The days blurred into a weeks.

Nothing changed.

Her routine remained the same, cold, repetitive, suffocating.

Yahzaan would keep her awake till dawn, and by the time the first light of morning touched the sky, he would leave... leaving her behind with a heaviness she couldn't name, with a feeling that clung to her skin no matter how hard she tried to wash it away.

Used and Empty.

Like something had been taken from her without her permission again and again until there was nothing left to take.

She would wake up in the afternoon, her body aching, her mind numb.

And the housekeepers.

The way they looked at her.

Like she was a sin, a shameful one.

And then the cycle would repeat.

Day after day.

And now there was nothing left in her.

No fight.

No resistance.

Just a hollow shell moving through the hours.

Like any other day, she woke up in the afternoon.

Her hand reached for her phone to checked the date and time.

Friday.

The word alone stirred something inside her.

She got up quickly, almost urgently, and went to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, she stepped under the stream of water, letting it fall over her like she was trying to wash everything away.

She scrubbed her skin.

Hard.

Too hard.

As if she could erase him.

As if she could remove every trace he had left.

But it didn't work.

The marks only deepened angry shades of red and purple blooming across her skin, making her flinch as her fingers brushed over them.

She stopped.

Her hands fell to her sides.

Defeated.

Today, she didn't have the strength to face the housekeepers.

So she skipped breakfast and lunch.

And instead, she turned to the only place that still gave her something close to peace.

She busied herself with the rituals of Friday.

Performing namaz, letting each prayer ground her, give her something to hold onto.

Then she sat with the Qur'an in her hands.

Today, her eyes fell on the Surah of Prophet Ayyub.

And she read.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Absorbing every word.

A man who had lost everything.

Everything.

And yet, he remained patient.

Unshaken in his belief.

Unbroken in his faith.

Even as his world collapsed around him.

Layla's fingers tightened slightly on the pages.

Her vision blurred, but she kept reading.

Because somewhere between those verses...

There was peace.

There was hope.

A fragile, trembling hope.

That maybe...

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

But someday, God would hear her.

And this pain...

This suffocating, endless pain, Would finally come to an end.

A sob slipped past her lips.

It was quiet, almost fragile, like she had tried to hold it back but failed.

The ache in her chest was unbearable.

It wasn't something she could touch, couldn't locate, just a heavy, crushing weight sitting deep inside her, making it hard to breathe, harder to exist.

Her fingers tightened around the edges of the Qur'an resting in her lap before she slowly lowered her head, pressing her forehead against its pages as if it could steady her, as if it could hold her together when she felt like she was falling apart piece by piece.

And then..

The dam broke before she could stop it.

The ache in her chest was unbearable, a crushing mix of shame, confusion, and something far more dangerous. She buried her face in the open Qur'an on her lap, shoulders shaking as she cried until no tears were left. Minutes blurred into hours. Her swollen eyes burned, her throat felt raw, but slowly, a fragile sliver of peace settled over her exhausted heart.

Then her phone rang.

The sudden sound make her flinched, she lifted her head slightly as her gaze fall on the screen.

It was an Unknown number.

For a moment, she just stared at it, her fingers hesitant, unsure if she even had the strength to speak but then she picked up the phone, Wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hand as she answered the call.

"Hello..." her voice came out hoarse, rough, as if each word scraped against her throat on its way out.

On the other end, Yahzaan froze.

The moment her voice reached him, something tightened sharply in his chest.

It didn't sit right.

That wasn't how she usually sounded.

"Why are you crying?" he asked immediately, his voice low but tense, his jaw clenching as he leaned back in his chair.

"I'm not crying," she whispered.

"Then why do you sound like you were crying?"

"I'm not. I'm... just not feeling very well today."

Guilt crept in, dark and heavy, but Yahzaan shoved it down. For the past week he had been on her almost every night, sometimes in the mornings too, fucking her like a man possessed. He hated leaving his wife naked and spent in his bed, but these weeks had been brutal, back-to-back business deals, his father's upcoming birthday preparations, endless responsibilities piling on his shoulders. The only place he found real peace was buried deep inside his wife. So yes... he had been like an animal in heat.

"How bad is it?" he asked, voice softening with genuine concern as he pressed the small intercom button on his desk.

"I'm okay," Layla replied robotically.

Before he could push further, his assistant stepped into the office. Yahzaan immediately put the call on hold.

"Yes, Sheikh?"

"Call Doctor Hamdan and tell him to go to the penthouse right away."

The assistant nodded and left quickly. Yahzaan unmuted the call.

"Did you eat lunch, or did you skip it again?" he asked sternly.

In these few weeks of marriage, Yahzaan had learned one clear thing, his wife had the appetite of a sparrow and the terrible habit of skipping meals.

Layla stayed silent. There was no point in lying he would just call the housekeepers and check.

"Layla, I'm asking you something."

"I... didn't have any yet."

"And why?"

"I'm not feeling hungry."

That was enough for his so-called patience.

"I see," he said, his voice going cold, and without waiting for another word, he cut the call.

For a second, he just stood there, staring at the phone in his hand, his jaw clenched tight.

Then he grabbed his car keys.

"Cancel all my remaining meetings," he said sharply as he walked out, not even waiting for a response.

His mind was already elsewhere.

On her.

More than forty minutes later, he finally reached his penthouse. He stepped into the elevator, every passing second felt like dragging, each one more brutal than the last and finally, as he reached his penthouse, the doors slid open.

And then he saw it.

His wife, sitting on the couch.

And the doctor sitting a little too close, holding her hand, checking her pulse... or whatever it was.

The scene, in reality, was nothing but professional.

But logic had no place in Yahzaan's mind at that moment.

Something dark twisted inside him.

Possessive.

Jealous.

Without a word, he cleared his throat loud enough to grab their attention.

Hearing him both of them looked up and the doctor immediately left Layla's hand.

Good.

Without hesitation, he walked forward and sat down right beside Layla, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, his presence deliberate, territorial.

"So, Miss Hamdani..." the doctor began.

"She's not Miss," Yahzaan cut him off immediately, his voice calm but laced with something dangerous. "And she's surely not a Hamdani anymore."

The doctor paused, slightly taken aback, then cleared his throat.

"So... Layla..."

"Don't," Yahzaan interrupted again, this time his tone dropping lower, sharper. "Don't say her name like that."

His eyes locked onto the doctor's.

"She's Mrs. Yahzaan."

The doctor gulped.

Hard.

He had seen men like him before. He knew exactly when to push, and when to step back.

So he adjusted himself, shifting his focus back to Layla.

"I suggest you take proper rest," he said, his tone more careful now. "And please, take your meals on time. Your blood pressure is very low, and that's not a good sign."

Layla stayed quiet, her hands resting in her lap, her eyes lowered.

"Also..." the doctor continued, "there are noticeable dark circles under your eyes. Not getting proper sleep is the main reason for the migraine you mentioned earlier."

Yahzaan's expression didn't change.

But his fingers curled slightly against his knee.

Then the doctor turned to him.

"And Mr. Saeed..." he hesitated for a brief moment before continuing, "I would advise you to... restrain yourself until your wife recovers properly."

The words settled heavily in the room.

Silence followed.

Thick.

Tense.

Yahzaan didn't respond immediately.

His gaze shifted slowly towards Layla.

Taking in her pale face.

The faint marks.

The exhaustion she couldn't hide.

His gaze lingered a second too long as if he was only now seeing, what he had been doing to her all along.

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End of the chapter🤍

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