She entered the dining room and saw him already seated at the head of the table.
Of course.
He looked perfectly composed, Crisp shirt. Calm and controlled expression.
She chose the farthest chair from him and sat down quietly.
He raised a brow at that but didn’t comment. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary before he looked away.
Two housekeepers stepped forward and began placing dishes on the table. Omelette. Toast. Fruits. Tea.
Layla reached for a slice of bread, spreading raspberry jam over it with careful, slow movements. She began nibbling on it, avoiding his gaze.
Across from her, he was eating his full breakfast calmly, fully focused, as if nothing in the world disturbed him.
May you choke on that omelette, she prayed silently.
And when he suddenly coughed lightly, reaching for the glass of water, a ghost of a smile touched her lips before she could stop it.
Unfortunately, he saw it.
“Cursing me in your heart, Layla?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes as he took a sip of water.
Her eyes widened instantly.
“N… no.”
“I noticed you were looking at me for quite some time,” he continued casually. “Something on your mind?”
Her fingers tightened around the bread.
She couldn't exactly tell him she had been cursing him in her head, so the first thing that came to her mind slipped out.
“I… I just want to leave the house.”
His fork paused mid-air.
The playfulness vanished.
His expression shifted, hardening in a way that made the air between them colder.
She noticed it immediately.
“I… I want to continue my job,” she added quickly, forcing the words out before courage left her.
“Absolutely not.”
The response was immediate. Final.
Her heart pounded. “I want to work. Or I’ll go mad here.”
His jaw tightened.
“If you want to work, do your wifely duties properly.”
The words landed as a slap on her face, The bread she had been nibbling suddenly felt like sand in her mouth.
Dry. Tasteless. Impossible to swallow.
Her appetite vanished completely.
She placed it back on the plate, fingers slightly trembling, and pushed her chair back.
As she was about to stand, his voice came, calm and controlled.
“Sit down, Layla. And finish your breakfast properly.”
She didn’t want to listen.
Not this time.
Not when every word from him felt like a chain tightening around her ribs.
Damn the consequences.
She took two steps away from the table.
Then his voice came again, just as calm. Just as measured.
“There's only two months left to complete your degree session.”
Her steps slowed.
“Please me,” he continued, almost lazily, “and maybe I’ll allow you to go to university again.”
The words didn’t sound loud.
But they echoed.
Her back stiffened.
There was no anger in his tone. No shouting. No visible threat.
That made it worse.
It was the certainty. The authority. The quiet reminder that her future sat comfortably in his hands.
She stood there for a moment, breathing shallowly, staring ahead at nothing.
Two months.
So close.
And yet so far.
Behind her, he resumed eating as if he had just discussed the weather.
“Sit,” he added, softer now. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Harder for who?
She turned around and slowly, reluctantly, walked back to her chair.
And sat down.
After breakfast, he dismissed the housekeepers with a simple nod.
The room emptied quickly.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Without asking, he took her hand. His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was firm. Decisive.
He led her upstairs.
Layla knew what awaited her in that bedroom. The memory of his words at the table still echoed in her mind. Please me. The condition wrapped around her throat like invisible fingers.
But she followed.
Quietly.
Hopelessly.
Each step felt slower than the last, as if her body understood before her mind did.
When they reached the bedroom, he didn’t stop.
He led her straight past the bed and into the bathroom.
She blinked in confusion.
The large marble space felt cold, echoing. He turned on the shower, the sound of water filling the silence.
“For once,” he said calmly, not looking at her, “don’t look like you’re walking to your execution.”
The words stung.
He finally turned to face her, studying her expression. The fear was still there. It irritated him more than he expected.
“I have a meeting later,” he added. “And I don’t like leaving my house in chaos.”
His fingers brushed her wrist again, lighter this time.
"Strip."
The command was simple.
As if it were that easy.
As if he had asked her to pass him a towel.
Layla’s fingers trembled at her sides. The sound of the running water felt louder now, filling the marble room, bouncing off the cold walls. Steam slowly began to rise, softening the sharp edges of the space, but not the sharpness inside her chest.
She didn’t move.
Her heart pounded so hard she was certain he could hear it.
He watched her quietly. Not impatient. Not angry.
Waiting.
That was worse.
“I don’t repeat myself,” he said evenly.
Her throat tightened. For a moment she considered refusing. The thought flared inside her, small but bright.
But it faded just as quickly.
Slowly, mechanically, she reached for the hem of her oversized T-shirt. Her movements felt detached, like she was watching someone else. The fabric slipped from her fingers once before she managed to pull it over her head.
She kept her gaze lowered.
He stepped closer, not touching her yet, just close enough that she could feel his presence behind her. The heat of him. The weight of his eyes.
"Don't look at me like I'm your enemy," he said, adjusting the temperature of the water without glancing at her.
The fog slowly covered the mirror, swallowing their reflections.
He lifted his palm and wiped a clear streak through it.
Then he guided her forward, positioning her in front of the mirror while he stood behind her. Their reflections stared back at them. Her rigid. Him composed.
"See?" he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers through the glass.
"I did nikah to you."
His arms wrapped around her waist, firm and possessive, pulling her back against him.
"I'm your husband."
His lips brushed her neck, not hurried, not wild. Controlled. Intentional.
Layla's fingers tightened at her sides.
"Denying me," he murmured near her ear, "Is a sin for a religious woman like you."
The words were not loud.
But they were calculated.
He wasn't touching her to ignite desire.
He was pressing on belief. On faith. On the part of her that feared God more than it feared him.
Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror, eyes wide, lips parted slightly.
He wasn't forcing her body.
He was cornering her conscience.
And that was far more dangerous.
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End of the chapter🤍
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