A month had passed since that night at the party, and in that one month, Layla had gone completely quiet.

At first, Yahzaan hadn’t thought much of it. He assumed it was temporary, just a phase that would pass in a few days like every other mood he had seen in women before. He thought she would return to normal, that she would speak again, argue, maybe even cry.

Anything... anything at all.

But she didn’t. Days turned into weeks, and not a single word came out from her mouth.

She moved around the house like a shadow present, yet distant. Untouchable in a way that had nothing to do with physical distance. She woke up before him every morning, leaving the bed cold and empty by the time he opened his eyes, and by the time he returned home at night, she was already asleep… or at least pretending to be.

That became her routine.

A silent, carefully constructed distance.

A life that existed parallel to his.

And Yahzaan, for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do.

There were moments in the beginning when he tried to talk to her, tried to pull her back into whatever their marriage was supposed to be but she never responded.

Sometimes she would just look at him, or sometimes not even that.

And somehow, that absence of reaction felt worse than rejection.

It was like speaking to someone who had already given up, someone whose body remained, but whose soul had quietly slipped away.

The nights were worse.

More than once, he reached for her out of habit, out of instinct… only to stop.

Because she didn’t react.

Didn’t resist. Didn’t respond.

She just lay there, still and distant like a corpse and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Yahzaan could handle anger. He could handle tears.

But this?

This emptiness?

It unnerved him.

For the first time, he held himself back.

Not because he couldn’t but because he didn’t want to force her.

And that realization frustrated him even more.

A month of silence.

A month of distance.

A month of being shut out from his own wife’s world.

And now, it was getting under his skin.

Badly.

He found himself watching her more, noticing everything, the way she avoided him, the way she never met his eyes, the invisible walls she had built around herself.

Walls he couldn’t break.

No matter how much he wanted to.

And that frustrated him.

Because Yahzaan Al Saeed was not a man who got ignored.

He was not a man who chased.

He was not a man who lost control.

It was getting out of his hands, and he didn’t like it one bit.

He didn’t know what to do anymore. Didn’t know how to fix this.

But somewhere, in a quiet, unfamiliar corner of his heart, something stirred, something he rarely ever felt.

Regret.

He leaned back into the leather seat of his car and closed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The day had been long, draining, but he had forced himself to finish everything early.

Just so he could come home.

Just so he could see her.

He missed her.

Missed the way her body would melt into his, every curve pressing warm and heavy against him. He missed the delicate scent of her skin, that sweet, intimate fragrance that clung to his sheets and his clothes. He missed the way she used to exist around him.

But now... Now she felt distant.

Untouchable.

And it was driving him insane.

By the time he reached the penthouse, the silence greeted him first.

Then his eyes found her.

Layla was sitting alone on one of the chairs in the living room, a plate of food in front of her. She was barely eating, just pushing the food around absentmindedly, as if the act itself felt like a burden.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

For a moment, he just stood there, watching her.

Taking in the sight of her.

Then she let out a quiet sigh and pushed the chair back, standing up, probably to put the untouched food away.

“Finish your dinner, Layla.”

His voice cut through the silence.

She paused.

But she didn’t respond.

Not a word.

Not even a glance.

Slowly, she sat back down again, as if obeying out of habit rather than willingness, and picked up the spoon.

Her hand moved lazily, stirring the food on her plate without actually eating it.

Yahzaan inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a second before letting it out slowly as if asking God for patience.

Because he couldn’t afford to lose control with her.

Not again.

He walked forward and sat across from her.

For a moment, he opened his mouth, intending to say something...

Anything.

But nothing came out.

Because he didn’t know what to say.

And more than that, he didn’t want to say the one thing that might actually fix this.

An apology.

His ego wouldn’t allow it.

His pride stood tall, unbending, even now.

So instead, he stayed silent.

Just looking at her.

Studying her face like he was trying to understand something he had lost.

Under his gaze, Layla shifted slightly, discomfort flickering through her posture. She avoided his eyes, her fingers tightening faintly around the spoon.

Then suddenly as if remembering something she spoke.

“I don’t want the housekeepers.”

Her voice was quiet.

Flat.

But it broke the silence like something sharp.

Yahzaan frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sudden statement.

“The housekeepers?” he repeated. “Why?”

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she pushed the chair back and stood up.

Since the beginning, Layla had noticed them, the way they looked at her.

They never said anything outright, never crossed any visible line.

But their silence and their gaze spoke volumes.

They looked at her as if she was a filthy secret.

A secret that didn’t belong in the open.

Something shameful, something hidden.

At first, she had tried to ignore it.

Tried to convince herself it didn’t matter.

That it was all in her head.

But over time those looks started to weigh on her.

To suffocate her.

And now, she simply couldn’t bear it anymore.

Meanwhile, Yahzaan frowned slightly, caught off guard by her sudden request.

“Did something happen? Did they do something you didn’t like?” His tone was softer than usual.

Layla didn’t look at him.

“No… I just don’t want them. I’ll manage.”

That was all he got.

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. He didn’t push her. Not now. Not when this was the first thing she had asked him in a month.

If she didn’t want the housekeepers, then so be it.

For a brief second, something like relief settled in his chest. She had spoken. Finally.

But the calm he was feeling didn’t last.

The silence returned quickly, as if those few words had taken everything out of her.

She turned toward the kitchen, clearly intending to leave.

But this time, he didn’t let her.

The moment she moved, his hand caught her wrist to stop her and he pulled her gently onto the couch beside him.

He didn’t want to force her, he just wanted her to stay.

Wanted to talk to her.

Wanted to listen her sweet voice.

He didn’t know what to say to make her speak, so he settled for the simplest thing.

Swallowing hard, he gently took her hand.

“How was your day, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone carefully light, almost normal.

Layla slowly raised a brow and looked at him.

Her expression was empty.

“Mine was hectic,” he went on when she didn’t respond. “Back-to-back meetings and...”

“Stop.”

Her cold voice reached his ears.

“I don’t want to listen. I don't care.”

Silence stretched.

“About your day. About you. About anything you have to say.”

A pause.

“So don’t.”

The words didn’t come out loud.

They didn’t need to.

Before he could react, she pulled her hand free and stood.

Then she walked away from him.

Yahzaan didn’t move from his place, he couldn't.

He stayed there, staring at the space she had just left, as if something might still be there for him… some trace, some softness.

There was nothing.

Just silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

And he knew very well that it was his own doing.

He dragged a hand through his hair, a harsh breath leaving him, but it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.

God knows how long he sat there with that hollowing emptiness in his chest.

Maybe long enough for it to stop feeling unfamiliar… and start feeling like something he deserved.

Then he forced himself to move.

By the time he reached the bedroom, she was already in bed.

Her back to him.

The distance wasn’t there at all.

She was right in front of him.

And yet… she felt completely out of his reach.

Close enough to see.

Too far to ever touch again.

He stood there longer than he should have, watching her unmoving form, searching for something...anything but there was nothing.

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End of the chapter🤍

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