The Woman Who Was Almost Me

It was one year after my daughter was returned to me. I had her back, but everything else felt lost. Her name, "Hanie," was too tied to Kaveh. It echoed with memories I wanted to erase. I changed it to Baran. I needed a fresh start, for her and for myself.

But in that year, something dark grew inside me—a hate that I could feel in my bones. It wasn't born from my own heart; it was planted by everything they did to me. It took root and grew, consuming me bit by bit.

There were names etched into my mind, carved with bitterness:

Dina.

Kaveh.

Aamz.

Marya.

Dina—the one who was never really my sister. Any kindness she ever showed was just another way to use me. She made me believe I mattered, but only when it served her needs. I could never forgive her for that.

I was tangled in these thoughts, replaying the betrayals over and over, unable to break free.

Then, on a gray, rainy afternoon, my phone rang. It was my mom. Her voice was shaking. "There's been an accident... Your father... He's in the hospital."

The world around me blurred. Rain drummed against the window, echoing the pounding in my chest. I dropped Baran off at Daryas house and rushed to the hospital.

When I arrived, the hallways were cold and empty, amplifying the dread in my heart. My mom stood outside the ICU, her eyes red and swollen. She looked at me, then down at the floor, and I knew.

I ran to his room, hoping to see him, to hear his voice just one more time. But all I found were machines beeping steadily, tubes weaving in and out of his body, and a face that looked so unfamiliar—so pale, so still.

I grabbed his hand, hoping for a squeeze, a sign, anything. But his fingers were cold, motionless.

The doctor came in, his face solemn. "I'm sorry... We did everything we could."

I felt my knees buckle. The room spun. I heard someone screaming before realizing it was me.

Daddy was gone. The man who silently stood by me, who helped without ever asking for anything in return, who bore so much pain in silence—he was gone.

I had no tears left by the time I left the hospital. The rain poured down, heavy and relentless, as if the sky was mourning with me.

But as I stood in the cold rain, a new thought pierced through the fog of grief: Another name was added to my list.

Because Dina's plan took him too.

The hate grew deeper, its roots winding tighter around my heart.

And then, there was nothing but darkness.

Darya didn't shed a single tear. She stood there, arms crossed, her face blank as if nothing had happened. It didn't surprise me. She had always been distant, cold even. That was just Darya—detached, wrapped up in her own world, untouched by the things that shattered others.

I watched her during the funeral, expecting at least a flicker of emotion. But there was nothing. She moved through the motions, greeted guests, accepted condolences with a mechanical nod, and then drifted away, lost in her own thoughts. Even when she stood before Daddy's grave, her eyes remained dry, distant.

I wondered how she could be like that, so untouched. But then again, had she ever truly loved anyone? Even as kids, she was always the one who stayed in her room, shut off from the rest of us. I couldn't blame her. She had her own pains, her own scars, just like Dina. But it still hurt to see her so indifferent.

After the funeral, the lawyer called me in for the reading of the will. Daddy had left everything to me. The house, his savings, his shares in the company—all of it. He left Darya a letter, just a few lines scribbled in his shaky handwriting, urging her to find her own path and take care of herself.

But to me, he left his legacy. His life's work. It felt heavy in my hands, like the weight of his love and trust. I was his chosen one. The one he believed in.

I looked at Darya, expecting resentment or anger, but she just shrugged and said, "I never wanted any of this anyway." She walked out without another word, leaving me alone with the papers and the memories.

Daddy's wishes were clear. He wanted me to have everything, to take care of the family, to carry on his name. But I couldn't bring myself to stay in that house filled with echoes of his voice, shadows of his presence.

I sold the house first. It was too big, too empty without him. I kept his favorite armchair and a few pictures but let go of the rest. I watched strangers move into my childhood home, their laughter replacing the silence he left behind. It hurt, but I knew it was necessary.

