It is difficult now to admit that I thought this a reasonable thing to want; that I imagined—even fantasized about—being his second, preferred wife. I wanted to be chosen, maybe loved. I wanted out of my life, out of my skin, and his offer seemed like the best someone like me could hope for.

“But I’m already married,” I reminded him.

“I can take care of that,” he said. Wanting to seem purer to him, I confessed how Um Buraq had coerced me into this work. I told him how she had blackmailed me with photos, and he promised to end it all and take care of me forever. I told him I loved him too, and confessed that my real name was Yaqoot, though I kept Nahr to myself.

Abu Moathe threatened Um Buraq in the same way she did to him. He visited her estranged husband on pretense about some business. He was letting her know that he knew who her husband was and could just as easily ruin her. As he expected, she was waiting for him at the apartment on his next visit to me. He had a triumphant smirk as he jabbed his fat finger into her shoulder.

“Yaqoot doesn’t work for you anymore,” he said, demanding she hand over the photos.

Um Buraq looked mockingly at me. “You told him your name, you stupid girl? And you want him to have the photos?” she said, incredulous. She turned back to him, laughing her terrifying laugh like she had already squashed a million bugs like him before. I thought that would enrage him, but it confused him instead, and it taught me an important life lesson: when you don’t react predictably, it throws people off, hopefully long enough for you to get the upper hand.

That’s what Um Buraq did that day. She said she wouldn’t ever call me again. And when I insisted she turn over the photos, she shook her head and repeated, “You stupid, stupid girl,” and agreed to everything, provided Abu Moathe paid her for them. She made him feel like he had won, and he stupidly agreed to her conditions. Then she could just name her price—any price—because a man’s word is unbending. There were codes of honor among degenerates. He paid her handsomely.

That’s how Abu Moathe became my sugar daddy, for a while anyway. I no longer had to face Um Buraq, and my days became more predictable, but now I had to let him slap me around. He agreed never to strike my face or neck where marks would be visible, as long as he could bruise the rest of me.

His secret apartment was also in Salmiya, where I’d go whenever he paged me. I’d pretend to be an unsuspecting housewife or maid going about my day cooking and cleaning, and he would play my rapist, who’d sneak in when no one else was home. I had to fight back at first, to provoke him into beating me into submission, then I’d succumb to him and beg for more. This theater happened once or twice a week. It’s how I paid all our bills and began to build up Jehad’s college savings. Abu Moathe even taught me about investing in the stock market. I tried it out for a while with a bit of money. Although I didn’t gamble my money in the market, stocks would provide an easy cover to explain extra income to my family.