Paris, France 🇫🇷

After spending two unforgettable weeks in the lively streets of New Orleans, we had now found ourselves in the heart of Paris, the city of love. We planned to spend a week here, inshallah, and had already made the most of the past three days.

Our home for the trip? The Four Seasons Hotel George V—an oasis of luxury and elegance that exuded Parisian charm. The moment we had checked in, I had been in awe of its grandeur. Every detail, from the lavish chandeliers to the breathtaking floral arrangements, felt like a dream.

Norah had flown in from the UK yesterday to join us, taking advantage of her short school break. She was staying in her own room, while I was in ours, getting ready for dinner.

After slipping into something elegant, I dressed Sabrina in the cutest mustard and white outfit. Her top had "Lovely" written across it, and mashallah, she truly lived up to the word. I smiled as I brushed back her soft curls, my heart swelling with love for my little angel.

Muhammad and I made our way to the hotel lobby and waited for Norah and Sabrina. A few moments later, they arrived, Norah looking effortlessly stylish as always. We stepped outside and took a cab to Diếp, a highly-rated Vietnamese restaurant.

As soon as we sat down, Norah leaned over, holding out her phone.

"Leyloş, look at this picture of Coco. I had to take a million shots before she finally sat still!" she whined playfully.

I took her phone and scrolled through the pictures, smiling at the sight of my baby girl looking absolutely adorable. Mashallah.

After ordering, I decided to try Sole Caramélisé, while Sabrina got mashed potatoes with garlic sauce. Muhammad and Norah made their selections, and in no time, our food arrived. As we ate, we talked about everything and nothing, the conversation flowing effortlessly between laughter and nostalgia.

Once dinner was over, we lingered at the table, snapping pictures to send to Ni'imah, Ya Meena, and Ibty. I even captured a candid shot of Norah, sitting gracefully with a cup of coffee—her greatest addiction—in front of her. She looked stunning, as always. She had an undeniable talent for fashion, always knowing exactly what to wear and how to wear it.

As the golden hour cast a dreamy glow over the city, we boarded a boat for a sunset tour of Paris. The air was crisp, and the Seine sparkled under the fading sunlight. Norah snapped a picture of Muhammad and me with the Eiffel Tower in the background. The moment I saw it, I knew—it had just become my new favorite picture of us.

We had returned to the hotel an hour ago, and exhaustion was weighing heavily on me. I collapsed onto the plush bed, sighing dramatically.

"Babe, I really need a massage," I groaned, stretching out beside Muhammad, who was, as usual, engrossed in his laptop.

I waited for a response, but he barely acknowledged me, his fingers still typing away. My irritation flared. This was supposed to be our post-baby honeymoon, yet his laptop seemed to be his real companion.

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously, Muhammad? You're always on your laptop! You're not even giving me your full attention. I thought this was a vacation?"

That got his attention. He finally shut the laptop and set it aside, turning to face me. He took my hands gently, pressing a light kiss on my fingers.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I just needed to finish up some work. But I promise, from this moment on, I'm all yours."

I huffed, pulling my hands away. "No, it's fine. Just go back to work. I'm going to sleep."

I turned away from him, dragging the duvet up to my chin. A beat of silence passed before I felt his arms snake around my waist, pulling me close.

"Baby, I'm sorry," he murmured, his lips grazing my neck. "I promise this is the last time I'm touching my laptop for the rest of the vacation, inshallah."

I sighed deeply but didn't respond.

"Come on, Layla. Please, baby." He tightened his grip around my waist and pressed a lingering kiss to the sensitive spot on my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Damn. I could never stay mad at him for long.

Reluctantly, I turned to face him. "Do you promise?"

He nodded, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss. "I promise, baby."

I exhaled. "Okay."

His lips curled into a smile. "Am I forgiven?"

I pretended to hesitate before finally relenting. "Yes, you are, Hayatim." I smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

Satisfied, I started to turn over to sleep, but before I could, he pulled me back into his arms.

"Now, let's sleep," I said, trying to remove his hands from my waist.

He smirked and smacked my hand away.

"Hey! What was that for?" I asked, feigning hurt.

"For trying to move my hands from where they belong," he replied, his voice deep and husky.

I rolled my eyes, suppressing a chuckle. "Where they belong? Really, Muhammad?"

He laughed. "Heck yeah."

Shaking my head, I sighed. "I don't have time for you. I'm exhausted."

"Mm-hmm. Plus, we wouldn't want to wake Sabrina up," he teased, nuzzling my neck.

I smiled. "Exactly. Now, goodnight."

He kissed my cheek softly. "Goodnight, baby. Love you."

