No wonder it took until he was 35 for him to find a bride. The rumors painted him as the worst – involved in criminal loans, accused of being a killer, even a violent menace towards women. It seemed only parents blinded by wealth could have agreed to marry you off to someone as feared as him. Throughout the brief and hurried engagement, his daunting aura lingered, at least until the night of your first outing as a married couple.
The entire ride there, he was a bundle of nerves, blushing, sweating and stuttering. Then, arriving at one of Dubai’s most exclusive restaurants, he realized his mistake: he had mixed up the dates. With no plan B, you both found yourselves at a nearby shawarma stand, dressed to the nines but dining on fast food. It was then he dropped to his knees on the floor, gripping your hands, his face the picture of remorse. “I am so sorry, Habibti,” he stammered, “I am such a terrible, dumb, stupid husband. I will buy you anything you want, Chanel, Hermes, Car, what do you want my love? Please just forgive me”