I sold his shares, his investments, everything he had worked for. I turned it all into cold, hard cash, hoping that maybe it could buy me some peace. I was drowning in grief, anger, and a darkness that refused to let go.

There was now money—a lot of it. More than I had ever imagined. And I decided to use it to heal my soul, to fill the void he left behind.

I would take Baran and leave. Somewhere far away, somewhere no one knew us. Somewhere we could start over. I didn't care about the cost.

I just wanted to feel whole again.

But even as I made plans to leave, the hate lingered, gnawing at my heart. I could leave the city, the house, and even my past.

But could I leave behind the darkness that was now a part of me?

I migrated once again, but this time, not abroad. I chose the capital city, just a few hours away from my mom. It felt like a fresh start, but still close enough to keep some semblance of connection. I didn't want to sever all ties with the past, but I knew I couldn't stay in the place that held so many memories of everything I was trying to escape.

I bought two houses. One was a small, modern space that I transformed into a comfortable home for Baran and me. The other was a cozy, open-plan place I decided to use for my coffee shop. It was my refuge, a place where I could manage myself, reflect on the chaos I'd been through, and try to make sense of everything.

The shop became my sanctuary. The smell of fresh coffee, the soft hum of conversations, and the steady rhythm of the espresso machine provided a sense of calm I hadn't known in a long time. It wasn't just a business; it was a space where I could think, breathe, and try to rebuild my life.

One day, while working behind the counter, a young man walked in. He was tall, with striking features, a deep set of dark eyes that seemed to carry some quiet intensity. His name was Adnan. At first, he was just another customer, someone who came in for his coffee and left with a simple "thank you." But something about him lingered in the air.

The next time he came by, we spoke more. Small talk at first—about the city, the weather, and the coffee. But over time, our conversations became deeper. There was something magnetic about him. His smile, the way he listened, the way he spoke as if he truly cared. I found myself looking forward to his visits, even though I hadn't expected to be drawn to anyone again after everything that had happened.

Things moved quickly between us. What started as casual conversations turned into long chats after hours, then dates, then more. It felt different than anything before—pure, untainted by the complications and the toxic relationships I'd been through. With Adnan, I didn't feel the weight of my past hanging over me. It was just us, building something real, something that felt like a chance to finally heal.

It had been four months with Adnan. During that time, we shared laughter, quiet moments, and an undeniable connection. But there was an underlying tension that neither of us could ignore—the fact that we were both unsatisfied in a way that went beyond the emotional connection.

We never talked about it at first. We were so caught up in the joy of getting to know each other, in the comfort of having someone to share the mundane moments with. But over time, it became clear. The spark, the passion we had both hoped would grow, wasn't there. It wasn't that we didn't care for each other—quite the opposite. But there was something missing, something that neither of us could put into words.

It wasn't an explosive argument or an obvious sign of failure. It wasn't the type of breakup that involved anger or accusations. It was simply a quiet understanding that the relationship wasn't moving in the direction we both wanted. Neither of us felt the sexual chemistry we had expected, and though we tried to ignore it, it began to weigh on us both.

We had a calm conversation about it one evening, sitting in my apartment, the same space where we had shared so many peaceful moments. I told him that I felt the disconnect, that while we had a strong bond emotionally, the physical side of things just wasn't aligning. He nodded, his expression thoughtful but not hurt. He admitted that he had felt the same but didn't want to acknowledge it.

There was no bitterness in our exchange, just a shared realization that perhaps we were better off as friends than lovers. Our breakup was peaceful, the kind of parting that only comes when both people respect each other enough to understand when things aren't working. We agreed that we'd still be there for each other in some capacity, but as two individuals who had tried something and found it wasn't meant to be.

Afterwards, there was no anger, no resentment. We both knew it was the right decision, even if it wasn't the one we had hoped for. It left me feeling strangely at peace, almost like I had cleared the last of the cobwebs in my heart. We parted ways amicably, both of us learning something about ourselves in the process.

