She checked her reflection in the mirror for what felt like the hundredth time.

Maybe more.

It wasn't because she liked what she saw.

It was because she didn't want to go.

This so-called party... she had no interest in it. No desire to be there, to stand in a room where she didn't belong.

But this freedom...

These two days of breathing, of feeling like herself again...

She wasn't ready to lose it.

So, half heartedly, she prepared.

Her makeup was subtle, barely there. Soft enough to feel like her. She hadn't spent a single penny of his money. Everything she wore was hers.

And in the middle of all this unwilling preparation... there was one small thing she allowed herself to enjoy.

The abaya.

Her new one.

Rose gold.

Elegant in the most quiet, effortless way.

She adjusted the sleeves, smoothing the fabric over her arms, then paired it with a matching hijab and a pair of inch heels completed the look.

Once again, she looked at herself.

She looked... good.

Not extravagant.

But herself.

Her gaze shifted to the clock.

6:45.

She still has 15 minutes.

She picked up her purse, exhaling softly as she stepped out of her bedroom.

Just as she did...

The doorbell rang.

She paused for a second.

It must be the driver, she thought and walked toward the door, she opened it without much thought.

But the man standing outside wasn't the one she expected.

It wasn't the familiar driver, it was a stranger.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she looked at him, something about his face tugging at her memory... like she had seen him somewhere before, but couldn't quite place it.

The man cleared his throat, almost awkwardly.

"Salam, Miss Hamdani. I'm here to pick you up."

His words were respectful.

But his tone?

Dry.

Flat.

As if the politeness had been forced into place.

Layla nodded quietly.

"I'm ready."

"I hope so," he replied, his voice carrying a strange, clipped edge. "We shouldn't delay."

Something about the way he spoke...It didn't sit right.

"Let's leave," he added.

"Just... give me a minute," she said softly.

The man's lips pressed into a thin line.

"But, Miss Hamdani," he said, that same unsettling calm creeping into his tone, "you just said you were ready."

There was something in his voice, not rude, but... mocking.

It made her fingers tighten slightly around her purse.

"I just need my phone," she replied quietly, not meeting his eyes this time.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked back inside, her steps quicker than before.

Within a minute, she returned, locking the door behind her.

"Let's go," she said.

He didn't reply.

Just turned and started walking.

Layla followed.

Silently.

Her head slightly lowered, her steps careful.

And with each passing second, a strange feeling settled deeper in her chest.

Unease.

As they reached the car, he slid into the driver's seat without sparing her another glance.

The door shut with a dull thud.

And Layla...

she remained standing outside.

For a moment, she just stood there, uncertain, her fingers tightening slightly around her purse as she glanced at the car, then at him.

"What are you waiting for?"

His voice cut through the silence, sharp and impatient.

She hesitated.

"Where... should I sit?" she asked quietly, almost unsure if the question itself would annoy him.

He let out a short, irritated breath.

"Wherever you want. Just sit already."

The harshness in his tone made her flinch.

Without another word, she quickly opened the passenger door and slipped inside, fastening her seatbelt in a hurry. Her hands came together in her lap, fingers intertwining tightly, as if holding onto something invisible.

She went quiet.

Because she was that kind of person.

The kind who didn't forget.

Not words.

Not tones.

Not the way people looked at her.

Every harsh word, every dismissive glance... they didn't just pass through her.

They stayed.

They carved little spaces inside her, spaces that never really filled again.

It had been like that since childhood.

She still remembered

When she was a little girl, one of her teacher had spoken to her harshly over something so small. Layla had been too young to understand tone over intention... but she had understood one thing clearly.

That she wasn't liked.

She had gone home that day with swollen eyes, her small hands clutching her mother's abaya as she asked again and again

"Am I that unlikable?"

Listening to her, her mother smiled softly and pulled her into her arms,

"My love," she had whispered gently, brushing her hair back, "there are people who speak without thinking. Not because you are unlikable... but because they don't know how to be kind."

She had cupped her face then, making her look into her eyes.

"But you must never carry their words in your heart. They don't deserve that space."

Layla blinked as the memory faded.

But the feeling...

It never really did.

Her fingers tightened a little more in her lap as she sat beside a man who hadn't even known her yet still... he had already made her feel small.

And she hated it.

Because no matter how much time passed, some things never changed.

"Enjoying your life in quiet luxury?"

The question snapped her out of her thoughts.

She blinked, turning slightly toward him, confusion knitting her brows.

"Huh?"

He let out a low, humorless chuckle, his eyes fixed on the road.

"I'm still trying to figure out how you managed to catch the crown prince's attention," he said, his tone laced with something bitter. "But then again... no surprise. Women like you are usually good at only one thing."

The words hit like acid. Layla's breath caught in her throat, her fingers tightening around her purse as a sharp sting burned behind her eyes.

"Excuse me?"

Layla's eyes stung, the man's words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. Her fingers curled tightly around her purse, knuckles paling as she struggled to hold herself together.

"Who are you to question me like this?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it.

The tears were already there, gathering, threatening.

She had never felt this... humiliated before.

Not like this.

Not so undeserved.

Taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to continue, even when her throat felt tight.

"I'm sorry, mister," she said softly, her words careful, controlled, "but I don't know what kind of impression you have of me. Whatever it is... it's not true."

Her grip tightened further, as if grounding herself.

"And if you think I tricked him into this marriage..." she swallowed, her voice faltering for just a second before she steadied it again, "...then you're very wrong."

A pause.

"Because the truth is... it was the other way around."

Silence followed her words, but she didn't look at him this time.

Didn't want to see that same judgment in his eyes again.

"But you've already made up your mind," she added quietly, almost to herself. "So I don't think anything I say will change it."

And with that, she fell silent.

Her gaze fixed ahead, blinking back the tears before they could fall.

Because she refused to cry in front of him.

"Quite a speech," he said, a mocking edge curling around his words.

Layla didn't respond immediately.

Instead, she took a slow, steady breath... as if she was gathering strength from somewhere beyond herself, holding onto it tightly before it slipped away.

"I don't want to be his wife," There was no hesitation in her voice. "That's the reality. Whether you believe it or not... is up to you."

"Yeah," he replied dryly, the disbelief still sitting in his tone.

But his mind...

It didn't stay in the car.

It drifted back.

To that day when Yahzaan called him and ordered him to arrange a maazoun immediately at his penthouse. No explanations. No room for questions.

And when he had arrived she was there.

This same woman.

But not like this.

Not composed but broken.

Her eyes had been swollen, red from crying. Tears still clung stubbornly to her lashes, streaks marking her cheeks like she hadn't even bothered to wipe them away.

He remembered the way she had stood there...

As if something inside her had already shattered.

A faint frown creased his brows as the memory settled.

Maybe...

A small, reluctant thought stirred.

Maybe he's wrong.

He glanced at her again, this time properly.

She was staring out of the window, lost somewhere far away, her expression soft... almost fragile. There was an innocence to her face, something unguarded, untouched.

Too real to be practiced.

Too quiet to be fake.

For a brief second, doubt flickered.

But it didn't last.

Because he had lived long enough to know that faces like that...were often the most deceiving.

The most dangerous.

He exhaled slowly, pushing the thought aside.

And after that he didn't say another word.

Not to her.

Not for the rest of the drive.

But the silence between them had changed.

Just slightly.

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End of the chapter🤍

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