As they reached the penthouse building, Yahzaan stopped the car and stepped out. There was something different about him, something almost… pleased. Layla noticed it immediately. It didn’t make sense. Just minutes ago, he had been irritated, tense, and unpredictable. And now...Now he looked happy.

Without a word, he moved to the back seat, grabbed her bag and laptop, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, took her hand again. His grip was firm, familiar, leaving no room for resistance as he led her toward the elevator.

He was even humming under his breath.

Layla stared at him, her eyes slightly widened in quiet disbelief.

To her, Yahzaan was like unpredictable weather, one moment a storm, the next eerily calm, almost pleasant. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

A question rose in her mind before she could stop it.

Is he bipolar?

The thought almost slipped to her lips, but she held it back just in time. She wasn’t foolish enough to say something like that out loud.

So she stayed quiet and followed him silently.

But as they stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut, the silence between them felt heavy, too burdensome on her soul. The sudden shift in his mood felt… wrong. Like an omen.

It suffocated her. She wanted to break whatever it was, so she asked the first thing that came to her mind.

“How old are you?”

The question came out a little too random, a little too soft.

Yahzaan turned his head and looked at her. For a brief moment, there was clear surprise in his eyes as if her question had caught him off guard. But it faded just as quickly and a slow smirk tugged at his lips.

Because this was new.

The first time Layla had asked him something personal. The first time she had shown even the slightest curiosity about him.

And to him, that meant something.

Progress.

“I’m twenty-nine,” he said, almost too calmly, as if the question hadn’t affected him at all, but the faint smirk on his lips said otherwise.

On the other hand, Layla only grew more confused as she watched that smirk form. She didn’t understand what he was thinking, didn’t understand why such a simple question would change his expression like that.

Her eyes held confusion as she looked into his, but she couldn’t hold his gaze for long. There was a certain heat in his eyes... intense and unsettling...that made her look away, anywhere but at him.

Yahzaan noticed it, of course he did, but for once, he didn’t comment on it. He was in an oddly blissful mood, something that didn’t match the man she had come to know.

The elevator reached the top floor with a soft chime, and Yahzaan stepped out without hesitation.

Layla didn’t move.

She stood there, rooted on the spot, staring at the button panel as if they were offering her a choice. For a fleeting, almost ridiculous moment, a thought crossed her mind... what if she could press the button.

Go back down.

Walk out.

Run.

Escape.

The idea flickered in her mind, tempting and fragile but just as quickly as it came, it vanished because deep down, she knew the truth.

He wouldn’t let her go.

Not now. Not ever.

There was no corner of the world where she could hide from him, no place where she would feel safe again if she tried to escape.

This had become her reality now, inescapable, suffocating and final.

A quiet hopelessness settled inside her chest.

With heavy, reluctant steps, she finally walked out of the elevator.

Yahzaan had already moved ahead, climbing the stairs toward the bedroom without even glancing back. Layla watched him for a brief second before turning in the opposite direction. She didn’t want to spend another second in his presence.

So she went to the kitchen.

Hunger had started to creep in, dull but persistent. The day had been exhausting… but then again, every day since her marriage felt like that. Heavy and Draining.

Reheating the food, she walked to the dining area and sat down on one of the chairs. Out of habit, she whispered a small dua and murmuring Bismillah under her breath she started eating in silence.

Just a few seconds passed, she had just taken her second bite when she heard footsteps.

His footsteps.

And in the next few seconds he appeared in front of her and without saying a word, he pulled out the chair beside her and sat down.

Too close.

At first, he didn’t do anything.

He just looked at her.

And that alone was enough to make her uncomfortable, her fingers tightening slightly around the spoon in her hand.

Then suddenly, he reached out.

His hand closed around her hand, the one holding the spoon and before she could react, he guided it toward his mouth and took a bite from her spoon.

Layla froze.

Because in these few days she had known him, she had learned one thing...Yahzaan was not someone who shared.

He didn’t touch things others had used. He was particular, almost obsessive when it came to cleanliness.

And yet, right now, he was eating from her spoon as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

As if there were no boundaries between them.

As if she belonged to him in ways that erased even the smallest distances.

Layla didn’t argue.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t even look at him.

Because there was nothing left in her to fight with.

Silently, she pulled her hand back, stood up, and walked to the kitchen again.

A few moments later, she returned with another plate.

