The early morning light slipped softly through the half-drawn curtains, painting the room in warm golden hues. Yahzaan groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as the brightness hit his face. He flung an arm over his eyes, but the damage was done. Once he was awake, he couldn't sleep again... one of his most annoying traits.

He lay there for a moment and then out of habit, his hand reached across the mattress for his wife, seeking the familiar comfort of her body. Instead, his fingers met with empty sheets. A jolt of unease shot through him.

Where was she?

Before panic could fully set in, a mouth-watering aroma drifted up from downstairs fresh pancakes and waffles, sweet and buttery, mixed with the faint scent of coffee. Relief washed over him.

He swung his legs off the bed and padded downstairs from the penthouse's upper level, still in his black sweatpants and white t-shirt.

The moment he stepped into the open kitchen, he froze.

There she was, barefoot on the marble floor, her long dark hair falling in loose, messy waves down her back. She was wearing that thin white nightgown, the one that made his brain short-circuit. The delicate fabric clung to her curves, the morning light turning it slightly sheer in places. She looked soft, domestic, and dangerously tempting all at once.

Yahzaan rubbed his eyes hard, convinced he was hallucinating. When he opened them again, she was still there, humming quietly while flipping a pancake with practiced ease.

Then she turned her head and give him a smile... a real, warm smile that reached her eyes.

"Yahzaan, darling... come have a taste," she called sweetly, her voice carrying a rare kind of velvety softness he never heard before.

His heart slammed against his ribs. *Darling?* The word wrapped around him like silk and sin. Heat rushed through his body so fast it left him dizzy. Many colors seemed to flash behind his eyes, shock, disbelief, longing, and raw desire all at once.

'What the hell is happening?'

Till yesterday she had barely glanced at him, And now this?

He approached slowly, almost cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment.

When he reached her, he tested the waters by gently sliding an arm around her waist. She didn't pull away. Encouraged, he pulled her closer, his other hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Till yesterday you wouldn't even look at me," he murmured, voice low and rough with emotions. "Forget talking... you were freezing me out completely. And now you're calling me 'darling'? What changed, Layla? Aren't you mad at me anymore?"

She looked up at him, her eyes softer than he remembered. For a second, she seemed almost vulnerable.

"No... I'm not mad anymore. I can't."

Then, without warning, she stepped fully into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his warm chest in a tight hug.

And the last thread of restraint he'd been clinging to for days broke. A low groan escaped his throat as he lifted her effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, her legs parting naturally to let him step between them.

His mouth found hers in a deep, desperate kiss, pouring weeks of frustration and longing into it. In seconds, he was rock hard against her, his hands roaming possessively over her body.

Still kissing her like a man starved, he hooked a finger under one delicate strap of her nightgown and slowly tugged it down her shoulder, exposing smooth skin of her breasts. He pulled back just enough to admire her... his wife, beautiful and flushed in the morning light.

Suddenly everything shifted.

Layla's hand shot out lightning-fast, grabbing the heavy frying pan from the counter. A cold, predatory smile curved her lips, completely replacing the softness from moments ago.

"You finally walked right into my trap, you bastard," she hissed, voice dripping with venom. "Time to take my revenge."

Yahzaan's eyes widened in shock, but it was too late. She swung the pan with surprising force. It connected solidly with the side of his head.

THUD.

Darkness blurred his vision, and he collapsed to the floor.

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Suddenly he jolted his eyes snapped open.

He was sprawled on the bedroom floor, tangled in the sheets he had apparently dragged down with him in his fall. His heart was pounding wildly, chest heaving. He sat up quickly, wincing as he touched the side of his head.

No blood.

He stared blankly at the empty bed, breathing hard, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

Then a bitter chuckle escaped him as he ran a hand through his messy hair.

"Fuck," he muttered to the empty room and pushed himself up from the bedroom floor with a heavy groan, his body still buzzing from the adrenaline of the dream. He brushed imaginary dust off his hands and rubbed the side of his head again, just to be sure. No pain. No injury.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, a mix of frustration settling in his chest. The dream had felt so real, her soft voice calling him "darling," the way she'd melted into his arms, the heat of her body against his. And then that brutal swing of the pan. He could almost still hear the sickening thud.

Shaking off the disorientation, he pulled on a loose black t-shirt and headed downstairs.

As he reached the open kitchen area, he paused at the entrance, his breath catching slightly.

There she was, standing near the counter in her usual sleepwear, a simple pair of soft pajama pants and an oversized night shirt. Her long hair was twisted up into a messy bun, with a few rebellious strands framing her face. She looked effortlessly beautiful in that mundane domestic setting.

