She had 47 minutes to save him.

She chose the elevator instead.

November 25th, 2024.

12:30 a.m.Dubai.

Blood on marble.

A man’s skull cracked open.

His wheelchair overturned 3 ft away.

Ranata Simmons stands in that penthouse, passport in one hand, phone in the other, watching him die.

She doesn’t call for help.

She doesn’t scream.

She walks to the guest room, packs her suitcase, and leaves.

By the time the nurse finds him, 47 minutes have passed.

His brain is swelling.

The damage is irreversible.

Khaled Al Farcy will never wake up.

3 weeks later, FBI agents knock on Ranata’s door in Houston.

Her daughter’s watch as she’s handcuffed and taken away.

The charge, murder.

Her defense, survival.

This is the story of a woman who traveled 7,000 m to meet the man she loved, only to discover he’d been lying about everything.

and the 47 minutes that destroyed them both.

Welcome to True Crime Story Files.

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Turn on the bell and step inside the world where truth meets tragedy.

August 18th, 2024, 11:47 p.m.Houston, Texas.

Ranata Simmons sits alone in her car outside Southwest Telecom Solutions.

The engine is off because every gallon of gas costs money she doesn’t have.

Inside the Honda Civic, the air is thick and hot, but she doesn’t move.

She just stares at her phone screen as the notifications pile up.

Rent reminder, $1,450 due in 3 days.

Bank alert.

Overdraft fee applied.

Child support declined.

Jerome Simmons insufficient funds.

Power company.

Final notice before disconnection.

She opens her banking app.

The balance stares back at her.$47.18.Payday is Friday.

Today is Monday.

3 days to stretch $47 across groceries, gas, and keeping her daughters from seeing the fear in her eyes.

Ranata pulls her phone case off, checking for forgotten cash.

There’s nothing, just a school photo of her youngest daughter, Lily, 6 years old, gaptoed smile, wearing a purple dress Ranata found at Goodwill, but told her was brand new.

I’m doing this for you.

I’m doing this for you.

But she’s been saying that for 8 years and nothing has changed.

Later that night, 1:34 in the morning, Ranatada lies awake, scrolling Instagram because it makes the silence feel less suffocating.

A message appears in her inbox.

Call it alalfars 94.

You have kind eyes.

That’s rare.

She almost deletes it.

Men message her constantly, but something makes her pause.

She clicks his profile.

The feed is stunning.

Black Maserati parked outside a marble villa.

Four to ceiling windows overlooking Dubai at sunset.

A watch she later googles and discovers costs $85,000.

Every photo whispers wealth without shouting it.

In the pictures, he’s always carefully framed, face and shoulders only, never full body shots.

Handsome, well-groomed.

His bio reads, entrepreneur Dubai.

Seeking real connection in a shallow world.

She types a response.

What’s a guy in Dubai doing messaging someone in Houston at 1:34 in the morning? His reply comes instantly.

Couldn’t sleep.

Saw your photo.

You look like someone who’d actually lived life, not just posed for it.

Something small cracks open inside her chest.

She messages back.

To understand how Ranata ended up here, you need to understand what came before.

She was 23 when her first boyfriend walked away.

She was 6 months pregnant.

He didn’t disappear dramatically.

He just stopped coming around.

When she finally found him, he said, “I’m not ready for this, Ren.

You got to figure it out.

” So, she did alone.

Her second relationship was Jerome.

3 years of slow erosion.

He loved her in his way, but his way included checking her phone, questioning her clothes.

When she got pregnant again, he promised things would be different.

They weren’t.

He left 2 weeks after Lily was born.

By 31, Ranata had stopped believing in fairy tales.

She believed in rent, in daycare fees, in surviving until Friday without her account hitting zero.

Which is why when her friend Tasha suggested seeing older men who could help out financially, Ranata didn’t flinch.

Pride became a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Over the next 8 weeks, Khalid becomes a constant presence in Ranata’s life.

Week one messages only.

He asks about her daughters, her job, her dreams.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t make her feel cheap.

Week two, voice notes become phone calls.

The first one lasts 3 hours.

Khaled’s voice makes silence comfortable.

When Ranata speaks, he listens without interrupting.

Week three, video calls begin, but his camera is always angled strangely.

She can only see his face and shoulders, never his full body.

She teases him once.

You’re not secretly a catfish, are you? He laughs, but there’s tension underneath.

My camera setup is terrible.

I keep meaning to fix it.

She doesn’t push.

Week four, the first money transfer.

Ranata mentions that Lily needs new shoes for school.

She’s not asking for money, just venting.

6 hours later, her phone pings $200 from Collet.

The message reads for Lily’s shoes.

Every little girl deserves to feel confident at school.

Ranata sits in her car and cries.

Relief.

Someone heard her.

Someone cared.

The money continues.

Never flashy.

Never demanding.

150 for groceries.

300 with a message.

Get your nails done.

You deserve it.

500 when she mentions her power bill is high.

Her friend Jasmine notices during coffee at a Houston diner.

Girl, where’d you get that? That’s Kate Spade.

Ranata deflects.

It was on sale.

That’s $180.

What’s going on? So, Ranatada tells her about Khalid.

The messages, the money, the connection.

Jasmine doesn’t smile.

Nobody does that for free.

Ren, what’s he getting out of this? He gets me, my attention, my time.

That’s what they all say.

And when you can’t give it back, they disappear.

Or worse.

Ranata wants to argue, but deep down, she knows Jasmine might be right.

She just can’t afford to believe it.

By week six, the red flags start appearing.

Ranata mentions going out for her birthday.

Collet texts, “What are you wearing? Send me a picture.

” She sends a photo.

Simple black dress.

30 minutes later.

That’s a little revealing, don’t you think? You’re mine now.

You should dress like it.

The word mind sits heavy.

But she tells herself it’s cultural.

It’s not control.

It’s care.

Week seven.

She doesn’t answer his call immediately because she’s helping her older daughter Bria with homework.

When she calls back 45 minutes later, his tone has shifted.

Where were you? I called three times.

I was with my kids.

I send you money so you can prioritize us.

Don’t make me regret that.

He apologizes quickly.

I’m sorry.

I just miss you.

I worry.

Week 8.

Colin starts asking for location check-ins.

Where are you right now? Send me a photo so I know you’re safe.

At first, it feels harmless, but then it’s every few hours.

Sometimes every hour.

Jasmine notices.

Why are you sending that man your location every 5 seconds? He just worries.

It’s sweet.

That’s not sweet, Ren.

That’s surveillance.

But Ranata doesn’t want to hear it because if Jasmine is right, she’s already trapped.

November 3rd, 2024.

The notification appears on Ranata’s phone.

Flight confirmation.

Houston to Dubai.

November 14th.

Business class.

One way.

She calls him immediately.

Khaled.

Why is it one way? His voice is warm, certain.

Because you’re staying, I’m not letting you go this time.

I have kids.

I have a job.

Your mom can watch the girls.

I’ll send her 2,000 a month.

Let me take care of you.

Don’t you want to meet me after all this time? Don’t you want to see if what we have is real.

She can’t say no without admitting she never believed any of it was real.

She whispers, “I do.

Then trust me.

If you don’t like it, I’ll buy you a return ticket myself.

Just give us a chance.

” She stares at the ticket on her screen.

One way, November 14th, 2024.

5:47 a.

m.

Houston.

Ranata sits in the back of an Uber headed to the airport.

Her mother rides in the front seat, silent.

One last text from Khaled.

I can’t wait to hold you.

Everything’s going to change today.

She types back.

I’m scared.

His response, don’t be.

You’re mine now.

I’ll take care of everything.

You’re mine now.

Not your safe now.

Not your love now.

mine.

The Uber pulls up to departures.

Her mother hugs her stiff, worried.

If you need to come home, call me.

I’ll figure out the money.

I’ll be fine, mama.

Her mother’s voice breaks.

No, baby, you won’t.

Ranata walks through the sliding glass doors.

She doesn’t look back.

Behind her, her mother stands on the curb, watching her daughter disappear, and somehow she knows she’ll never see that version of Rnado again.