And as I watched him walk away from my life that night, I realized that sometimes, peace is found not in holding onto something, but in letting go.

After Adnan, I found myself in a strange period of introspection. Despite the calm breakup, the quiet echoes of unmet desires lingered in my mind. I began questioning what I truly wanted and how I could fill the void left behind. It was during this time, amidst some personal accidents and the aftermath of dealing with the emotional fallout, that my perspective shifted in a way I hadn't anticipated.

There had been moments where I had felt powerless, moments where I had to rely on others for validation, where I realized the subtle but undeniable influence of power in the world around me. I saw it everywhere—how some people had it and used it to shape their lives, and others, like me, had to maneuver to gain it.

One afternoon, while reflecting on everything—my past relationships, my current state, and the world of business I had entered through my coffee shop—I had a sudden epiphany. I had always prided myself on being independent, on standing on my own two feet, but in the back of my mind, I knew I had a hunger for something more—something I hadn't fully embraced yet.

I remembered a conversation I'd overheard one night, in the quiet corners of a business meeting. A conversation about how women like me, women who had the looks, the charm, and the drive, often used what they had to gain leverage in a world that was primarily ruled by powerful men. I thought about my own relationships, about how I had always been the one to give and never ask for anything in return, always staying in the shadows of others' power. What if, instead of remaining in the background, I used my own influence to position myself for something greater?

The idea was unsettling at first. It felt like an abandonment of all my morals, my values. But then I realized—I wasn't abandoning anything. I wasn't turning into someone else. I was simply waking up to the fact that the world didn't play fair, and if I wanted to succeed in this world, I needed to play by its rules. To make it in this life, I had to stop waiting for opportunities to come to me and start creating them myself.

I knew this new path would be a risky one. It wasn't something I could undo once I committed. But the thought of using my bed, my body, my allure, as a stepping stone to gain influence over powerful men—the thought of using them to get ahead—became a strange kind of fuel for me.

It wasn't about love anymore. It wasn't about finding a connection. It was about power. Power to control my destiny, power to build the future I wanted. The realization hit me hard, but I couldn't ignore the draw of it.

And so, with a mixture of ambition and cold calculation, I began planning. I would find the right man—someone who could help me ascend, who could push me into the circles of influence I needed to be in. I would stop being passive. I would take what I needed, not wait for it.

I would become the woman who controlled her own fate, no longer dependent on anyone or anything—no longer sitting in the shadows of others' success. My bed would no longer be a place of emotional entanglements. It would be a tool, a weapon to give me what I needed to move forward.

This new resolve wasn't easy to embrace. But in the solitude of my room, I realized it was what I had to do.

The idea of using someone powerful to extend my coffee shop and business became more than just an abstract thought—it turned into a clear and strategic goal. I realized that my coffee shop, which had been a personal sanctuary, could become much more. I had poured so much energy and passion into it already, but the potential to grow it into something bigger, something that could stand on its own in the city's competitive market, was there—if only I had the right connections and resources.

I knew that in order to take the next step, I needed to align myself with someone who could provide the influence, the capital, and the business acumen that I lacked. The kind of person who had the power to open doors and cut through bureaucratic red tape—someone whose name carried weight in the city.

It didn't take long for me to identify a few potential candidates. I started attending more high-profile events, business mixers, and gatherings where the city's elite came together. I knew I had to immerse myself in these circles, get comfortable in environments that felt alien to me at first, but where the real power resided.

One evening, at a gala I had been invited to, I met a man named Behrouz. He was in his late forties, a successful real estate mogul who owned several prime properties around the city. He had that kind of quiet charisma that drew people in without saying much, and his wealth was almost palpable—it was the kind of wealth that spoke volumes without needing to be flaunted.

We struck up a conversation about business, and I listened carefully to his words, trying to gauge where his interests lay. I talked about my coffee shop, how it had become a local favorite, how I wanted to expand and open new locations across the city. He listened intently, nodding at the right moments. There was no rush to his demeanor, and I found myself impressed by his calmness—he wasn't like the other men I'd encountered who were always trying to sell something or make a deal immediately.

