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Jadwa sat quietly, scrolling through the photos Ameerah had sent her a couple of days ago. Her heart swelled with warmth as she lingered on an image of Ameerah cradling her newborn daughter. The baby was so tiny, her delicate features framed by a soft pink baby shawl. It was a perfect moment, full of love and tenderness, and it made Jadwa's soul feel lighter, almost as if the weight of her own struggles had temporarily lifted. She couldn't help but smile as she sent a flurry of heart emojis to Ameerah and a message to Ahmad, demanding more pictures of her beautiful niece. 

Yet, the joy these pictures brought couldn't fully eclipse the ache in her chest. It had been almost a week since that night in the study, a night that had marked a point in her marriage. There was progress, yes, but it felt fragile, like trying to mend a vase with hairline cracks that could shatter at any moment. 

Jadwa had clung to the small changes. Imran had spoken a few more sentences than he normally did to her and even called a doctor to check on her well-being. But despite this effort, his coldness persisted, and the distance between them still felt insurmountable. They had even shared a few moments of intimacy, only for Jadwa to realize afterward that the lingering resentment and anger between them made it impossible to truly connect. As she laid beside him, she made a decision: they would have to stop. It wasn't healthy to keep pretending that sleeping together could heal what was broken in their hearts. 

This morning, Jadwa awoke early, determined to take the first steps toward mending their fractured bond. As Imran left for his morning run, she headed downstairs, her mind buzzing with plans. She had decided to prepare a surprise for him a simple, intimate evening at home. 

She walked into the kitchen and inspected the desserts she had made. The sight of them brought a small smile to her lips. She had taken her time to perfect every detail: delicate kunafa rolls drizzled with golden syrup, miniature cheesecakes topped with fresh berries, and a moist chocolate cake with a rich ganache glaze. Her plan was to create a warm, inviting atmosphere a candlelit dinner, soft music, and a table set with their finest china. She imagined the two of them sitting together, sharing laughter and quiet moments over the desserts she had lovingly prepared and feast she'd make later.

But as she stood there, surveying her handiwork, doubts crept in. Would he even notice her efforts? Would he stay long enough to see the thought and care she had poured into this evening? Shaking off the negativity, she turned her attention to breakfast. She decided to wait until he returned to make something light and simple. She brewed his  tea and carried it upstairs before slipping into the bathroom to shower and prepare for the day. 

When she emerged, steam curling around her, she found Imran sitting on the couch, engrossed in his phone. His focus was so intent that he didn't even notice her at first. 

"Good morning, Albi," She greeted softly, her voice carrying a note of warmth. 

He glanced up briefly. "Kin tashi lafiya?" He asked, his tone neutral as usual.

She nodded, her smile faint as he returned his attention to his phone. He rose moments later, heading into the bathroom for his own shower. 

By the time he came out, Jadwa was dressed in a soft pink silk makhwar, its flowing fabric accentuating her graceful movements. A matching veil framed her face, and the air was laced with the subtle scent of her favorite perfume. She turned to him with a smile. 

"What do you want for breakfast?" She asked, her tone light and hopeful. 

He glanced at the clock, then back at her. "I really need to go out now for an urgent matter." He replied, pulling an outfit from the closet. 

Her heart sank, but she masked her disappointment with a gentle nod. "Ohhh... toh, sai ka dawo..." She said quietly, watching him dress. 

"I hope everything is fine." She ventured, adjusting her veil. 

"Alhamdulillah." He replied, his tone clipped. "Something important just came up." 

"Alright then, a dawo lafiya," She said, her hand brushing his arm in a fleeting gesture before she turned and left the room.

Once alone, Jadwa tried to shake off the sting of his departure. She called Baba and spent some time chatting with him and Ammi, their comforting voices grounding her. Later, she FaceTimed her friends in Jordan, laughing as they teased Zarah about her unexpected love story. 

Zarah had met her soon-to-be husband in a moment straight out of a romantic comedy. She had insulted him in Hausa at the mall, only for him to turn around, reply in flawless Hausa, and politely ask for her help picking out a handbag for his niece. And now, they're only a few days away from being married. The story had them all in stitches, Jadwa included. 