"Love you too," I mumbled, finally letting sleep claim me, wrapped in his warmth.

Two Weeks Later – Abuja, Nigeria 🇳🇬

It was a calm Saturday evening, and I found myself at Ni'imah's house, finally catching up after two weeks back from Paris. Everything had been smooth, Alhamdulillah, but I missed these little moments with her.

"Layla, do you realize how much this girl looks like Nabeel?" Ni'imah said, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she played with Sabrina.

I groaned, already bracing myself. "For Allah's sake, not you too!"

Ni'imah let out a hearty laugh, clearly enjoying my frustration. "I'm serious though. Look at her face properly."

"Sabrina looks like me, Nini. Not Nabeel." I argued, folding my arms.

"Well... you do resemble Nabeel," she teased, fully aware of how much I hated that comparison.

I narrowed my eyes at her, and she laughed harder.

"Even her dad swears she looks like him," I muttered, shaking my head.

"At all! She doesn't look like him kwata-kwata," Ni'imah disagreed. "Maybe just the eyes. The resemblance there is uncanny."

I nodded in agreement. "Exactly. It's the eyes, nothing more."

We spent the next hour gossiping, laughing, and catching up on everything I had missed. As Maghrib approached, I decided it was time to leave.

"Stay a little longer and pray here before you go," Ni'imah pleaded.

After much persuasion, I gave in. Once the Adhan called, I performed my prayer, then gathered my things to head home.

*****

I arrived home feeling content, but my mood soured the moment I walked through the door. There, sprawled on the couch in the living room, was Juwairah—eyes glued to the TV, completely ignoring my presence.

Muhammad's cars were parked outside, meaning he was home. Probably upstairs.

I dropped Sabrina's bag on the couch and greeted, "Assalamu alaikum."

Silence.

I clenched my jaw, my patience thinning. "Juwairah, can't you answer the Salam?"

She hissed—a full-blown, disrespectful hiss—before finally looking up. Her expression was one of pure disdain.

"Is it by force to answer?" she sneered. "Kin tafi yawon karuwanci, kin bar mutane da yunwa." (You went out prostituting, leaving people hungry.)

For a moment, I stood frozen, my brain struggling to process the sheer audacity of her words.

Then, before I could stop myself, my hand slammed against her face. A loud, satisfying smack echoed through the room.

Juwairah gasped, clutching her cheek in shock. "Did you just slap me?!"

"You dare to repeat that filth?" My voice trembled with rage as I handed Sabrina to the nanny, freeing my hands for another potential slap.

But before I could strike again, a sharp voice cut through the tension.

"Layla!"

I turned and found Muhammad standing at the bottom of the stairs, his expression dark.

"Ya Muhammad, she hit me!" Juwairah burst into crocodile tears, her voice wobbling like a child caught in a lie. "And all because I told her the truth!"

Muhammad's gaze snapped to me, his voice like ice. "Layla, what did she do to you? Whatever it was, you shouldn't have slapped her like that!"

My heart clenched. I knew this man. I loved this man. But at this moment, I barely recognized him.

"She insulted me, Muhammad!" I hissed, my voice shaking. "She called me a prostitute! And you're standing here questioning me?"

Muhammad turned back to Juwairah. "Is it true?" he asked, but his tone lacked the disbelief I so desperately needed to hear.

Juwairah sniffled, playing her part perfectly. "Wallahi, Ya Muhammad, I only told her she left the house too much."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Unbelievable. You actually believe her over me?"

His silence was enough of an answer.

A lump formed in my throat. I had swallowed insult after insult from his cousin. I had endured her presence for his sake. But this?

I didn't need to hear another word.

With a scoff, I turned on my heel and stormed upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind me so hard the walls trembled.

And then, the tears came.

I slid to the floor, my body wracked with silent sobs. How dare he? How dare he take her side?

I wiped my tears furiously and changed into something more comfortable. But no matter what I did, the pain sat heavy in my chest.

I hugged Sabrina tightly, inhaling her soft baby scent as she slept, seeking comfort in the only place I could find it.

Muhammad had just broken something in me. And I wasn't sure it could ever be repaired.

The Next Morning

I woke up early, made breakfast, and went about my morning routine like nothing had happened. I refused to let anyone see my pain.

After showering, I dressed in grey sweats and a purple shirt, then sat on the bed, brushing Sabrina's tiny curls.

Knock. Knock.

I knew who it was.

Muhammad.

I ignored him.

He knocked again.

Silence.

Finally, he tried the door. It was locked.

Good. Let him stay out there. Let him wonder. Let him feel a fraction of the hurt I felt last night.

I wasn't ready to forgive. And I wasn't sure when—or if—I ever would.

