He gripped her hand hard, fingers wrapped tight around her wrist like he was scared she’d bolt again.
He pulled her out of the hotel lobby. The automatic doors slid shut behind them with that quiet whoosh. Outside it was still dark, early morning, the kind of dawn where the sky is this deep blue-black and the sun hasn’t even thought about showing up yet.
Streetlights threw long yellow patches on the empty sidewalk. A black Range Rover sat waiting at the curb, engine rumbling low.
Yahzaan opened the back door and basically pushed her in. She stumbled a little, legs still shaky but he caught her elbow before she could fall flat. Then he got in after her.
The driver didn’t say anything, didn’t even look back. Just pulled away from the curb and eased into the empty roads. Dubai at this hour looked half-asleep, only a few delivery vans crawling on the almost empty roads, the Burj Khalifa glowing faintly in the distance like it never turns off.
Layla sat next to him, head down, crying quietly. Tears just kept falling, soaking into her hands where she was clutching her Abaya. No big sobs, no noise, just this steady, silent weeping that filled the whole car.
It was pissing him off.
He was already frustrated as hell with her for running, with himself for letting it get this messy, with the whole damn situation. But seeing her cry like that… something inside him twisted. A part of him actually hated it.
He couldn’t stand it anymore.
He yanked his phone out of his pocket, scrolled fast, and clicked on the only name he know could do anything for him.
Emad picked up after two rings.
No hello, no nothing.
“Arrange a maazoun at my penthouse,” Yahzaan said, voice low and sharp. “I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
Emad started to say something probably “What?” or “Why now?” but Yahzaan cut the call before the guy could get a word out.
He tossed the phone onto the seat between them. It landed with a soft thump and the screen went black.
Layla flinched at the sound, shoulders curling in even more. Another tear slid down her cheek.
Yahzaan stared straight ahead, jaw locked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say anything.
The forty-minute ride felt like decades.
Layla sat pressed against the door, body rigid, tears still slipping down her cheeks in quiet tracks. She didn’t wipe them. Didn’t make a sound. Just stared at her lap, arms wrapped tight around herself like that could hold everything together. Yahzaan didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her. Just stared out the tinted window as the city blurred past, dark towers, empty highways, the first faint streaks of dawn turning the sky gray.
When the car finally slowed and stopped in front of a sleek, glass-and-steel tower in Downtown Dubai, the silence snapped like a rubber band.
Yahzaan got out first. Reached back in, grabbed her wrist again tight and pulled her out with him. She stumbled on the curb, her feet hitting cold marble, but he didn’t slow down. He almost dragged her through the empty lobby, past the single security guard who nodded once and looked away fast. Private elevator doors slid open. He shoved her inside. Hit the top-floor button. Doors closed.
The whole ride up he never let go of her hand. His grip stayed locked...hard enough to bruise, She could feel his pulse through his fingers, fast and angry. Her own hand went numb.
Three minutes later the doors opened straight into the penthouse.
Expansive. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the sleeping city below. Low lights. The faint smell of leather and oud.
And two men waiting.
A middle-aged man in a simple white thobe and ghutra, a maazoun, he stood near the center of the room, hands clasped, looking mildly confused. Beside him was Emad ul Hassan...Yahzaan’s right-hand man, friend since university, the one who handled the things nobody else could ask about. Emad’s face was blank, but his eyes flicked from Yahzaan to Layla and back again. He didn’t understand. Neither did the maazoun.
Yahzaan didn’t stop. Pulled Layla across the room, and sat on the wide leather couch, he yanked her down beside him. She landed awkwardly, knees bumping his, still clutching her Abaya, Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen at the corners.
That pissed him off more.
“Stop crying, Layla,” he snapped, voice low and rough.
She flinched hard...like he’d slapped her. A fresh tear slid free anyway.
He ignored it. Turned to the maazoun.
The older man shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Emad, then back.
Yahzaan didn’t wait.
“I want to marry her,” he said, flatly. “Start reading the nikah right now.”
The room went dead quiet.