There was nothing seductive, nothing overtly alluring about the sight before him... and yet, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

He wanted to feel her softness.

To breathe her in.

To bury his face in the curve of her neck and inhale her scent like it was oxygen... like without it, he might stop breathing altogether.

The urge to walk over, pull her close, and lose control right there hit him hard. He wanted to bury his face in her neck, apologize for whatever had caused their fight, and make her say his name the way she had in the dream.

But then she leaned down to pick something up from the lower cabinet.

Yahzaan's heart sank like a stone.

In her hand was the heavy frying pan, the exact same one from his dream. The stainless steel caught the morning light, glinting ominously as she straightened up and placed it on the counter with a soft clink.

The vivid memory slammed back into him: her sweet smile turning ice-cold, the venom in her voice, the swing, the thud.

Even though he knew it was just a dream, his body reacted on instinct. His pulse spiked. A cold sweat broke out along his spine. This time, he didn't move closer. He stayed rooted near the doorway, maintaining a safe distance, watching her carefully like she might transform into that vengeful version of herself any second.

Layla turned her head and noticed him standing there. Her expression was neutral, not warm, not angry.

His eyes were fixed on her face at first, but then his gaze shifted to her hands, watching the way she cracked the eggs and mixed them. There was no clumsiness in her movements, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

He just looked at her. Last night, she had told him she didn't want the housekeepers, and not wanting to upset her, he hadn't questioned it further.

He sat on the stool and picked up the newspaper. It was his habit to start the day with it, but today he couldn't focus on a single word.

First, that strange, almost fantasy-like nightmare. And now this... her, early in the morning, doing something as simple as cracking eggs, yet looking impossibly beautiful while doing it.

If she called him darling... and then cracked his head like an egg.

Maybe he wouldn't mind.

A smile curved on his lips, but his gaze never wavered from his wife.

Sensing his gaze on her, Layla grew uncomfortable. Her hands began to tremble slightly, but she didn't dare confront him. She didn't even look at him.

A few minutes later, she set the breakfast table, silently praying he would somehow know it was ready and come on his own. But after a minute passed, disappointment crept in.

She turned to call him...

As she turned she found him already standing right behind her.

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. It pounded loudly, wild and unsteady. Still, under her breath, she whispered a small thank you to God before quickly moving to take her seat at the farthest chair.

They were eating in silence when his phone rang, slicing through the quiet. Without pausing, he answered and put it on speaker.

"Salam, Mother."

"Wa-salaam, ya qalbi. How are you?"

"Alhamdulillah. How are you, Mother?"

"I'm a little too happy today."

"Should I be concerned, Mother?"

"And why would you ask that?" his mother replied, sounding slightly offended.

"Because the last time you sounded this happy, I had to suffer."

"How dare you, Yahzaan? Is it so wrong that I want to see my son married soon? To hold my grandchildren before I die? Is that too much to ask?" Her voice rose, heavy with emotion. "I carried you in my womb for nine months, and this is how you speak to me?"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean it like that. Please forgive me."

"Forgive you?" she scoffed lightly. "Fine. But only on one condition."

"What condition?"

"I spoke to Miral this morning. She has some free time this afternoon. You know how busy she is, yet she's making time for you. So I've made arrangements. You will accompany her."

"Where am I supposed to accompany her? And Mother, what do you mean how busy she is? I'm under more pressure than she is. Thousands of people depend on me."

"Yes, yes, whatever," she dismissed him. "All I'm saying is...you have to be there to accompany her."

He rolled his eyes internally before glancing at Layla. She sat across from him, her posture rigid, almost carved from wood.

And a cruel reminder washed over him like a bucket of cold water.

The beautiful woman sitting in front of him,

the woman he was slowly becoming addicted to...

he knew nothing about her.

And suddenly, all his thoughts vanished. His mother's voice faded into the distance as a realization hit him.

He had never taken her out.

Never even asked.

He didn't know her likes or dislikes, none of the small things, the ordinary things people built their lives on.

He had denied her all of it.

His gaze lingered on her trembling hands, on the way she avoided looking at him, as if even that was too much to risk.

And something inside him shifted.

Unfamiliar.

Unwelcome.

Because despite everything... despite the truth of their marriage.

She deserved more.

She deserved the world.

And he...

He could give her power. Protection. Wealth.

But not the one thing that would make any of it real.

Not the one thing that would make her his in the eyes of the world.

A bitter truth pressed against his throat.

He couldn't give her a title.

And somehow, that felt like the cruelest thing he had ever done.

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End of the chapter🤍

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