Instead, he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. He asked questions about the vision behind my coffee shop, about the atmosphere I had created, about the kind of clientele I attracted. His questions were insightful, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was talking to someone who saw potential in me beyond the surface.

After our conversation, he invited me to lunch the following week. I saw it for what it was—a subtle yet clear invitation to discuss a potential partnership. I knew that if I played my cards right, this could be the key to everything I wanted.

Over lunch, we spoke more about my business goals. I could sense his curiosity and perhaps even admiration for my determination. He didn't make any immediate offers, but he mentioned that he had access to a network of investors who were always looking for profitable ventures to support. He asked if I would be interested in expanding my coffee shop chain with his help.

I pretended to hesitate, but in my mind, I was already calculating the next steps. This was it. This was the moment where I could leverage his power to take my business to the next level. I agreed to meet again to discuss specifics, and as we parted ways, I could feel a sense of excitement building inside me.

I wasn't sure if Behrouz was truly interested in me or simply my business, but at that moment, it didn't matter. He had the connections, the resources, and the influence that I needed. The key to expanding my coffee shop lay in his hands, and I was ready to use that fact to my advantage.

Over the next few weeks, we met several times, discussing terms and plans for the future. Behrouz's backing would provide the capital to open new locations, hire more staff, and create a brand that would stand out in the competitive market. He was also connected with high-profile investors who could bring in even more funds.

But it wasn't just the money and business opportunities that I was interested in. It was the power. The power that came with being associated with someone like Behrouz. I knew that his endorsement would carry weight and open doors in ways that I could never achieve on my own.

I began to realize that I was no longer just using my charm to get ahead—I was using a powerful man's influence to propel my career and solidify my place in the business world. It wasn't an easy decision, but I knew it was necessary. I was no longer playing by the same rules.

In the end, the business arrangement was finalized. My coffee shop chain expanded, and with Behrouz's help, I became a name to watch in the city's entrepreneurial circles.

As the business grew, so did my confidence. I no longer felt like the woman in the shadows, waiting for opportunities to come to her. I was the one creating the opportunities now.

As the months passed and my coffee shop empire expanded, I began to embrace a side of myself I had long kept hidden—a side that was ruthless, calculating, and unapologetically self-serving. I no longer hesitated to use the connections and power I had gathered to manipulate situations to my advantage. The more success I achieved, the more I realized how far I was willing to go to secure my place at the top.

The business world, I learned, was not for the faint of heart. It was a game of survival, where the weak were trampled, and only the strongest emerged unscathed. I had shed the remnants of my old self—the woman who once cared about others' feelings, the one who hesitated to step on anyone to get ahead. That woman was gone.

I had become something else—something colder. People in the industry began to notice. They didn't know exactly who I was, but they felt my presence. There was a sharpness to my dealings, an intensity in my eyes that made others pause before crossing me.

The success, the power—it was intoxicating. And somewhere along the way, I realized I had stopped being the woman I once was and had started to embody something darker, something more calculating. A devil in the world of business, wrapped in the guise of a determined entrepreneur.

I had long since stopped worrying about what others thought of me. They could hate me. They could fear me. I didn't care anymore. I had come to terms with the fact that I would never be loved by everyone, and frankly, I didn't need their affection. I had become my own force, untouchable and unyielding.

And as I stood at the pinnacle of my success, I couldn't help but smile. The world had underestimated me. They had thought I was weak, vulnerable, and easy to manipulate. But now, I was the one pulling the strings. And it felt like power—pure, unadulterated power.

I was no longer just a woman. I was the devil in disguise, and I had mastered the art of using others to build my empire. I was untouchable, and anyone who dared to challenge me would soon learn the price of crossing a devil like me.

And that price? It would cost them everything.