Amid their plans when they arrive in Nigeria and the laughter, Jadwa made a quiet resolution. She would keep trying. She would give Imran the time and space he needed to process whatever lingered in his heart. For now, she would focus on doing her best, even if it felt like a one-sided effort. The progress was small, but it was there. And she clung to that hope. At least.

An hour slipped by like a ghost, silent and unnerving, until the distant growl of his car broke the stillness. Rising from her seat, she drifted to the window, her heart smiling hoping it truly was him not a guest. Peering through the curtains, her breath caught in her throat thinking of how to welcome him and hoping her surprise for later won't be bursted if he's around. The relief coursed through her knowing it wasn't a guest, followed swiftly by an unsettling ripple of unease because of her surprise.

Then she saw him. Muhammad Imran stepped out of the car with his usual self-assured stride, a man seemingly untouched by the chaos swirling in her mind. But her focus wasn't on him or his new hair cut for long. No. What made her stomach churn and her pulse quicken was the sight of the woman stepping out of the passenger side.

Khayrah.

The name alone brought bile to her throat. She was laughing, her voice carrying through the crisp early afternoon air as if it belonged there, as if she belonged there. Ya Imran said something that made her toss her head back in amusement, her posture too relaxed, too comfortable for Jadwa's liking. Together, they disappeared through the main door, leaving her rooted in place, the curtain trembling in her grip.

Her breaths were shallow, her thoughts racing. What was she doing here, in their home, at this ungodly hour? Jadwa clenched her fists, her knuckles could be turning white. She couldn't shake the image of Khayrah's easy laugh, the way she moved as though she owned the ground she walked on. Yes, she was jealous.

Jadwa inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, and made her way to his room. She thought he would come to her, offer an explanation, call her downstairs, something. But the room was empty. Her heart ached with the absence of answers. She sat on the edge of the bed, her body stiff, her mind a whirlwind of questions and unspoken accusations. Minutes felt like hours until the door creaked open.

Imran entered, his expression unreadable. He met her eyes briefly, his face impassive, and murmured a simple Salam. She returned it quietly, watching as he grabbed papers, a pen, and a few checks. He moved with an air of detachment, as though everything was perfectly normal. As though there wasn't an intruder in their home, invading her space.

He left without another word.

Jadwa remained frozen, staring at the door he had walked through, resentment, jealousy and fear all bubbling beneath her skin. Her throat felt tight, her tongue bitter with unspoken words. She couldn't sit still anymore. Ten minutes later, she found herself descending the stairs, her feet light but her heart heavy. She scanned the living room, expecting to find them there, but the space was empty. Only traces of their presence remained: the lingering scent of a woman's perfume, a large Dior tote bag with Khayrah's name stitched elegantly on it, and Ya Imran's hat tossed carelessly onto the table next to the bag.

The scene enraged her in its quiet mockery.

Then she heard it, the faint murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. Her stomach twisted as she followed the sound, her footsteps careful, her breath shallow. When she reached the doorway, the sight that greeted her made her heart lurch and her blood run cold.

Imran stood leaning against the counter, his arms folded, his posture relaxed. He looked like a man at ease, like the man he was before, far removed from the tension gnawing at her insides. And there was Khayrah, standing beside him, a knife in hand as she sliced onion with the precision of someone who had done it a thousand times before. She smiled as they talked, her face alight with joy at whatever meaningless exchange they were sharing.

Jadwa gripped the doorframe tightly, her nails digging into the wood. Her body felt disconnected from her mind, her emotions a chaotic storm. She didn't remember stepping into the kitchen, but suddenly, she was there, her voice cutting through their laughter like a blade.

"What's going on here?" She asked looking at her husband. The words were soft, trembling on the edges, but the sharpness beneath them was unmistakable.

Both turned to face her. Muhammad Imran's expression shifted slightly, but he said nothing. Khayrah, however, had the audacity to smile, a slow, condescending curl of her lips looking her up and down.

"Good morning," Khayrah said sweetly, her tone dripping with mock politeness.

Jadwa didn't respond. Her eyes darted between the two, waiting for Imran to speak, to justify what she was seeing. But he remained silent, his gaze fixed on her, as if waiting for her next move.

"What are you looking at?" Jadwa snapped at Khayrah, who was still eyeing het head to toe, her voice rising. She let out a bitter laugh, her anger crackling like fire. "No, wait... what the hell is she doing in my kitchen?" Her voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension like glass. Her gaze flicked to the boiling pot on the stove, her fury simmering to match it.