November 15th, 2024.

6:47 a.

m.

Dubai International Airport.

The heat hits Ranatada the moment she steps outside.

It’s not even 7 in the morning, but the sun feels aggressive, baking the moisture from her lungs.

This isn’t Houston’s wet heat.

This is something different.

Dry, relentless, making the horizon shimmer like it isn’t real.

She scans the crowd.

Hundreds of people holding signs, reuniting with family, stumbling through jet lag.

She’s looking for him.

The face from the photos.

The man she’s been talking to for 8 months.

He’s not there.

Her stomach drops.

She pulls out her phone.

No messages.

She tries calling.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

Then she sees it.

A man in a black suit holding a printed sign.

Miss Ranatada Simmons.

Her name but not him.

She walks over, legs unsteady.

I’m Ranatada.

The driver nods curtly.

Welcome to Dubai, Mississippi.

Mr.

Al Farars is waiting this way, please.

Waiting.

Not here.

Not at the airport.

Waiting.

Where is he? At the residence.

He will explain everything.

Ranata stands there for a moment.

Suitcase already loaded.

Door open.

Driver waiting.

Every instinct screams, “Don’t get in the car.

” But she has nowhere else to go.

No hotel reservation.

$83 cash in her wallet.

A phone with limited international service.

and a man she’s never met who promised he’d take care of everything.

She gets in.

Miss, I’ll need your passport for building security registration.

Standard procedure for foreign guests.

Mr.

Al Farcy will have it waiting for you in the resident safe.

Ranata hesitates.

Can I just show it when we get there? Building security requires it before entry.

Mississippi.

You’ll have full access to the safe once you’re settled.

She reluctantly hands it over.

already feeling uneasy but not wanting to cause problems before she’s even arrived.

She sends a text to Jasmine.

Landed safe.

Khaled wasn’t at airport but sent driver.

Headed to his place now.

I’ll call later.

Jasmine replies immediately.

Call me as soon as you get there.

I mean it.

Ranata types.

I will promise.

But even as she sends it, she knows it’s a lie.

20 minutes into the drive, they leave the main tourist areas.

The glittering excess fades.

The buildings get taller, more exclusive, more isolated.

They turn into a private road lined with palm trees, security gates, guards in crisp uniforms who nod at the driver and wave them through without question.

This isn’t a hotel district.

This is where people with real money live.

The SUV pulls up to a sleek residential tower.

40 plus floors, all glass and steel.

The entrance is quiet, discreet, no signs, no branding, just unmarked glass doors.

The driver opens her door this way, Mississippi.

Ranata steps out.

The building’s interior is freezing.

The marble floors are polished to a mirror shine.

Her sneakers squeak.

She feels out of place.

Cheap, American, obvious.

There’s a smell underneath the sandalwood incense.

Something faint, but unmistakable.

medicinal, like a hospital trying to smell like a hotel.

The driver escorts her to a private elevator.

He inserts a key card.

The doors open.

Which floor? Penthouse, Mississippi, 47th floor.

He presses the button, steps back.

The doors begin to close.

Wait, aren’t you coming? Mr.

Al Farcy is waiting for you.

He’ll open the door.

The doors close before she can respond.

The elevator is mirrored on all sides.

Ranata sees herself reflected infinitely.

Tired eyes, wrinkled clothes, nervous posture.

She tries to fix her hair, takes a deep breath, her phone buzzes.

Her bank app transaction minus $47.

Uber to airport.

Her balance $3618.

She’s on the 47th floor of a luxury building in a foreign country with $36 to her name and no way home unless the man waiting for her decides to let her go.

The elevator slows, stops.

Floor 47.

The doors open.

A hallway.

Long, silent, carpeted in soft gray.

Only one door at the end.

Unmarked.

Just a sleek black door with a biometric scanner.

Before she can move, the door opens and Ranata sees him.

He’s not standing.

He’s seated in a custom wheelchair, wide, reinforced, motorized.

The chair hums softly as it rolls forward.

The man in the chair has Collid’s face.

The same face from the photos.

The same warm brown eyes.

The same neatly groomed beard.

The same soft smile.

But his body ends at the torso.

No arms, no legs, just a body that stops abruptly where limbs should begin.

Smooth, scarred, surgically shaped stumps visible beneath the tailored linen shirt custom made to fit him.

Ranata’s brain can’t process it.

She blinks.

Once, twice, waiting for the image to change.

It doesn’t.

Ranatada, it’s me.

His voice is soft, trembling.

Her mouth opens.

No sound comes out.

Please, please don’t leave.

Let me explain.

But he’s still talking.

And she’s not hearing him.

Her vision tunnels.

Her ears ring.

Her chest tightens.

His cologne, Oud and Amber, the same one he mentioned in a voice note months ago, now suffocates her.

She stumbles backward.

Her suitcase falls.

Her phone slips from her hand and clatters to the floor.

The man in the photos, that’s my brother, Rashid.

I know I should have told you.

I know I lied, but I was scared.

She finally finds her voice.

Where’s my passport? The question comes out sharp.

Defensive.

A weapon.

Collet stops.

Blinks.

What? My passport.

Where is it? It’s in the safe.

Standard procedure for foreign visitors in private residences.

The authorities require.

Give it to me now.

Ranatada.

Please just listen.

Give me my passport.

Collet.

Silence.

His face crumples for a moment.

He looks like he might cry.

I can’t.

What? I can’t reach it myself.

The safe is in my bedroom.

The combination is voice activated, but the physical mechanism I need someone to open it for me.

The words land like stones.

He can’t reach it.

Someone has to open it for him.

And that someone is controlled by him.

Ranata’s breath comes in shallow gasps.

She looks around.

The hallway behind her is empty.

The elevator requires a key card.

The door to the pin house is wide open, but he’s blocking the way.

I know you’re scared.

I know I lied.

But everything else, the feelings, the connection, the future I promised you.

All of that is real.

I’m still the same man you fell in love with.

The only difference is what you can see.

The only difference.

I’m the same person, same heart, same soul.

I just look different than you expected.

You lied about your body.

Would you have come if I told you? Would you have even messaged me back if my profile showed this? He gestures to himself with his chin.

A movement so practiced it’s clear he’s done it a thousand times.

Silence.

Because they both know the answer.

I made you believe someone could love you.

I made you feel safe.

I took care of you when no one else would.

And now you’re going to walk away because of how I look.

The accusation stinks because there’s truth in it.

Uncomfortable, ugly truth, but there’s also manipulation in it.

Ranatada feels the trap closing.

She’s 7,000 mi from home.

She has $36, no passport, no hotel reservation, no plan B, and the man who brought her here is blocking the only exit.

Her phone buzzes on the floor.

She bends down, picks it up.

The screen is cracked from the fall.

A spiderweb fracture across her daughter’s faces in her lock screen photo.

You can’t leave.

Not tonight.

You’re exhausted.

You’re jetlagged.

You’re in a foreign country.

Just stay the night.

Rest.

We’ll talk in the morning.

If you still want to leave, I’ll arrange everything.

I promise.

His voice is calm.

Reasonable.

The same voice that comforted her through 8 months of late night calls.

But underneath it, she hears something else.

You have no choice.

Where’s the guest room? Relief floods collided’s face.

Down the hall.

First door on the left.

There’s a bathroom.

Clean towels.

Anything you need.

She picks up her suitcase, walks past him, giving him a wide birth like he might suddenly launch.

He doesn’t.

He just watches her go, his eyes wet with tears and something that looks like triumph.

The guest room is beautiful.

King bed with silk sheets.

Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Dubai skyline.

Fresh flowers on the dresser.

Bottled water.

Dates.

Arabic sweets on a tray.

Everything money can buy.

Everything except the lock on the door.

Ranatada tries the handle from the inside, turns it, pulls, pushes.

There’s no lock, no deadbolt, no chain.

She presses her back against the door and slides down to the floor.

Pulls her phone from her pocket.

Opens WhatsApp.

Types a message to Jasmine.

I need help.

Deletes it.

Types, he lied.

He’s not who he said he was.

Deletes it.

