God knew how long she had been sitting under the water.
The shower had gone from scalding to freezing. Her lips had turned blue, her fingertips wrinkled like old paper, her skin pruned and pale. Layla didn’t feel the cold anymore...not really. It was just another layer of numbness piled on top of everything else. Eventually, some faint instinct for survival made her push herself upright. Her legs shook as she stood.
She washed her body mechanically trying to erase what couldn’t be erased. For a moment, the water ran pink from the dried blood and soreness between her thighs. She stared as it swirled down the drain, watching until it turned clear again.
Her body ached everywhere, beyond sore. Her legs trembled, and with every small movement she could still feel him inside her.
She wanted to cry out, to scream...but whose fault was this?
Who was there to blame?
No one but her.
So, with trembling legs, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in the thick white robe hanging behind the door. It smelled faintly of clean laundry and something expensive she couldn’t name. It was too big. Too soft. It swallowed her whole.
Her stomach twisted with sharp, hollow cramps again. As much as she wanted to ignore it, to pretend her body could shut down and disappear...she was still human. Hunger didn’t care about shame or guilt or broken prayers. It demanded.
With slow, careful steps, she made her way downstairs, bare feet against the floor. Each step down felt like a battle; every movement sent pain through her, a soft wince slipping from her lips despite herself.
She had assumed the penthouse would be empty but it wasn’t.
As she stepped inside the kitchen, her eyes fell on Two women working in the kitchen. One was dusting the high shelves near the breakfast bar. The other stood at the island, chopping vegetables with a steady, practiced rhythm. Both paused when Layla appeared in the doorway.
In any other situation, she would have been embarrassed to face them. But right now, embarrassment felt irrelevant. She was drowning in self-loathing, guilt, and pity.
They exchanged a quick glance, barely a second, but Layla caught it. Their eyes swept over her: the oversized robe slipping off her shoulders, damp hair clinging to her neck, bare feet, the faint red marks visible where the robe gaped at the collar.
She wasn’t a child. She understood exactly what that look meant.
Shame. Disgust.
And from their expressions, she could tell it wasn’t new to them.
Heat crawled up her neck, shame so sharp it hurt. She wanted to turn and run back upstairs, lock herself in the bathroom again, hide under the covers until the world forgot she existed. But she didn’t have the strength. Her legs felt like they would give out if she tried to climb the stairs again.
So she stayed, took a deep breath, the kind that barely made it past her chest. Then she lowered her head and went to the fridge.
She didn’t really look. She couldn’t bring herself to. Her hand reached in and closed around the first thing it touched, a small container of strawberry yogurt, cold against her palm. That was enough. More than enough. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. She’d learned that lesson early, and she wasn’t about to test it now.
She shut the fridge quietly and walked out of the kitchen, eyes down, shoulders drawn in, as if moving carefully enough might make her invisible.
All she wanted was to vanish. To slip out of the moment, out of the house, out of herself. But wanting had never changed anything for her. It never did. So instead, she went to the chair by the floor-to-ceiling window and sat down.
She curled into herself on the seat, folding inward, knees pulled close, robe gathered tight like a shield that didn’t quite work. The yogurt rested unopened in her hands. She didn’t eat it yet. She just held it, numbly, hopelessly.
Her gaze drifted toward the glass, but she wasn’t really seeing the view beyond it.
In the quiet of her own chest, she prayed. Not aloud. Not properly. Just a small, desperate hope pressed into her ribs. Wherever Yahzaan was, she hoped he was busy. Occupied. Somewhere far from her. If he forgot about her existence...if only...that would be better.
For a fleeting second, she let herself believe it.
Then the thought fell apart under its own weight.
She knew better than to trust wishes.
She knew better than anyone else that she couldn't escape him.
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End of the chapter🤍
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