Khayrah's smirk didn't waver. "Cooking, obviously," She replied smoothly, the knife in her hand glinting under the kitchen light. "There's no food in your kitchen, and we're starving."

The fuck?

Jadwa's lips twitched into a humorless smile as her eyes shifted to Ya Imran, who stood unmoving, his gaze steady but infuriatingly calm.

"Mijina yace miki yunwa yake ji? (Did my husband tell you that he's hungry?)" She asked, her voice laced with venom, her eyebrow arched in challenge.

"Ja..." Imran started but Jadwa was too far gone in her head to listen to him.

"Not a word." She fired her slightly glossy eyes at him before turning back to Khayrah.

Khayrah let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Allah sarki! Jadu," She began, her tone condescending. "Don't forget, I'm older than you, older than even Rahma. Show some respect when you speak."

"Do not ever make the mistake of calling me Jadu, you don't have that privilege." Jadwa's patience snapped. Her voice dropped, quiet and lethal. "Do what you like in your house, not mine. When you have your own husband, let cheap women like you enter your house and cook for him."

The room seemed to hold its breath. Imran's sharp inhale was the only sound as Jadwa turned her full attention to Khayrah. "Leave." She ordered, her voice low but commanding.

Khayrah laughed aggressively, mocking sound that reverberated through the room. "Cheap? You think this house is yours and yours alone?" She turned to Ya Imran, laughing louder like a silent communication, an inside joke and how you would to a clueless person.

"And who else's is it for? You?" Jadwa asked daringly.

Khayrah scoffed and then shrugged in a mocking way. "The delusions girls like you live in! You really think you are the only wom..."

Before she could finish her tirade, Jadwa moved. The pot of boiling water was in her hands before she could think, her rage blinding. She flung its contents in Khayrah's direction. Khayrah shrieked, dodging just in time thanks to her reflexes, though her dress wasn't as lucky. Splashes of hot water clung to the fabric, and she cried out as they scorched her skin. Imran recoiled, water staining his shirt as he stared at Jadwa in disbelief and total shock.

"JADWA!" His voice came loud, sharp and stern freezing her in place. She dropped the pot onto the floor with a clatter, her chest heaving. His tone shook her, but her anger was too fierce to be subdued. She knew what she was doing and Khayrah getting a very moderate taste to her medicine was the plan.

"Khayrah, go home," Imran said through gritted teeth, his voice low and steady. He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to her. "I'll send someone to get the car later."

Jadwa snatched the key out of Khayrah's hand immediately it landed. "You should be able to find your way back on your own, you're an adult after all." She said remembering the words spoken earlier.

Khayrah hesitated, glaring at Jadwa one last time before storming out. She knew better than to drag this on any longer even for herself. The door slammed behind her, leaving a suffocating silence in her wake.

Muhammd turned to Jadwa who was moving to leave the kitchen, his expression dark and unreadable. He reached for her wrist, his grip firm, his eyes burning into hers. "We're not done," He said quietly, his voice a dangerous calm.

The silence after Khayrah's departure was deafening, but it was far from calm. Jadwa could feel the storm brewing in the air, heavy with unspoken words and raw emotions. Imran's grip on her wrist tightened slightly not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor her to the moment. His eyes bore into hers, unreadable but intense, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitching.

"What the hell was that, Jadwa?" His voice was low, controlled, but it carried the weight of his anger.

She yanked her hand free, her eyes blazing with defiance. "No, what the hell was what?" She asked back, trying not to raise her voice. "You bring her into our home, let her act like she owns the place, and you expect me to sit back and smile like nothing is wrong?"

"She's not just 'her,'" Imran said through gritted teeth. "She's family, Jadwa. You know that."

"Family?" Jadwa's laugh was sharp and bitter, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Don't insult my intelligence, Ya Imran. She's not family to me and if I can remember well, not to you especially considering how much I thought you couldn't stand her and her Aunt. She's a woman who has no business being in my kitchen, cooking for my husband."

"She wasn't doing anything wrong." He said, his tone growing sharper but still calm. "You're overreacting."