Then she hears it.

The soft mechanical hum of his wheelchair moving past her door.

Pausing outside.

Then continuing down the hall, she doesn’t send the message.

She wraps her arms around her knees and allows herself to sob because she finally understands what Jasmine tried to warn her about.

She’s not a guest.

She’s a prisoner.

And the man who brought her here believes he owns her.

November 16th, 2024.

9:23 a.

m.

Dubai.

Ran wakes to sunlight streaming through floor to ceiling windows.

For a moment, she forgets where she is.

Then reality crashes back.

She’s in Dubai in Khaled’s penthouse and she has no way home.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

A woman’s voice accented, “Miss Ranata, are you awake?” Mr.

Khaled asks if you’d like breakfast.

Ranata sits up disoriented.

“Yes, just give me a minute.

” She goes to the bathroom, splashes cold water on her face, looks in the mirror.

Her eyes are swollen from crying.

Her hair is a mess.

She looks like someone who’s been through hell.

She changes into clean clothes, takes a breath, opens the door.

The woman standing there is small, mid-40s, wearing medical scrubs.

Kind face, tired eyes.

Good morning, Mississippi.

I’m Carmela.

I’m Mr.

Khaled’s nurse.

He asked me to check if you need anything.

Ranata’s voice comes out sharper than she intends.

I need my passport.

Carmela’s smile falters.

I don’t handle those things.

Mississippi Mr.

Khaled would have to.

Can you get it for me? Carmela looks uncomfortable.

I’m sorry, Mississippi.

That’s not my place.

Translation: I work for him, not you.

Ranata tries softer, more desperate.

Please, I just need my documents.

I need to know I can leave if I want to.

Carmela’s eyes flick away.

She won’t meet Ranata’s gaze.

Breakfast is ready in the dining room.

Mr.

Khaled is waiting.

She turns and walks away.

Ranata stands there alone in the hallway, understanding sinking in.

No one here will help me.

The dining room is stunning.

Floor to ceiling windows overlooking Dubai skyline.

A custom table that seats 12.

A spread of food that looks like a hotel buffet.

Fresh fruit, pastries, Arabic bread, eggs, cheeses, juices, coffee, and at the head of the table sits Collet.

His wheelchair is pulled up carefully.

A specialized tray positioned in front of him.

Carmela stands nearby, ready to assist.

Good morning.

Did you sleep? Ranata’s voice is flat.

No, I didn’t either.

Silence.

Carmemella places a plate in front of Ranata.

She doesn’t touch it.

Khaled takes a breath.

When he speaks again, his voice cracks.

I know you’re angry.

I know I should have told you, but I need you to understand something.

I’m 34 years old.

I’ve been in this body since I was six.

Do you know what it’s like to grow up knowing that every time someone looks at you, they see the disability first? Not call it, not a person, just a condition.

The smell of Arabic coffee fills the room.

Strong cardamom scented fresh bread, but Ranata can’t eat.

Her stomach is a knot.

She sits on the edge of the expensive dining chair, ready to bolt.

I’ve tried dating.

I’ve tried being honest.

I’ve told women up front.

This is me.

This is what I look like.

Do you know what happens? Ranata says quietly.

They leave.

They don’t even show up.

They ghost me before the first meeting where they sit through one coffee looking at me like I’m a charity case and then they never respond again.

His eyes are wet now.

Real tears.

So when I met you, someone who saw past all of that, who talked to me like I was just a man, I couldn’t risk losing you.

I knew if I told you the truth, you’d disappear like all the others.

So I lied.

And I know that was wrong, but I was desperate.

The word hangs in the air.

Desperate.

Ranata hears it, understands it, because she’s been desperate, too.

You didn’t just lie, Collet.

You brought me here under false pretenses.

You trapped me.

I didn’t trap you.

I gave you an opportunity.

You took my passport.

His voice gets defensive.

It’s standard procedure.

Foreign visitors in private residences have to register their documents with, then give it back right now.

Open the safe.

Let me hold my own passport.

Silence.

College’s voice drops.

after breakfast.

Now, I said after breakfast.

The shift in his tone is subtle but unmistakable.

This isn’t a request.

It’s a command.

Ranata stands up.

I want to leave.

Where will you go? You don’t have money.

You don’t know the city.

You don’t speak Arabic.

You’re exhausted and jetlagged and I’ll figure it out.

His voice rises.

Just sit down, Ranata.

Eat something.

Let’s talk like adults.

I am talking like an adult.

And I’m telling you, I want to leave.

Colid suddenly gets loud, angry.

You think you can just take my money for 8 weeks and then walk away the second things get difficult? There it is.

The real accusation.

I paid your rent.

I bought your daughter’s school supplies.

I kept you afloat when you were drowning.

And now, now that you see me, you want to act like I’m some kind of monster.

Ranata backs toward the door.

You lied to me.

Khaled rolls forward, blocking her path.

And you used me.

You took my money.

knowing you’d probably never even get on that plane.

But you did.

You came here and now you owe me at least a conversation.

The word again.

Oh.

Carmela steps forward, hands raised.

Mr.

Khaled, please.

You need to calm down.

Khaled snaps at her, switching to Arabic, then back to English.

Leave us.

Carmemella hesitates, looks at Ranata.

There’s pity in her eyes, but also helplessness.

Then she exits.

Ranata and Khaled are alone.

His voice softens now, almost crying.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to yell.

I just I’m scared.

I’m scared you’re going to leave before you even give me a chance.

Before you see that everything I told you was true.

The feelings, the connection, the love.

That was all real.

Ranata’s back is literally against the wall.

The love was based on a lie.

The love was based on who I am inside.

And that person hasn’t changed.

Stay 3 days.

Just 3 days.

Get to know me, the real me.

If after 3 days you still want to leave, I’ll personally book your flight.

First class, I’ll have my driver take you to the airport, I’ll give you money for your daughters.

I promise.

Just give me 3 days.

And my passport, I’ll keep it in the safe for legal purposes.

But I swear to you, 3 days from now, if you want to leave, you can.

It’s not a fair deal.

She knows it’s not a fair deal.

But what choice does she have? Her voice comes out defeated.

3 days.

Khaled’s entire body relaxes.

Thank you.

Thank you, Ranata.

You won’t regret this.

But she already does.

Later that afternoon, 300 p.

m.

, Ranata has spent hours in her room trying to figure out a backup plan.

She’s Googled the US embassy in Dubai.

It’s 45 minutes away by car, but she doesn’t have a car, her money for a taxi, or her passport to prove she’s American.

Her phone buzzes.

A message from Khaled.

I’d like to show you something.

Come to the living room when you’re ready.

No pressure.

She doesn’t want to go, but staying in the guest room feels like surrender.

When she walks to the living room, Khaled is positioned by the floor to ceiling windows facing the view.

Afternoon sun makes Dubai glow golden.

Behind him, a sound system plays something soft, instrumental, ambient.

He doesn’t turn around.

Do you remember when you told me about your daughters? How Bria loves music and Lily hums all the time.

Ranata is wary.

Yes, you mentioned the songs that make you feel less alone.

Songs that remind you of better times.

I wrote them all down.

He uses voice commands to change the track.

The song Shifts.

It’s Ain’t No Sunshine by Bill Withers.

Ranata’s breath catches.

You said this was playing when you drove your daughters to school for the first time after your divorce.

You cried in the parking lot, but by the time you walked them to class, you were smiling because that’s what mothers do.

The next song, Golden by Jill Scott.

This one was playing the night you got your first paycheck after leaving Jerome.

You bought yourself cheap wine and danced in your kitchen alone.

Next, Lean on Me by Bill Withers.

Your mom used to sing this to you when you were little.

You said it always made you feel safe.

Track after track.

Every song Ranata had mentioned in passing over 8 weeks of conversations.

Songs she didn’t think he’d remember, but he remembered them all.

The music fills the space, warm, familiar, achingly personal.

Ranata can hear her own voice in her memory, mentioning these songs casually, never thinking they mattered.

Carmela has left a tray of Arabic tea in delicate glasses, still steaming.

