As Rami and I stepped through the grand doors of his parents' mansion, I could feel the tension radiating off him like a storm waiting to break. His hand, clasped tightly in mine, was clammy, and his usually confident stride had turned hesitant. I could tell he was nervous—no, more than nervous. He was worried, his mind racing with thoughts of what his father wanted to say. I squeezed his hand gently, trying to offer some reassurance, but even I couldn’t shake the unease that settled in the pit of my stomach.
The mansion loomed around us, its opulence both familiar and intimidating. The high ceilings, the polished marble floors, the portraits of stern-faced ancestors lining the walls—it all felt like a silent judgment, a reminder of the expectations Rami had been born into. His father ha