"Overreacting?" She repeated, incredulous. Her voice climbed an octave, her anger spilling over. "You let her waltz in here like she belongs, laughing and chatting with you while I'm upstairs wondering what the hell is going on! She had the audacity to insult me like she always does and today, it was in my own home, and you said nothing. Nothing!"

Ya Imran's face darkened, but he didn't interrupt her.

"She mocked me, Ya Imran. She stood there with that smug smile on her face, acting like I'm the outsider. Like I'm the one who doesn't belong here! Like I was interrupting your lovers' moment " Her voice cracked, the vulnerability seeping through despite her best efforts to contain it. "And you just stood there, silent, like she's so important."

His eyes narrowed, the word hitting its mark. "Careful, Jadwa." He warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"Or what?" She challenged, stepping closer. "You'll defend her again? You'll tell me how wrong I am for not welcoming her with open arms while she disrespects me? Go ahead, Ya Imran. Defend her. Tell me how much she means to you again."

He let her wrists go, his composure wasn't even slipping. "You're twisting this." He said, his tone sharp. "Khayrah didn't come here to fight you. She came to..."

"To what?" Jadwa interrupted, her eyes flashing. "Cook? Play house? Mark her territory?"

Ya Imran took a deep breath, his frustration evident. "You're acting irrational, Jadwa. You need to calm down."

"Calm down?" She repeated, her voice rising again. "I even asked what to cook for you, I can't even remember the last time you ate my food! I always cook for you, but it always ends up being given out because my food isn't worth a glance from you, but hers?" She excels "Ya Imran, you've disrespected me in the worst way possible. You brought her into our home without so much as a word to me. You let her stand in my kitchen and treat me like I'm nothing, like I'm not even your wife!"

"That's not true," He snapped, his voice finally rising to match hers. "You're my wife, Jadwa. But you're not acting like one right now."

The words hit her like a slap, her breath catching in her throat. "Excuse me?" She said, her voice low and trembling with suppressed rage.

"My wife doesn't throw boiling water at someone, no matter the situation," He said, his voice steady but cold. "A wife doesn't create a scene like this."

"A wife doesn't have to deal with another woman invading her home." She fired back, her voice shaking. "A wife doesn't have to sit in silence while her husband gives her no explanation, no respect, no support."

Imran looked at her for a long moment, his expression softening just slightly, though his frustration remained. "You're blowing this out of proportion, Jadwa. Khayrah isn't a threat to you."

"Isn't she?" Jadwa's voice dropped, quieter now, but no less intense. "Then why does it feel like she's more welcome in this house than I am? Why do I feel like I'm the one intruding on something between you two?"

Muhammad Imran opened his mouth to respond but hesitated, the words seeming to die on his lips. His silence spoke volumes, and it cut deeper than anything he could have said.

"That's what I thought," She said bitterly, turning away.

He seized her wrist mid-stride, his grip firm yet unyielding, halting her retreat. His voice cut through the air, sharp and heavy with frustration. "What's this? Me haka baby? What's the meaning of this childishness?" He added trying his best to be gentle.

Jadwa ripped her hand free, her movements sharp, her glare sharper. "Why are you attacking me?" She countered, her voice trembling with barely contained fury. She tried, truly, to keep her tone measured, but then he said it again.

"Why are you trying to be problematic?" he demanded, his tone edged with disdain.

"Problematic? Now I'm trying to be problematic, huh?!" Her voice pitched higher, cracking under the weight of her anger. "You were the one that brought that woman into my house or should I say that bitch to cook for you. And now you stand here, asking me why I'm being problematic?"

Imran's jaw tightened as he dragged a hand over his face, letting out a slow, deliberate breath. "Jadwa, fisabilillah, what exactly is your problem?" His words felt like an accusation, his tone one of weary exasperation. "Mene ne matsalan ki? (What is your problem?)"His words felt like an accusation, his tone one of weary exasperation.

Her fury simmered beneath the surface, cold and sharp. "Why did you bring her into my house?" she demanded an explanation, her voice low and dangerous.

He tilted his head back, as though her question were absurd, before his lips curled into a mocking smirk. "It's my house too, no?" His chuckle came soft but deliberate, each note a provocation.

And just like that, her composure shattered. "Ya Imran, it's your house. I won't argue that. But it's my home." Her words were venom-laced, her tone trembling on the edge of rage. "What makes you think I'll stand by and accept any disrespect in my marital home? It's my right."