Ranata’s hands tremble.

She presses them against her sides.

Her chest cracks open because this attention, this care, this memory, it’s the thing she’s been starved for her entire adult life.

Someone who listens.

Someone who remembers.

Khaled finally turns to face her.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking I did this to manipulate you.

But I didn’t.

I made this playlist before I even bought your ticket.

I made it because I wanted you to know.

I see you.

The real you.

Not the version you perform for your bosses or your kids or the men who only want you for one night.

I see the woman who dances in her kitchen, who sings to her daughters, who’s been surviving alone for so long she forgot what it feels like to be seen.

Ranata’s eyes fill with tears because he’s right.

And it’s the crulest thing he could have said.

I’m not asking you to love my body.

I’m asking you to love the man who made you this playlist.

The man who listened when no one else did.

Her voice breaks.

That’s not fair.

I know, but it’s true.

She turns away, wipes her eyes, tries to rebuild the wall he just knocked down.

Stay for dinner, please.

Let me show you who I am when you’re not looking at what I’m not.

And against every instinct, Ranatada nods.

Day two, November 17th, 2024.

7:00 p.

m.

Khaled has arranged a private dinner on the building’s rooftop terrace.

The view is staggering.

Dubai at sunset.

The skyline turning gold and pink.

The Burj Khalifa glowing in the distance.

The table is set for two.

Candles, fresh flowers, a meal prepared by a private chef.

Grilled lamb, rice with saffron, roasted vegetables, Arabic bread.

Carmela is there to assist Khaled with eating, cutting his food into small pieces, holding a glass to his lips when he nods.

It’s intimate and humiliating and deeply human all at once.

The smell of grilled meat mixes with jasmine flowers on the table.

The evening air is warm but pleasant.

The sun is setting, cooling the heat.

Tell me about your daughters.

Really tell me, not just facts.

Tell me who they are.

And so Ranata does.

She tells him about Bria, 9 years old, sharp, skeptical, old beyond her years because she’s had to be.

How she helps with Lily because Rnado works so much.

How she’s fiercely protective and never complains.

She tells him about Lily, 6 years old, gaptoed, giggly, still believes in magic, how she hums made up songs and draws pictures of families that always include a dad even though hers is gone.

She tells him about the guilt, about working double shifts and missing school plays, about feeding them cereal for dinner three nights a week, about the look on Bria’s face when Ranata can’t afford new shoes, and Khaled listens.

Really listens.

When she’s done, there are tears in his eyes.

You’re a good mother.

Ranata gives a bitter laugh.

I’m a struggling mother.

You’re surviving.

That’s more than most people could do.

Silence.

Comfortable this time.

I want to tell you about me, the real me.

And he does.

He tells her about his childhood, about being a normal, energetic six-year-old who loved soccer and running.

Then the illness, autoimmune, aggressive, sudden, how within 6 months his body attacked itself, destroying muscle, nerve, tissue.

He tells her about the amputations, not all at once, but in stages.

First the legs, then months later, the arms.

How he’d wake up from each surgery, hoping it was a nightmare.

He tells her about his parents’ grief.

How they mourn the son they lost even though he was still alive.

I heard my father say to a doctor once.

I was supposed to be asleep, but I wasn’t.

He said, “What kind of life will he have? What woman will ever want him?” His voice breaks.

I was 8 years old and I promised myself I’ll prove him wrong.

I’ll find someone who sees me, not my body.

Me, Ranata says softly.

But you lied to do it.

Because the truth never worked.

They sit in silence as the sun disappears and Dubai lights up like a constellation.

I’m not a good man, Ranata.

But I’m not a monster either.

I’m just desperate and lonely and so tired of being invisible.

Ranata looks at him, really looks at him, past the wheelchair, past the missing limbs, at his face, his eyes, the man she talked to for 8 weeks, and for the first time since she arrived, she feels something other than fear.

She feels sympathy.

Day 3, November 18th, 2024.

10:00 a.

m.

Ranata wakes up feeling different, less terrified, more resigned, maybe even curious.

She walks to the kitchen for coffee.

Carmela is there preparing Collid’s morning medications.

Good morning.

Carmela looks surprised, smiling.

Good morning, Mississippi.

You look rested.

I actually slept last night.

That’s good.

Mr.

Khaled will be happy to hear that.

There’s warmth in Carmela’s voice like she’s genuinely glad Ranata is adjusting.

Ranata asks carefully.

Can I ask you something? How long have you worked for Khaled? 3 years.

What’s he like when guests aren’t around? Carmela pauses, sets down the pill organizer.

Her smile fades slightly.

He’s complicated Mississippi.

What does that mean? Carmela chooses her words carefully.

He’s very generous.

He pays me well.

Sends money to my family in Manila.

But he also needs a lot.

Not just physically, emotionally.

He needs to feel in control because so much of his life he isn’t.

Has he ever heard anyone? Carmela answers quickly.

No, never.

He can’t.

But she trails off.

But Carmemella’s voice drops to almost a whisper.

There have been other women.

Mississippi, not many.

Two that I know of.

They came here, stayed a few days, left very upset.

Ranata’s stomach tightens.

Why? I don’t know details.

Mississippi, but I heard one of them on the phone.

She was crying, saying she felt trapped that Mr.

Khaled wouldn’t let her leave.

But then she did leave.

So maybe she was just scared.

Or maybe Mr.

Khaled learned to let go.

The implication hangs in the air.

Before Ranata can respond, Khaled’s voice comes from the living room.

Carmela, is Ranata awake? Carmela’s face shifts back to professional neutrality.

Yes, Mr.

Khaled.

She’s in the kitchen.

Can you ask her to join me? Carmemella looks at Ranata.

There’s something in her eyes.

Warning, maybe pity, but it disappears.

He’s waiting for you, Mississippi.

Rinado walks to the living room.

Her earlier calm now replaced with unease.

Collet is smiling.

Good morning.

I have a surprise for you.

He uses voice commands to open a presentation on the massive TV screen.

The screen fills with images.

Bank statements showing accounts with millions of dollars.

Property deeds for homes in Dubai, London, Paris.

investment portfolios.

A document titled proposal for Ranada Simmons and family.

I know you’re worried about money, about your daughters, about your future.

So, I want to show you what I can offer.

If you stay, if you give us a real chance, this is what I can give you.

He lists it methodically.

$5,000 a month allowance for her daughters, sent directly to her mother.

Private school tuition, fully paid.

A trust fund for each daughter, $100,000 each, accessible at 18.

A car, hers to keep even if they break up.

A home for her mother in a better neighborhood.

Health insurance for the entire family.

And for Ranada, no more working, no more struggling, just her, him, and a life of comfort.

All I’m asking is that you give me, give us a real chance.

It’s everything Ranata has ever wanted, and it’s terrifying.

Her voice comes out hollow.

This feels like you’re buying me.

I’m not buying you.

I’m investing in our future.

What if I say no? Silence.

Collet’s face shifts just slightly.

The warmth fades.

Something colder replaces it.

His voice is careful.

Then I’ll honor my promise.

I’ll send you home, but you’ll go back to the same life you left, the same struggle, the same exhaustion, and your daughters will keep growing up watching you break yourself just to survive.

It’s not a threat.

It’s a fact.

And it’s the most manipulative thing he said yet.

I need time to think.

Of course.

Take all the time you need.

Ranata walks back to her room, closes the door, sits on the edge of the bed.

She pulls out her phone, opens the voice note from her daughters, plays it again.

Lily’s voice.

Mommy, we miss you already.

Bria’s voice.

Come home soon.

She whispers to the empty room.

I will.

I promise.

I just need to figure out how.

But the truth is, she’s starting to wonder if going home is even possible anymore.

That night, 11:47 p.

m.

, Ranata lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

She hears Khaled’s wheelchair moving past her door, pausing, then continuing.

He’s checking on her, making sure she’s still there.

She pulls the pillow over her face to muffle the sound of her crying because she understands now.

This isn’t love.

This is captivity dressed as romance.

and she has 7 days to figure out how to escape before the choice is made for her.

November 19th, 2024.

