," he grunted. "Fuck, Nadia—"
"You're so—you're so deep—"
"Take it. Take all of it."
"I am. I am. I'm taking all of you—"
She was crying again.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. The smell of sex and sweat and blood mingled with the whiskey and sandalwood. The leather creaked beneath them, a steady rhythm that matched his thrusts.
"Close," he warned. "I'm close—"
"Don't stop—don't you dare stop—"
"I won't. I won't—"
He buried his face in her neck and pounded into her. The last shreds of his control were fraying, dissolving, gone—
He came.
Hot and fierce and violent, spilling into her with a groan that tore from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips jerked. His body shuddered. He gave her everything—all the frustration, all the grief, all the loneliness he'd kept locked inside for so long.
She came too.
Again—a second orgasm that ripped through her like lightning. Her back arched. Her thighs clamped around him. She screamed his name—"Karim, Karim, KARIM"—until her voice gave out and she collapsed beneath him.
They lay tangled together in the aftermath.
The moon had moved. The shadows had shifted. The world had changed, somehow, though neither of them could say how.
Nadia was the first to speak.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He didn't answer.
He couldn't.
She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft now—peaceful in a way he'd never seen.
"You're crying," she said.
He touched his face. His fingers came away wet.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize." She reached up and brushed the tears from his cheek. "Please don't apologize. This was—this was the most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me."
"I hurt you."
"You gave me everything." She kissed his forehead. "You gave me something to hold onto. Something to remember. When I'm dying, when I'm gone—I'll have this. I'll have tonight."
He closed his eyes.
He thought of Mira, who'd hated him. Of Amara, who loved him. Of Nadia, who needed him.
He thought of Layla. Of the daughter he couldn't hold. Of the future he'd never wanted.
He thought of all the things he'd done. All the things he'd do.
And he wondered: was this it? Was this the moment he finally became the monster everyone thought he was?
"Karim?" Nadia's voice was sleepy. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he lied. "Go to sleep."
She nestled against him. Closed her eyes.
And he lay there, staring at the ceiling, his sister's body warm against his, his cock still half-hard inside her, and thought about nothing at all.
He didn't hear the door open.
He didn't hear the soft gasp.
But Nadia did.
Her eyes flew open, and she looked toward the door—toward Amara, standing frozen in the doorway, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
Nadia didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just stared at the other woman with something that looked almost like peace. Like relief. Like she'd been waiting for this moment, waiting for someone to see.
She smiled.
It was a small smile. A sad smile. A smile that said: I know what you're thinking. I know what this looks like. But you don't understand. You can't understand.
Amara's hand dropped from her mouth.
She looked at Karim—at his body tangled with his sister's, at the blood on his thighs, at the tears on his face.
Then she looked at Nadia.
And Nadia held her gaze.
The silence stretched between them. Heavy. Infinite. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Amara opened her mouth to speak—
—and Nadia shook her head.
Not a warning. Not a threat.
A plea.
Don't say anything. Don't scream. Don't run. Just see me. Just understand.
Amara's eyes filled with tears.
She took one step back. Then another.
Then she turned and fled.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Karim stirred. "What was that?"
Nadia closed her eyes.
"Nothing," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. Go to sleep."
He did.
But Nadia lay awake, staring at the closed door, and thought about the look on Amara's face.
She'd seen it—the horror, the confusion, the pity.
But beneath all that, something else.
Something like recognition.
Like Amara knew. Like she'd always known.
And Nadia wondered if maybe, just maybe, she'd found an ally in the woman who'd stolen her brother's heart.
She smiled again.
Closed her eyes.
Sleep came for her, dark and dreamless, and she welcomed it.
Because tomorrow, everything would change.
Tomorrow, she'd have to face what she'd done.
But tonight—tonight, she'd felt something she'd never felt before.
She'd felt loved.
Even if it was a lie.
Even if it was wrong.
It was enough.
It had to be enough.
---
Amara made it to her room before she collapsed.
She fell to her knees on the cold floor and pressed her hands to her mouth. The image was seared into her mind—Karim's body moving, Nadia's face twisted in pleasure, the blood, the tears, the terrible intimacy of it.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to vomit.
She wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.
But she didn't do any of that.
She just knelt there, trembling, while the truth washed over her in waves.
She'd thought she understood Karim. She'd thought she'd seen the broken man beneath the monstrous exterior. She'd thought she could save him.
But she couldn't save him.
No one could.
He was lost. They were all lost.
And she was trapped in this house with a family that was falling apart, a contract that would never be broken, and a love that would destroy her.
She pressed her forehead to the floor.
And she wept.
Not for herself.
For all of them.
For Karim, who was so broken he couldn't see the wrongness of what he'd done.
For Nadia, who was so lonely she'd asked her own brother to fuck her.
For Layla, who would grow up in this house of secrets and lies and never know the truth.
And for herself.
For the girl she'd been—the girl who'd believed in love, in family, in happy endings.
She was gone now.
In her place was a woman who knew better.
A woman who knew that some stories didn't have happy endings.
Some stories just had endings.
And this—this was one of them.