His laugh came again, darker this time, dismissive in its timbre. "You talk about rights far too much, Jadwa. For someone who only does the parts that suit her, you wield the word as if it's sacred."

Her breath hitched, tears threatening to spill, but she stood firm. "I'm tired, Ya Imran. I'm sick and exhausted. I'm trying, Allah knows I'm trying to fix things between us. I'm trying to mend things when I'm breaking myself, I'm trying to make you happy, to avoid anything that will upset you and to be the perfect partner. I regret everything I've done, every word I've said that's caused you pain. But is this really how you'll throw away everything we've built?"

"What is there to throw away?" He asked flatly, as though their marriage was nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience.

Her heart fractured, eyes ringing with burning tears, her resolve weakening under the weight of his indifference. "So, that's why it's so easy for you to jump to the next woman?" Her voice cracked, her body trembling, but she refused to look away. "Tell me, Ya Imran. What are you doing with her?" She asked and swallowed "With Khayrah?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. He didn't flinch, didn't move, as if her words carried no weight. Instead, he leaned against the counter, cracking his neck with the air of someone far too comfortable in the chaos, like he expected those words from her.

Her laugh came bitter, hollow, as tears slipped unbidden down her cheeks. "Or is it Alina I should be worried about?" She pressed, her tone sharper now, her eyes searching his face. The shift in his expression was immediate and sharp, his brows shooting up in startled surprise. His hand moved instinctively to his beard, stroking it in a way she recognized all too well, he always did that when he's stressed, overwhelmed or trying to restrain himself.

Her heart sank, nausea rolling through her like a violent storm. Her hands trembled at his body language that spoke volumes, the echoes of a past betrayal from her ex clawing their way to the surface. She knew this feeling the sinking dread, the suffocating heat, the way denial warred with reality. She knew it all too well.

"Let me rephrase," She said, her voice now frighteningly calm as she stepped closer. "Are you talking to her with the intention of marriage?" She asked in way he always put it.

He turned away, avoiding her gaze, but when he finally looked back, she could swear it was a smirk before it disappeared. A cold, deliberate smirk that sent a chill racing down her spine.

"Jadwa," He said, his voice dripping with mock patience, "What is it you want? Is there anything you lack? I give you your rights, fulfill all your demands, meet my responsibilities without fail. So why all these questions?"

Her laughter came again, hollow and bitter. "Are you taking another wife?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her heart begged for silence, for him to say nothing, because she knew she knew the truth would destroy her.

"If this is about Khayrah, kima kwantar da hankalin ki," He said dismissively.

A cold, humorless laugh escaped her."And if it's not her?" She pushed, her voice trembling but resolute.

His gaze hardened, his sigh heavy with frustration. "You really want to hear it, don't you?"

Her pulse quickened, her chest tightening painfully. "Yes," She whispered.

"Me taking another wife is none of your business." He said dismissively and she swallowed the fear that grew in her heart.

"So you are?" She pressed her voice faint.

"In Shaa Allah" He reaffirmed His tone was steady, resolute, as though he were discussing a promise to her that he always kept. There was no hesitation, no doubt, just the unshakable certainty of a man delivering a promise he intended to keep.

Her knees buckled, and she clutched the kitchen island to keep from collapsing. The air in the room grew thick, suffocating, the hum of the air conditioner lost beneath the roaring in her ears. Sweat slicked her brow, and her skin prickled as though the boiling she threw earlier water had been poured over her. She was unraveling, piece by piece.

As he turned to leave, she felt the weight of two unbearable truths settle over her. She is in love Muhammad Imran, too in love, way too much.

And the second truth, the words escaped her lips before she could stop them. "Divorce me."

He froze mid-step, his head snapping back, his eyes narrowing in shock he couldn't mask. "What?" He asked, turning fully to face her.

"I said divorce me," She repeated, her voice trembling with a mix of defiance and despair. "I want to hear the Talaq. Now."

His eyes bore into hers, their intensity raw and unyielding. For the first time in months, since the miscarriage, she felt the full weight of his gaze that spoke truth. It wasn't indifference this time. It was something else entirely, something that made her knees shake.

"Is that what you truly want, Jadwa?"