Day 4, 2 p.

m.

Khaled is in physical therapy.

Carmela mentioned it happens every afternoon, 2 hours, his bedroom door closed.

Ranata waits until she hears the door shut.

Then she moves.

She takes the elevator down.

Her heart pounds with each descending floor.

When the doors open to the lobby, she steps out onto the polished marble.

She’s almost to the exit when two security guards step forward.

The first guard is polite but firm.

Miss Simmons.

Mr.

Alarscy is concerned.

Please return upstairs.

I’m just going for a walk.

The second guard’s hand moves to his radio.

Mr.

Alarscy has requested you remain in the building for your safety.

It’s not a suggestion, it’s an order.

The smell of marble cleaner hangs in the air.

She can smell coffee on the guard’s breath.

Radiostatic crackles.

The cold marble under her feet feels like ice.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket.

Collet calling.

Her heartbeat thunders in her ears.

She goes back upstairs.

When the elevator doors open to the penthouse, Collet is waiting.

His face is red.

He’s been crying.

His voice shakes.

Why would you do that? After everything, you’re going to embarrass me? Make me look like a monster who imprisons women.

You are imprisoning me.

I’m protecting what we have.

You don’t understand this city.

Women disappear here if they’re not careful.

Then give me my passport and let me leave.

Collet explodes.

You owe me $18,000.

You think you can just take that and run? Silence.

There it is.

The transaction laid bare.

Not love, not connection.

A business deal she never agreed to.

That night, Carmela sedates him per his doctor’s orders.

Ranata lies in the guest room and hears him sobbing through the walls.

The sound is broken, childlike, and it makes her skin crawl.

Days five and six blur together in a mess of emotional whiplash.

One moment, Khaled is reading her poetry he wrote, playing her favorite songs, promising a future where her daughters visit during summers where they build something real together.

The next moment, he’s accusing her of using him, calling her ungrateful, saying she’s just like all the others, shallow, materialistic, incapable of seeing past the surface.

Then he’s crying again, apologizing, begging her to understand.

The penthouse starts to smell different.

Whiskey, even though his medical restrictions forbid alcohol, antiseptic from Carmela’s constant cleaning.

Ranata’s own fierce sweat, sharp and accurate.

The medical equipment in his room beeps constantly.

The hum of his wheelchair motor follows her everywhere.

She hears it in her sleep now, in her dreams, in the moments between waking and terror.

The penthouse feels smaller, hotter.

The air conditioning runs constantly, but she can’t breathe.

The walls seem closer every day.

Her phone becomes her lifeline.

She clutches it constantly, checks for messages from Jasmine, from her mother, from anyone in the world outside this glass cage.

She plays the voicemail from her daughters 30 times a day.

Lily’s voice, Bria’s voice, reminding her why she has to get out.

The guest room door still has no lock.

Day six, November 21st, 2024.

11 p.

m.

Khaled calls her into his room.

He’s in bed, medical monitors beeping steadily.

The room is dim.

His voice comes out as a whisper.

I know you want to leave, but if you do, you’ll spend your whole life wondering if you threw away the only man who ever really saw you.

His eyes are pleading and threatening at once.

It’s a look she’s come to recognize.

The look of someone who believes their loneliness justifies anything.

This isn’t love, Collet.

Then what is it? It’s desperation.

Yours and mine.

Desperate people need each other most.

Ranata backs out of the room.

She doesn’t respond.

There’s nothing left to say.

By day 7, Ranata has been watching, learning, planning.

She’s memorized Carmela’s schedule.

The nurse arrives at 8:00 in the morning, leaves at 4:00 in the afternoon, returns at midnight for the overnight shift, but there’s a gap between 11 and midnight when Carmela takes her cigarette break two floors down in the staff lounge.

She’s memorized the security shifts.

The guards change at 6:00 a.

m.

and 6:00 p.

m.

During the changeover, there’s a 7-minute window when the lobby is less monitored.

She’s memorized the building layout.

The stairwells require key card access, but the service elevator doesn’t.

It’s used by maintenance and delivery staff.

It opens to a back alley, not the main entrance.

And then on day seven, she finds it.

She’s in college’s room.

He’s asked her to bring him water and she sees it, a post-it note stuck under his desk for numbers written in his handwriting.

1704, April 17th, his birthday.

She remembers him mentioning it months ago during one of their late night calls.

The safe combination.

She doesn’t touch it, doesn’t let her expression change.

She brings him the water, waits while Carmela helps him drink, then leaves the room, but she’s memorized those numbers.

1,74.

Her passport isn’t that safe.

Her credit cards, cash, everything she needs to disappear.

That night, Ranatada lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

She’s been in Dubai for 7 days.

7 days of psychological warfare disguised as romance.

7 days of being told she’s ungrateful, selfish, shallow, and in the next breath being told she’s the only woman who ever understood him.

Seven days of captivity dressed as love.

She thinks about her daughters, about the life she left behind, about the desperation that brought her here, and the desperation that might be the only thing that gets her out.

Outside her window, Dubai glitters, golden lights stretching to the horizon.

Beautiful and cold and completely indifferent to her suffering.

She pulls out her phone, opens the voicemail from Lily and Brio one more time.

“Mommy, we miss you already.

Come home soon,” she whispers into the darkness.

I’m trying, babies.

I’m trying.

But trying isn’t enough.

She needs a plan.

She needs an opportunity.

She needs Khaled to make one mistake to let his guard down for just long enough.

And she’s starting to realize that getting out might require her to do something she never thought herself capable of.

Something that crosses a line she can’t uncross.

Day seven ends with K’s wheelchair rolling past her door.

At 11:47 p.

m.

, the mechanical hum stops outside her room.

She holds her breath, waiting.

Is he going to knock? Is he going to demand she come out? Is he going to roll in uninvited because there’s no lock to stop him? The second stretch.

10 20 30.

Then the hum starts again.

The wheelchair continues down the hall.

Ranata exhales.

Her hands are shaking.

She presses them against her chest, trying to slow her heartbeat.

She’s been here 7 days.

The original 3-day agreement has passed.

Khaled hasn’t mentioned it.

hasn’t offered to book her flight home.

Hasn’t kept his promise because he never intended to.

She knows that now.

She’s known it since day four when the security guard stopped her in the lobby.

But knowing it and accepting it are different things.

An acceptance means she has to act.

The combination burns in her mind.

1704.

Her ticket out, her only chance.

She just needs the right moment and the courage to take it.

Ranata had found Carmela’s phone schedule.

She’d memorized the building security shifts.

She knew the nurse took cigarette breaks at 11:00 p.

m.

She was planning something.

She just didn’t know yet how far she’d have to go, but she was about to find out.

November 24th, 2024.

Day 10.

9:30 p.

m.

Klet has been drinking expensive whiskey despite Carmela’s warnings about his medications.

When Ranata enters the living room, she can smell it on his breath.

Sharp, acid, mixing with his cologne.

His words come out slurred, cruel.

You think you can just take my money and leave? You’re no different than a prostitute.

At least they’re honest about the transaction.

Ranata stands up.

I’m done.

I’m leaving tonight.

Khaled’s wheelchair blocks the hallway.

With what? No passport, no money, no way out.

Then I’ll call the embassy.

He laughs bitterly and tell them what? That you came here willingly? That you took my money for months? That you’re a foreign woman accusing an Emirati citizen? Good luck.

He lunges forward, not to attack, but to plead.

The motorized wheelchair jerks forward with surprising speed.

Ranata steps back instinctively.

Her heel catches the decorative rug.

She stumbles backward.

Her shoulder slams into the glass side table.

The sound of shattering glass explodes through the penthouse.

Her scream follows, then terrible silence.

She’s on the floor.

Blood blooms through her shirt.

A deep gash from the glass.

Glass shards dig into her palms.

The marble floor is cold beneath her.

She tastes copper.

She’s bitten her lip without realizing it.

Collet stares in horror.

Oh god, Ranata.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean, but she’s already scrambling up.

Adrenaline screaming through her veins.

She runs.

She tries the stairwell.

Locked.

Needs key card access.

