The atmosphere in the car was heavy with silence but no longer suffocating.

Yahzaan drove in silence, his focus fixed on the road, while Layla sat beside him, her gaze turned toward the window. The night air brushing against the glass felt like a quiet balm to her aching heart.

Neither of them spoke.

Only the soft rhythm of their breathing filled the space between them.

Then suddenly, his phone rang and without stopping the car, he tapped the screen and connected it to Bluetooth.

“Salam, Mother.”

His tone was respectful and controlled.

On the other side, his mother didn’t return the salam, she snapped directly.

“Where are you, Yahzaan?” .

He exhaled lightly, scratching the tip of his nose, as if preparing himself for something far more exhausting than any board meeting.

“What happened, Mother?”

“Oh, nothing happened,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I just thought I should remind you that you have parents at home… waiting for you.”

Layla shifted slightly in her seat but kept her eyes on the window, listening without meaning to.

“Parents,” his mother continued dramatically, “who would like to see their son once in a while.”

“Mother...”

“And a mother who has dreams. Simple dreams. To see her son get married. To see him have children. To hold her grandchildren before she dies.”

“But you know what?, My son doesn’t even have the time to listen to his old mother.

Yahzaan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly.

“I’ll visit you, Mother,” he said flatly.

“Visit me when I’m in my grave?” came the dramatic reply.

“Mother!”

“Don’t Mother me!” she snapped sharply. “I want you here in the morning.”

Yahzaan fell silent. A dull throb began behind his temples as his grip on the steering wheel tightened ever so slightly.

Suddenly her voice softened, “And you remember the Minister of Finance?"

"Yeah?"

"He has a very beautiful daughter…”

He knew exactly where this conversation was heading and he also knew that “very beautiful daughter” far better than he should.

He took a sigh and glanced at Layla from the corner of his eye.

She sat calmly in the passenger seat, her gaze turned toward the window, her expression unreadable. As if he meant nothing to her. As if she didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died… whether he chose to marry someone else or not. As if she wasn’t even his wife, as if none of it concerned her, as if he didn’t concern her at all.

That quiet indifference clawed at something deep inside him.

So he pushed, the corner of his eyes fixed on his wife like a hawk, catching every possible shift, every breath, every blink.

“Yes, Mother… I know,” he said casually, his voice deliberately smooth. “He has a very beautiful daughter. I’ve met her a few times… very sophisticated.”

It was utter nonsense.

A lie spoken without hesitation.

Because the woman in question was nothing like what he described. In reality, she had been far too eager to suck his dick, too desperate to climb into his bed, to use him as a means to rise in status and privilege.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was Layla.

To see if she would react.

If she would care.

“She will be at your father’s birthday party next week,” his mother replied happily. “I specially invited her myself. I hope you will have time to be present on your own father’s birthday.”

Her voice turned sharp with sarcasm again.

Yahzaan exhaled quietly, But his attention wasn’t on the call anymore.

It was still on Layla.

Watching.

Waiting.

For even the slightest crack in her silence.

On the other hand, Layla was quietly listening to the conversation between mother and son, but her mind had already drifted far away, lost in a place she hadn’t visited in a long time.

Nostalgia.

Once upon a time, she had been blessed with something people often took for granted.

Parents.

A soft ache settled in her chest as memories began to unfold, one after another. She remembered how her mother used to sit behind her at night, gently combing through her thick waves after a bath.

She remembered birthdays...warm, loud and filled with laughter.

She remembered the way her mother would secretly plan little surprises for her and her father, the excitement in her eyes, the quiet happiness that filled their home.

She was only eleven when God took it all away.

And after that…

There was no one.

No one to comb her hair.

No one to celebrate her existence.

No one to hold her when the nights grew too heavy.

No one who ever looked at her with that same kind of gentle, unquestioning affection again.

Her heart ached painfully as one particular memory surfaced, hitting her harder than the rest. She remembered being little, burning with a high fever. Her mother had stayed beside her the entire night, gently placing a damp cloth on her forehead, brushing her hair back with soft, patient fingers, whispering soothing words every time Layla whimpered in her sleep.

Her father hadn’t slept either, he had been there the whole time, checking her temperature again and again, adjusting the blanket, asking her softly if she needed anything, his voice filled with worry he couldn’t hide. Even in her half-conscious state, she had felt it so clearly, the warmth, the care, the quiet love that wrapped around her like protection.

And then, like a cruel twist of fate, another memory followed, tearing through that warmth without mercy. High school. Another fever...worse this time. Her body had felt heavier, her breaths uneven, her head spinning. But the room had been silent. Empty. No one sat beside her. No gentle hands cooled her burning skin. No voice called her name with concern.

She had woken up alone, disoriented and weak, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before reality settled in. There was no one coming. No one who even knew she was sick, the sheets had felt cold, too cold, too empty. She had curled into herself, shivering, trying to sleep through the pain, trying to convince herself she would be fine.

And now, remembering it all over again, the ache in her chest didn’t feel distant or faded.

It felt just as raw.

Just as unbearable.

A tear slipped silently from her eyes, tracing the curve of her cheek before disappearing into the shadows.

Yahzaan noticed it immediately, his gaze caught it instantly, and something shifted inside him. A slow, almost satisfied smile crept onto his lips

To him, that tear meant something else entirely.

Jealousy.

It meant she cared.

It meant she was affected by the thought of another woman, by the idea of him belonging to someone else. And that thought so wrong, yet so convincing gave him a strange kind of peace he couldn’t even put into words.

As if something had finally fallen into place.

As if she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended to be.

He felt like the happiest man alive. The kind of happiness that didn’t make sense, yet settled deep in his chest like something he had been waiting for without realizing it.

Meanwhile, Layla was somewhere else entirely.

Drowning.

Not in jealousy, not in him but in memories that refused to loosen their grip. In a past that still hurt the same, no matter how much time had passed. Her chest felt heavy, her throat tight, her thoughts tangled in a kind of grief she didn’t even try to fight anymore.

She didn’t notice the way he was looking at her.

Didn’t notice the assumptions forming in his mind.

Didn’t notice anything at all.

On the other hand, Yahzaan, now oddly content, leaned back slightly into his seat, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. His voice, when he spoke again to his mother, carried none of the earlier irritation.

“I’ll visit tomorrow, Mother,” he said, almost calmly now. “And I won’t be late for Father’s birthday next week.”

His mother sounded pleased almost satisfied.

Then the call ended, the silence returned to the car once again, but this time it felt different.

Lighter for him.

He turned his head slightly, glancing at Layla from the corner of his eye again.

Waiting.

Watching.

A few seconds passed.

Then a few more.

“You okay?” he finally asked, his tone carrying a faint trace of amusement, as if he already knew the answer he wanted.

Layla flinched slightly, as though someone had pulled her out of deep water without warning.

She blinked, her lashes still damp, her mind struggling to catch up with the present.

Quickly, almost instinctively, she lifted her hand and wiped away the tear before it could betray her any further.

“Yeah,” she said softly.

But she didn’t look at him.

Not even once.

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End of the chapter🤍

Thank you for reading ✨

Let me know your thoughts.❤️

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