She sat back down and started taking small, slow bites, but the hunger she had felt just moments ago had already vanished. The moment Yahzaan sat beside her, this close, it was gone. Her appetite, her ease, everything disappeared, leaving behind only a quiet discomfort she couldn’t shake off.

On the other hand, Yahzaan finished his food quickly, barely paying attention to what he was eating. His focus had shifted entirely to her.

To the way she was holding the spoon.

To the way she was moving it around more than actually eating.

To the way she was pretending.

He watched her for a few minutes, silent, patient at first. But when five minutes passed and her plate looked almost untouched, his patience thinned.

“Properly eat your food, Layla,” he said firmly “You’re not eating.”

Layla let out a quiet sigh.

Instead of responding, she simply stood up.

Without looking at him, she covered her plate with a lid and placed it inside the fridge. Then she turned toward the sink, picking up the dishes and start placing them into the dishwasher one by one.

In reality, she was stalling.

Avoiding.

Dragging out every second she could, just so she wouldn’t have to walk into that bedroom with him.

She thought she was being subtle.

She wasn’t.

Yahzaan noticed everything.

Within seconds, he was behind her.

Before she could react, his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him. His hold was firm, possessive, leaving no space between them.

Layla froze.

Completely still.

He lowered his head, his face brushing lightly against the side of her neck as he inhaled softly. There was a faint, distinct fragrance about her, something that didn’t come from perfumes or oils, something that was uniquely hers. And lately, he had found himself addicted to it more than he cared to admit.

“Leave it,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck, his lips brushing lightly against her skin. “The housekeepers will do it tomorrow.”

Layla didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

She just stood there, stiff as a statue in his hold, her hands still hovering near the dishes, her body rigid with tension as if even the smallest movement might make everything worse.

He took the plate from her hands and placed it back in the sink, silently dismissing her last attempt to keep herself occupied. Before she could even process it, he bent slightly and lifted her into his arms, bridal style, effortless, as if she weighed nothing at all.

Layla’s breath caught in her throat, her arms encircled around his neck instinctively and She buried her face into his chest, not because she felt safe there but because she didn’t want to see what was coming next.

Because she already knew.

There was no escaping him.

Not now. Not ever.

With every step he took toward the bedroom, her heart sank deeper, as if it were being pulled under something dark and heavy. The sound of his footsteps felt louder than it should have, echoing inside her chest, each one bringing her closer to something she couldn’t stop.

And then...

He stepped inside the bedroom and didn't bother to the door.

He walked straight to the bed and set her down, careful. For a brief moment, he just looked at her, as if taking in the sight of her.

Then his hand rose, cupping her face with a quiet firmness.

And the next second, His lips were on hers.

The kiss wasn’t harsh.

It wasn’t punishing.

It was desperate.

A strange, conflicting kind of desperation, like he was holding back and giving in at the same time. His grip on her face was steady, almost gentle, as if he was afraid of breaking her, even while pulling her into something she didn’t want.

Layla froze at first.

Her mind went blank, her body unsure how to react, how to respond.

The kiss deepened.

Slow.

Lingering.

Almost… tender.

And that was the cruelest part.

Because if things were different, if he wasn’t who he was, if their story wasn’t built on force and fear, this could have meant something beautiful. Something she would have leaned into, something she would have welcomed.

Something she would have wanted.

But right now, She felt none of that.

Only a quiet, suffocating heaviness.

Only the painful awareness that this softness didn’t belong in the kind of story they had.

He kissed her like a starved man, like he had finally found something he couldn’t get enough of. Like she was something that grounded him, something that gave him a strange, consuming peace.

But for her...

There was no peace.

Only confusion.

Only silence.

Only a heart that felt like it was slowly breaking in ways she couldn’t explain.

Time blurred around them.

Seconds stretched into minutes.

The world outside that room ceased to exist.

Until finally, he pulled back.

His forehead rested against hers, his breath uneven, warm against her skin. His hand still held her face, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as if it belonged there.

For a moment, everything was still.

Too still.

And then he spoke.

His voice was lower now, stripped of its usual sharpness, carrying something he couldn't hold back anymore.

Words that had been sitting inside him ever since that phone call.

Words he hadn’t let go of.

And the moment those words reached her,

Layla’s heart dropped.

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End of the chapter🤍

Thank you for reading ✨

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