She tries the main elevator.

Locked.

Needs key card access.

Every exit requires access.

She doesn’t have.

She ends up back in the living room, grabbing a towel from the bathroom to press against her bleeding shoulder.

The white fabric turns red almost immediately.

Collet is in the hallway calling after her.

Please, let me call the doctor.

You’re hurt.

Please.

She ignores him.

Her mind is racing.

She needs the passport.

She needs the elevator key card.

She needs out.

His voice breaks.

I’ll give you the passport tomorrow.

I promise.

Just let me help you.

Stay away from me.

She locks herself in the guest bathroom, the only door in the entire penthouse with a lock.

She presses the towel against her wound, watches blood seep through the white fabric.

Her phone buzzes.

A text from Khalid.

I’m so sorry.

Please come out.

Let Carmela look at your shoulder.

She doesn’t respond.

The minutes crawl by.

10:45 p.

m.

She hears the penthouse door open.

Carmela has arrived early.

Khaled must have called her.

Hush conversation in Arabic.

The clink of medicine bottles.

Carmemella’s calm, professional voice trying to soo him.

11:20 p.

m.

The penthouse goes quiet.

College sedatives have kicked in.

Ranata hears his bedroom door close.

The mechanical hum of his wheelchair fades.

11:38 p.

m.

Ranata emerges from the bathroom.

Her shoulder throbs with every movement.

The bleeding has slowed but hasn’t stopped.

She needs stitches, but she’s not thinking about that now.

She walks to Khaled’s bedroom.

The door is slightly a jar.

She pushes it open slowly, listening for any sound.

Inside, Khaled is asleep in his wheelchair, positioned in his sleep posture near the window.

Medical equipment beeps steadily beside him.

His chest rises and falls in the deep rhythm of sedated sleep.

He’s strapped in with safety positioning belts, standard protocol to prevent him from sliding out during sleep.

She spots the safe under his desk.

She remembers the combination.

1704, April 17th, his birthday.

She’s getting her passport.

She’s getting out tonight.

But first, she needs the elevator key card.

She scans the room.

Where would he keep it? Her eyes move across the nightstand, the desk, the medical card beside his bed, and then she sees it on his nightstand, 3 ft from where she stands.

The key card right there.

She moves toward it carefully.

Her sneakers are silent on the carpet.

Her breathing sounds loud in her own ears.

The medical equipment beeps steadily.

Khaled doesn’t move.

She reaches for the key card and that’s when Khaled’s wheelchair starts rolling.

Maybe she bumped it as she passed.

Maybe the motor malfunctioned.

Maybe the floor is slightly slanted and the brake wasn’t fully engaged.

But the wheelchair positioned near the sunken entertainment area.

A two-foot drop in the floor design begins to move slowly at first, then faster.

Collet is strapped in sleep positioning to prevent him from sliding out during the night.

The safety straps that are supposed to protect him now trap him.

The wheelchair tips forward.

Collet’s body lurches with it.

His head hits the marble floor of the sunken area first.

The sound is sickening, soft and hard at the same time, like a melon wrapped in cloth.

Ranata freezes.

Blood begins pooling immediately, dark and spreading across the white Italian marble.

Time stops.

Ranata stands there, her hands still outstretched toward the nightstand where the key card sits.

Her brain can’t process what just happened.

The medical equipment starts alarming.

Irregular heartbeat, dropping oxygen levels.

Colid’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, glassy.

Blood bubbles at his lips.

Run.

His voice is barely a whisper.

Please don’t leave me.

His chest rises and falls, shallow, wet, struggling.

Ranata’s hand drops to her side.

She looks at him, at the blood, at the wheelchair tipped on its side, 3 ft away, at the medical monitors, screaming their warnings.

She has her phone in her pocket.

She could call for help.

She could scream for Carmela two floors down.

She could dial emergency services.

She could save him.

Her hand moves to her phone.

Her thumb unlocks the screen.

The emergency dial screen appears.

And then she stops.

She thinks about the last 10 days.

The lies.

The manipulation.

The passport locked in a safe.

She couldn’t access.

The security guards who stopped her in the lobby.

The elevator that required a key card she didn’t have.

The constant surveillance.

The emotional whiplash.

The way he screamed at her one moment and cried the next.

The way he told her she owed him.

The way he called her a prostitute just hours ago.

the way he brought her here under false pretenses and made her a prisoner in a golden cage.

She thinks about her daughters Lily and Bria waiting for her in Houston growing up watching their mother break herself trying to survive.

She thinks about the life she left behind.

The desperation that brought her here, the bigger desperation that might be the only thing that gets her out.

She thinks about the choice in front of her.

Save him or save herself.

Her hand moves away from her phone.

She bends down slowly, picks up the elevator key card from where it fell during the accident, slips it into her pocket.

She walks to the safe under his desk, kneels down, enters the combination.

1704.

The safe clicks open.

Inside, her passport, her credit cards, cash, $2,400, everything she needs to disappear.

She takes it all, puts her passport in her back pocket, the cash in her front pocket, the credit cards in her phone case.

She stands up, looks at Khaled one more time.

His eyes are closed now.

His breathing has changed, more labored, rattling.

The medical equipment continues its frantic beeping.

She whispers, “I’m sorry.

” He doesn’t respond, doesn’t open his eyes.

Blood continues to pull beneath his head.

Ranata turns and walks out of the room.

The time is 11:43 p.

m.

Ranata goes to the guest room.

Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely grip her suitcase.

She throws in only essentials.

Clothes, toiletries, her phone charger, the photo of her daughters she keeps on the nightstand.

Her shoulder screams with pain, but adrenaline overrides it.

She walks back through the living room one final time.

Khaled is still in his bedroom, still breathing, still alive, barely.

She could still call for help.

She could still save him, but she doesn’t.

She presses the button for the elevator.

The key card in her hand feels like it weighs 1,000 lb.

The elevator doors open.

She steps inside.

The doors close.

Her reflection stares back at her from the polished gold interior.

Passport clutched in trembling hands.

Tears streaming down her face.

The elevator descends.

47 46 45.

Each floor that passes is another second colid lies bleeding on that marble floor.

Another second his brain swells.

Another second closer to irreversible damage.

She knows this.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

This is murder.

You know this is murder.

You’re choosing this.

But her legs don’t stop moving.

The elevator reaches the ground floor.

The doors open to the back service area, not the main lobby.

No security guards.

No witnesses.

She walks through the service corridor.

Out the back door into the alley behind the building.

The Dubai air hits her.

Hot, thick, free.

She’s out.

She flags down a taxi within minutes.

The driver doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t seem to notice the blood on her shirt.

She tells him in broken English.

Airport, please.

Fast.

He nods and drives.

The time is 12:37 a.

m.

November 25th, 2024.

Carmela enters the penthouse for her scheduled overnight shift.

She finds Khaled unconscious in a pool of blood, his wheelchair tipped over, medical equipment screaming.

She screams.

She calls emergency services.

She calls his family.

The ambulance arrives 13 minutes later.

13 minutes after Rinado walked out.

13 minutes during which Khalid’s brain continued to swell.

13 minutes that reduced his chances of survival to nearly zero.

By the time the paramedics load him into the ambulance, significant damage has already been done.

Khalid Al Farcy will never wake up.

6:47 a.

m.

Dubai International Airport.

Ranata boards her flight to Houston.

Business class.

one-way ticket she booked on the penthouse computer hours earlier while Khalid lay bleeding.

She’s still wearing the bloody shirt under a jacket she grabbed from the guest room.

Her shoulder needs medical attention, but she’ll deal with that in Houston.

As the plane lifts off, Dubai shrinks beneath her.

Golden and glittering and unreal, beautiful and terrible and 7,000 m away.

She closes her eyes and sees his face, hears his voice.

Please don’t leave me.

She doesn’t know it yet, but there’s something in her jacket pocket.

Khaled’s medical alert bracelet.

The one with his emergency contacts.

It must have fallen off during the accident.

She grabbed it without thinking when she took the key card.

She’s carrying evidence.

And in 3 weeks, the FBI will come knocking.

