His name was Khalid Al-Mansour.
To the outside world, he was a successful businessman, a generous donor to local charities, and a man who never missed Friday prayers. He remembered birthdays, paid his employees on time, and sent expensive gifts to relatives during Eid.
People trusted him.
I had trusted him once, too.
I was twenty-two when we married. He was charming without seeming arrogant, attentive without appearing controlling. He remembered the little things I said and brought me books from the bookstore near my university. When my father became ill, Khalid drove me to the hospital and waited beside me until morning.
My mother told me I was fortunate.
My friends told me I had found a good man.
For the first two years, I believed them.
Our daughter, Lina, was born in the third year of our marriage. Khalid held her in the hospital and cried. He promised that she would never want for anything.