Emad’s eyebrows shot up. The maazoun blinked once, twice then cleared his throat, looking between them like he was waiting for someone to say it was a joke.
No one did.
Layla’s breathing hitched. A tiny, broken sound escaped her barely audible but Yahzaan felt it in the way her wrist trembled under his grip.
The maazoun swallowed. Adjusted his ghutra. Opened the small leather book in his hands.
“Very well,” he said quietly. “If both parties consent…”
Yahzaan’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t look at Layla.
“Sir… for the nikah to be valid, both parties must consent clearly and willingly,” he said carefully, voice soft but firm. “And the bride must have a wali (guardian) or at least two witnesses who can attest to her agreement if she has no guardian present. This is… sudden. I must ask...”
“I am her wali in this moment,” Yahzaan cut in, voice flat, no room for argument. “She has no living father. No brothers. Her uncle disowned any claim years ago. I am taking that role. Proceed.”
Emad shifted his weight, arms crossed, eyes narrowing slightly. He opened his mouth probably to say something reasonable like “Yahzaan, what the hell is this?”
But one look from Yahzaan shut him up fast. Emad exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, and stayed silent.
The maazoun hesitated. Looked at Layla.
She was staring at the floor. Her shoulders trembling. Red-rimmed eyes. Pale face. She looked small and broken.
The maazoun’s expression softened, pity flickered across his face.
“Child,” he said gently, addressing her directly, “do you consent to this marriage? Speak clearly. Yes or no. No one will force you here.”
Layla’s lips parted. A shaky breath escaped.
Yahzaan’s grip on her wrist tightened just a fraction. Not painful. Warning.
She flinched again. Swallowed hard. Voice came out barely above a whisper, cracked and raw.
“I… I consent.”
The words sounded like they were dragged out of her.
The maazoun waited. Watched her face for any sign she was lying. She didn’t meet his eyes. Just kept staring at the marble floor, tears splashing silently onto the black fabric of her abaya.
After a long beat, the maazoun nodded slowly.
“Very well.”
He opened the book. Adjusted his glasses. Began the recitation in calm, measured Arabic.
“Ijab… qabul…”
Yahzaan answered first.
“I accept.”
The maazoun turned to Layla.
“Now you, daughter. Repeat after me: I accept Sheikh Yahzaan bin Saeed as my husband, in the presence of Allah and these witnesses, according to the Sunnah of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”
Layla’s chest rose and fell fast under the abaya. Fresh tears falling fastly. She opened her mouth but Nothing came out.
Yahzaan leaned in slightly close enough that only she could hear the quiet warning under his breath.
“Say it, Layla.”
Her lips trembled. The hijab shifted again as she bowed her head lower.
“I… accept Sheikh Yahzaan Al Saeed as my husband… in the presence of Allah and these witnesses… according to the Sunnah of the Prophet… peace be upon him.”
The words were soft. Broken. Barely audible.
But they were there.
The maazoun exhaled almost like relief mixed with something heavier.
“Mabrook,” he murmured automatically, though the word felt empty in the room. “The nikah is complete. Two witnesses are present...myself and Mr. Emad. The mahr?”
Yahzaan didn’t hesitate.
“One million dirhams, paid immediately. Transfer will be done before the hour is out.”
Emad pulled out his phone without being asked...already opening the banking app.
The maazoun nodded once more and closed the book.
“It is done. May Allah bless this union.”
He looked like he wanted to say more advice, dua, something kind but Yahzaan’s expression stopped him cold.
The maazoun bowed his head slightly.
“I will take my leave.”
Emad escorted him to the elevator. The doors closed behind them.
Silence crashed back in and Yahzaan finally released her wrist.
Red marks bloomed where his fingers had been.
He stood up. Walked to the bar cart in the corner. Poured himself a glass of water Then he turned back to her.
“You’re my wife now.”
“Layla Yahzaan Al Saeed.”
And just like that, fate closed the door behind her, her heart went silent and every hope she had ever whispered to God died without making a sound.
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End of the chapter🤍
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