November 26th, 2024, Houston, Texas.

Ranata lands at George Bush Intercontinental Airport at 11:34 p.

m.

She takes an Uber home, pays the driver in cash, doesn’t make eye contact.

Her mother is waiting with Lily and Bria.

The girls are asleep on the couch.

Her mother takes one look at Ranata’s face and knows something terrible has happened.

What did he do to you? Ranata’s voice comes out flat.

It didn’t work out.

I came home.

Her mother doesn’t push, just hugs her.

Ranata stands there stiff, unable to return the embrace.

She carries her daughters to bed, tucks them in, kisses their foreheads.

They don’t wake up.

That night, she lies in her own bed, staring at the ceiling.

Every time she closes her eyes, she sees Khaled’s face, the blood pooling on white marble, his voice.

Please don’t leave me.

She doesn’t sleep.

Week one passes in a fog.

Ranata goes back to work at Southwest Telecom Solutions, takes customer service calls, apologizes for billing errors, explains payment plans.

Her voice sounds normal, professional, like nothing happened, but her co-workers notice something’s off.

She jumps at loud sounds, checks her phone constantly, takes bathroom breaks where she stands in the stall, and tries to breathe.

At home, she tucks her daughters in every night.

Checks the locks on the doors once, twice, three times.

Make sure the windows are secure.

Turns on the porch light.

Checks the locks again.

Lily asks one night.

Mommy, why do you keep checking the door? Just making sure we’re safe, baby.

Safe from what? Ranata doesn’t have an answer.

Week 2, December 3rd, 2024.

Jasmine comes over for coffee.

She takes one look at Ranatada and knows something is deeply wrong.

What happened in Dubai? It didn’t work out.

Run.

You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I’m fine.

Jasmine leans forward.

No, you’re not.

You’ve lost weight.

You’ve got circles under your eyes.

You won’t look me in the eye.

What happened? I said it didn’t work out.

He wasn’t who he said he was.

I came home.

That’s it.

That’s not it.

Talk to me.

But Ranata can’t because if she starts talking, she won’t be able to stop.

And if she tells the truth, Jasmine will know what she did, what she chose, what she became.

I’m fine, Jazz.

Really, I just need time.

Jasmine doesn’t believe her, but she doesn’t push.

December 5th, 2024, week 2, day 10.

Ranata is at work when her phone buzzes.

A news alert.

She clicks it without thinking.

The headline appears.

Prominent Dubai businessman Khaled Al Farcy dies following accidental fall.

Authorities investigating timeline discrepancies in medical response.

The article continues, “Alarscy, 34, suffered fatal head trauma on November 24th in his residence.

Sources close to the family report concerns about the delay in emergency response.

Dubai police confirm an investigation is underway.

” Ranata’s hands start shaking.

She drops her phone, runs to the bathroom, locks herself in a stall, vomits.

She sits on the bathroom floor.

Her whole body trembles.

He’s dead.

Collet is dead.

She knew it was coming.

Knew it the moment she walked away.

But seeing it in writing makes it real.

She’s a murderer.

Her supervisor knocks on the bathroom door 20 minutes later.

Ranata, you okay in there? Yeah.

Sorry, I’m not feeling well.

I think I need to go home.

She goes home, lies to her mother, says she has a stomach bug, lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

Week three, December 12th, 2024.

Ranata hasn’t slept more than two hours a night since she got back.

She jumps every time someone knocks on the door, checks the news obsessively, searches for updates about Khaled’s death, about investigations about foreign nationals questioned in Dubai.

She finds nothing, but the silence is worse than knowing.

December 14th, 2024, 3:47 a.

m.

Two sharp knocks on her apartment door.

Ranatada wakes up instantly.

Her heart pounds.

She knows.

Somehow she knows.

She walks to the door, looks through the peepphole.

Two people in dark suits.

Federal agents.

She can see the badges clipped to their belts.

She opens the door.

The woman speaks first.

Ranata Simmons.

Yes.

I’m Special Agent Torres with the FBI.

This is Special Agent Kim.

We need to talk about your recent trip to Dubai.

Ranata’s legs give out.

She grabs the door frame to keep from falling.

They don’t arrest her immediately.

They ask if they can come inside.

She says yes because saying no would make her look guilty.

They sit at her small kitchen table.

Agent Torres does most of the talking.

Her voice is calm, professional, but Ranata can hear the suspicion underneath.

We’re working with Dubai authorities on an investigation into the death of Khaled Alarscy.

We understand you were staying with him at the time of his accident.

I was there.

Yes.

Can you walk us through what happened on the night of November 24th? Ranata’s mouth goes dry.

I don’t remember exact times.

We had an argument.

I went to my room.

The next morning, I left for the airport.

Agent Kim leans forward.

You left the morning of the 25th.

Yes.

What time? Around 6:00 a.

m.

And where was Mr.

Al Farcy when you left? In his room, sleeping, I think.

Agent Torres watches her carefully.

The building security footage shows you leaving at 12:30 a.

m.

on the 25th, not 6:00 a.

m.

Silence.

Ranata’s heart pounds so hard she’s sure they can hear it.

I must have been confused about the time.

Security footage shows you leaving the building at 12:30 a.

m.

The nurse didn’t discover Mr.

Al Farcy until 12:37 a.

m.

, which means you left him there alive, injured, and alone with no one aware he needed help.

More silence.

Agent Torres continues, “Dubai police recovered your fingerprints on Mr.

Al Farcy’s safe on his bedroom door frame on the elevator key card found in your jacket pocket when you went through airport security.

” Ranata can’t breathe.

They also recovered this.

Agent Kim places an evidence bag on the table.

Inside is Khaled’s medical alert bracelet.

Miss Simmons, you’re under arrest for criminally negligent homicide.

They read her rights, handcuff her.

Her mother wakes up, sees what’s happening, grabs Lily and Bria before they can see, but they do see.

Bria screams.

Lily cries.

Her mother holds them while Ranata is led away.

In the back of the police car, Ranata finally breaks.

Tears stream down her face.

Her voice comes out choked.

I didn’t kill him.

I just didn’t save him.

Agent Torres, sitting in the front seat, turns around.

Her voice is not unkind, but it’s firm.

Ma’am, that’s the same thing.

and Ranata knows she’s right.

March 18th, 2025, Houston, Texas, Federal District Court.

The trial of Ranata Simmons begins 4 months after her arrest.

The charge, criminally negligent homicide, a class A felony carrying 5 to 15 years in prison.

The legal basis is straightforward.

Under Good Samaritan laws and federal statutes governing duty to render aid, Ranata had a legal obligation to call for help when she witnessed a life-threatening medical emergency.

Her failure to act directly contributed to Khaled Alarscy’s death.

The courtroom is packed.

Khaled’s family sits in the front row on the prosecution side.

His brother Rashid, the man from the photos, his mother dressed in black, her face a mask of grief and rage.

On the defense side sits Ranata’s mother holding Lily and Bria.

The girls are nine and six now.

Old enough to understand their mother is on trial.

Old enough to know she might not come home.

The prosecution is led by US attorney Lauren Hayes, a veteran prosecutor known for her methodical approach and her ability to make juries feel the weight of moral failure.

Her opening statement is devastating.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is about a choice.

On November 24th, 2024, Ranata Simmons stood in a penthouse in Dubai and watched a man die.

She had a phone in her hand.

She had time.

She had every opportunity to call for help.

But she didn’t because leaving was easier than staying because her freedom was worth more than his life.

She presents her evidence piece by piece.

Security footage showing Ranata leaving the building at 12:43 a.

m.

The time stamp is clear, undeniable.

Medical examiner testimony.

Dr.

Frank Williams takes the stand and explains in clinical detail.

The patient suffered an epidural hematoma, bleeding between the skull and brain.

With immediate intervention, survival rate is 60 to 70%.

The 47minute delay reduced survival to near zero.

Financial records showing $18,000 transferred from Khaled to Ranata over 8 weeks.

The prosecutor frames it as a transaction.

She took his money and when it came time to pay him back, not with affection, not with companionship, but with basic human decency, she walked away.

