She was lying on the bed, too tired to even move a limb.
Her body felt heavy, almost foreign to her, as if it no longer belonged to her at all. Every muscle ached with a quiet exhaustion she could not put into words. The sheets beneath her were still warm, tangled around her legs, and the room smelled faintly of sex and Oud.
Across the room, Yahzaan stepped out of the shower.
Water still clung to his skin, sliding slowly down his broad shoulders and chest. He looked almost unreal standing there tall, sculpted, untouchable, like some cold Greek god carved from marble. The kind people admired from a distance but never truly reached.
It was the third time he got intimate with her.
And just like before, there was blood between her thighs.
Layla stared at the ceiling, her eyes dull and unfocused.
She did not feel like a wife.
There was no warmth in her chest, no shy happiness that people spoke about when a husband gave his wife his full attention. No fluttering joy. No sense of belonging.
What she felt was worse.
Much worse.
She felt like a whore he could use whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted.
The only difference between her and a whore was a title.
A word.
Wife.
Her heart cried in silent agony, the pain pressing hard against her ribs, but no tears came. She was too drained even for that. Her body had reached its limit, and the heaviness in her eyelids slowly pulled them shut.
Just as sleep began to claim her, Yahzaan’s voice reached her ears.
“You can go to the university.”
Her lashes fluttered slightly, though she did not open her eyes.
“But you have to take a guard with you,” he continued, his tone calm and firm. “And it’s not negotiable.”
He was buttoning his crisp white shirt as he spoke, each movement neat and composed, as if nothing unusual had happened in the room moments ago.
Layla thought he was finished talking.
Thought he had already forgotten her presence.
But after fastening the last button, he walked back toward the bed.
The mattress dipped slightly as he sat on the edge.
His fingers reached for her chin, firm but not rough, lifting her face so she had no choice but to look at him. Her eyes slowly opened, dull and tired.
He leaned down and pressed a small kiss to her lips.
It was brief.
Almost casual.
“But you can’t say you’re married to me, Layla,” he said quietly. “You can’t reveal our secret to the world.”
Something inside her chest shattered.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet fracture spreading through something already fragile.
He continued as if explaining a simple fact.
“You know I’m a royal. I can’t marry a commoner.”
His thumb brushed lightly along her jaw.
“Our relationship isn’t like other people’s.”
Layla stared at the man above her...
At the man who had just claimed her body.
At the man who called her his wife when it suited him.
At the man who would erase her existence the moment the world looked his way.
Indeed.
It isn’t.
The thought rose bitterly in her chest.
Not even close.
Because other women who shared a bed with a man at least had the truth of what they were.
Layla didn’t even have that.
She had a title whispered in private.
And a life that had to remain a lie.
So she simply nodded her head and slowly closed her eyes again.
She was too tired to argue.
And what was even the point of arguing?
Her voice would not change anything.
Without sparing another glance at her Yahzaan stood up from the bed as if the matter had already ended. He reached for his watch from the bedside table and fastened it around his wrist. While adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt he walked out of the room.
The door closed softly behind him.
And that was when the first tear slipped from the corner of Layla’s eye.
Then another.
And another.
Slowly, quietly, the pillow beneath her head began to grow damp.
So this was her life now.
The thought settled inside her chest like a heavy stone.
She slowly raised her hand from the blanket wrapped around her bare body and stared at it for a long moment. Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned her hand and looked at the empty space where she had once imagined a ring would sit.
Once upon a time she had dreamt of something very simple.
Not palaces.
Not wealth.
Not power.
In the quiet corners of her heart, she had imagined a man with a kind smile and gentle eyes entering her life. Someone whose presence felt like peace. Someone who would look at her with softness, not possession.
She had never asked Allah for luxury.
Never prayed for a grand house or servants or status.
No.
What she had prayed for, night after night in the stillness of her lonely room, was a kind shareek-e-hayat. A soulmate who would complete her deen. A man who would stand beside her in the darkness before dawn, whispering duas together during tahajjud. A man whose children she would carry with love, whose home she would fill with warmth and mercy.
That was all she had ever wanted.
All she had ever prayed for.
But now…
Now when she looked at her life, at the silent room, at the cold emptiness surrounding her, something inside her chest tightened painfully.
Her heart squeezed so hard it almost hurt to breathe.
She is a wife in name, a secret in reality and a body he could take whenever he wished.
Her eyes burned.
Instinctively she pressed her palm over her chest, right above her heart, as if trying to calm the ache growing there.
But the pain did not fade.
It only grew heavier.
Her eyes burned.
Her lips trembled.
And then a broken sob finally slipped from her lips.
Broken.
Small.
The kind of sound that only comes from a heart that has just realized the life it prayed for… will never come.
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End of the chapter🤍
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