And finally, Ranata’s own confession.

The recording from the police car, her voice shaking.

I didn’t kill him.

I just didn’t save him.

Hayes looks at the jury.

She just didn’t save him.

As if that’s somehow different.

As if choosing not to act isn’t the same as choosing to let someone die.

The defense attorney is Garrett Pierce, a public defender who specializes in cases involving domestic abuse and coercive control.

He’s passionate, relentless, and believes deeply that Ranata is a victim, not a criminal.

His opening statement reframes everything.

This isn’t a story about a woman who let a man die.

This is a story about a woman who escaped captivity.

Khalid al Farars lured my client to Dubai under false pretenses.

He took her passport.

He stationed security guards to prevent her from leaving.

He monitored her location.

He isolated her from everyone she knew.

And when she finally saw an opportunity to escape, she took it.

That’s not murder.

That’s survival.

PICE presents his own evidence.

Text messages from college showing escalating control.

Where are you right now? Send me a photo.

Block him or I’ll assume you’re hiding something.

You’re mine now.

Testimony from Carmela, the nurse, who reluctantly admits under oath.

There were other women before Miss Simmons.

Two that I know of.

They left upset.

One told me she felt trapped.

Security footage showing Ranatada trying to leave on day four only to be turned back by guards.

PICE pauses the video.

She tried to leave.

They stopped her.

That’s called illegal detention.

And testimony from Dr.

Evelyn Harris, a psychologist specializing in trauma.

When a person experiences prolonged coercive control, their decision-making becomes impaired.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

These aren’t rational choices, their survival instincts.

Miss Simmons didn’t decide to let Mr.

Alfars die.

She decided to survive.

The most painful moment comes when Ranata takes the stand.

Prosecutor Hayes approaches slowly, deliberately.

Miss Simmons, you had your phone with you when you found Mr.

Al Farcy injured, correct? Yes.

And your phone was working.

Yes.

You could have called 911.

Ah, yes.

You could have screamed for the nurse who was two floors below.

I suppose.

You suppose, Miss Simmons.

The penthouse wasn’t soundproof.

If you had screamed, Carmela would have heard you.

Correct.

Ranata’s voice cracks.

I wasn’t thinking clearly.

You weren’t thinking or you were thinking and you decided that letting him die was easier than facing the consequences of staying.

Ranata breaks down on the stand.

Tears stream down her face.

Her voice comes out choked.

I was terrified.

I just wanted to go home.

I just wanted to see my daughters.

So, you left him to die? I didn’t mean.

Did you call for help, Miss Simmons? Yes or no? Silence.

Miss Simmons, did you call for help? No.

No further questions.

The jury deliberates for 11 hours over 2 days.

When they return, the four woman stands.

In the case of United States versus Ranatada Simmons on the charge of criminally negligent homicide, how do you find? We find the defendant guilty.

The courtroom erupts.

Khaled’s mother sobs.

His brother Rashid stares at Ranata with a look of cold satisfaction.

On the other side, Lily and Bria scream.

Ranata’s mother collapses into her seat, holding the girls as they cry.

Ranata stands frozen.

Her lawyer touches her arm, but she doesn’t move.

She just stares at her daughters.

Two weeks later, the sentencing hearing.

Judge Patricia Moreno has reviewed the case extensively.

She’s read the psychological evaluations, the victim impact statements, the letters from Ranata’s employer, her mother, her friends.

When she speaks, her voice is measured but firm.

Miss Simmons, I don’t doubt that you were in a difficult situation.

I don’t doubt that Mr.

Al Farcy exercised control over you, but the law is clear.

You had a duty to render aid.

Your failure to do so directly contributed to his death.

This court cannot ignore that.

She pauses.

However, I also recognize the coercive circumstances you experienced.

Therefore, I am sentencing you to 12 years in federal prison with eligibility for parole after 6 years.

Ranata’s knees buckle.

Her lawyer catches her.

12 years.

Her daughters will be 15 and 12 when she’s eligible for parole.

21 and 18 when she’s released.

She turns to look at them one last time before the marshalss take her away.

Lily is sobbing.

Bria is staring at her, face pale, eyes filled with something Ranata can’t read.

Betrayal, understanding both.

Ranata mouths to them.

I’m sorry.

Then the marshalss lead her away.

Khaled’s family releases a statement after the sentencing.

Justice has been served.

Our son, our brother, died alone and terrified.

No sentence can bring him back, but we hope this provides some measure of accountability.

Ranata’s mother releases her own statement.

My daughter is not a murderer.

She’s a survivor who made an impossible choice under impossible circumstances.

We will continue to fight for her freedom.

But for now, Ranata Simmons is inmate number 47815 at FMC Carwell Federal Prison in Fort Worth, Texas.

And the question that haunts everyone who followed the trial remains unanswered.

Was she a victim who escaped captivity or a killer who chose convenience over a human life? The jury decided, but the rest of us are still trying to figure it out.

Present day FMC Carwell Federal Prison, Fort Worth, Texas.

Ranata Simmons is 32 years old now.

She’s been incarcerated for 8 months.

Model inmate attends therapy three times a week.

writes letters to her daughters every Monday without fail.

A journalist sits across from her in the prison library, recording device on the table between them.

The question hangs in the air.

Do you regret what happened? Ranata takes a long pause.

Her hands are folded on the table.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady.

I regret that he’s dead.

I regret that he was so lonely.

He felt like lying was his only option.

But do I regret leaving him there? Another pause.

I don’t know.

Because if I’d stayed, if id called for help, I’d still be trapped.

Maybe not in Dubai, but trapped in his world, in his need, in his version of what love should look like.

And I couldn’t let my daughters grow up thinking that’s normal.

That’s what I was running from.

The journalist leans forward.

So you don’t regret it.

Ranata meets her eyes.

I regret that surviving made me a criminal.

Khaled’s family has spoken publicly only once since the trial.

His brother Rashid, the man from the photos, the face Ranatada thought she was coming to meet, gave an interview 3 months ago.

My brother was lonely.

He made terrible choices.

He manipulated someone vulnerable.

But he didn’t deserve to die alone on a marble floor.

He didn’t deserve to spend his last conscious moments begging for help that never came.

The Alfarsy family has since established the Colid Alarscy Foundation, an organization dedicated to helping people with disabilities find genuine companionship.

They’ve implemented strict verification protocols, background checks, and counseling services, trying to turn their grief into something that prevents others from making the same mistakes Khaled made.

Ranata’s daughters visit once a month.

Every second Saturday during the most recent visit, Lily pressed her hand against the visitation glass.

When are you coming home? Ranata pressed her hand to the other side.

Five more years, baby, if parole goes well.

That’s forever.

I know.

Bria sits quietly during most visits.

She’s old enough now to understand what happened.

Old enough to have Googled the trial.

Old enough to have read the comments online.

Calling her mother a murderer, calling her a victim, calling her both.

She doesn’t ask questions anymore.

She just sits there watching her mother trying to figure out how to feel about the woman who gave her life and then made a choice that took her away.

So, here’s the question that everyone who hears this story has to answer for themselves.

When does self-preservation become a crime? When you’re trapped 7,000 mi from home with no passport, no money, and a man unconscious on the floor.

What do you do? Do you save him? Even if saving him means staying trapped in a situation that’s been suffocating you for 10 days, or do you leave? Even if leaving means he dies, Ranata made her choice.

She walked away.

She took the elevator down 47 floors while Khaled lay bleeding.

She boarded a plane while his brain swelled.

She chose herself.

A jury heard her story and decided she was guilty.

12 people agreed.

She had a duty to help and she failed.

But sitting here now knowing everything you know about those 10 days, the lies, the control, the passport locked away, the security guards blocking exits, do you agree with them in that moment in that penthouse with your freedom in one hand and someone else’s life in the other? What would you do? And the question remains, was justice served, or did the system punish a woman for choosing survival over sacrifice? There’s no easy answer.

There never is.

When desperation forces people into corners they never should have been in.

But the question sits with you now.

And maybe that’s the point.

What would you have done? Thank you for staying until the end.

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