A Rift Between Them – Third Person POV

Muhammad stood outside the bedroom door, listening to the muffled sound of Layla's sobs. The ache in his chest was unbearable. What had he done to her? What had he done to them?

Yet, instead of knocking, instead of walking in and pulling her into his arms, he turned away. He had tried. He had knocked. He had waited. But she had ignored him.

With a heavy heart, he retreated to his own room.

The next morning, he left his room at the exact moment Layla stepped out of hers. Their eyes met. His breath hitched. She was tired, drained, but still so beautiful.

But instead of acknowledging him, she walked past him as if he was invisible.

The coldness in her demeanor sent a pang through his heart, but he remained still, watching as she disappeared down the stairs.

Without thinking, he followed.

At the dining table, she set down a plate of toast and scrambled eggs with a cup of hot cocoa before him, her movements precise, controlled. Not once did she meet his gaze.

As she turned to leave, he spoke. "Layla."

She halted but didn't turn around.

"Have you eaten?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry." Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

He parted his lips to say something, anything, but before he could, Juwairah waltzed in, dressed in a black sleeveless camisole and a skirt.

She took a seat next to Muhammad, her movements deliberate, calculated. "Ya Muhammad, good morning," she purred, her voice laced with an attempt at seduction.

Muhammad nodded absentmindedly. "Juwairah, how are you? Hope you slept well?"

"Oh, I did," she giggled, her fingers brushing his arm.

Layla, who had witnessed the scene unfold, rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, walking out of the room.

The moment she sat down in the living room, the nanny approached, handing over a drowsy Sabrina.

Layla's cold heart melted the second she looked at her daughter's sleepy face. No matter what storm raged inside her, Sabrina was her calm. Her joy.

"İzin ver seni besleyeyim, prensesim," she whispered softly, adjusting her position to nurse her daughter. (Let me feed you, my princess.)

Muhammad had followed her, leaning against the doorframe, watching them.

Something twisted in his chest. Layla looked so peaceful, so content with their daughter. But that peace no longer extended to him.

And it was his fault.

Still, despite the guilt eating at him, another feeling lingered—anger. She had yelled at him, slammed the door in his face, refused to talk to him. That wasn't something he could overlook.

With slow, purposeful steps, he walked toward her. "Let me carry her," he said.

Without looking at him, Layla gently placed Sabrina in his arms.

He pressed a kiss to the baby's cheek, inhaling her soft scent, allowing the tiny giggle she let out to momentarily soothe the turmoil in his heart. Then, just as quickly, he handed her back to Layla.

"I'm going out," he said suddenly.

Layla remained indifferent. "A dawo lafiya." (Safe return.)

Her voice was polite, but it carried no warmth.

He turned away, pausing briefly to direct his words at Juwairah, "I don't want to come back and find out that you two are quarreling again."

Juwairah's lips curled into a smile. "Of course, Ya Muhammad," she said sweetly.

He walked out, and Layla watched as Juwairah practically floated to her room, excitement in her steps.

Layla's chest burned.

She picked up her phone and dialed Ibty's number.

"Hey, Mummy Sabrina! How are you?" Ibty's cheerful voice rang through.

"Not fine," Layla said flatly.

Immediately, Ibty's tone turned serious. "What's wrong? Your voice sounds off."

Layla didn't hold back. She told her everything. Every word. Every insult. Every bit of the betrayal she felt. By the time she was done, she was crying again.

Ibty sighed. "Okay, deep breath, Layla. You have every right to be mad at him."

"Of course, I do!" Layla snapped. "That girl called me a prostitute, and he said nothing! He yelled at me for slapping her! He didn't even listen to my side of the story! For Allah's sake, Ibty, how would you feel if Ahmad did something like that? Imagine his cousin living with you, causing problems, and instead of standing by you, he believes her!"

Ibty hesitated before speaking. "Layla, as you said, she's his cousin. He sees her as a sister. And honestly, you shouldn't have reacted so fast. You should've—"

"Ibty, don't start with that," Layla interrupted, frustration evident in her tone. "I have been patient for so long. I didn't even realize I slapped her until it happened! She irritates me!"

"I know, Layla," Ibty soothed. "I know. But listen to me—just apologize to him, okay? He's your husband. You shouldn't have acted the way you did. Call him. Tell him you're sorry. Tell him you love him. Cook his favorite meal. Do something."

Layla sobbed harder. "Ibty, he's ignoring me. This is the first time we've ever fought, and I hate it."

"I know, my love," Ibty's voice was gentle. "But trust me. Just text him. Call him. Fix this before it gets worse."

Layla wiped her tears, sniffling. "Okay. I'll try."

******

It was 11 p.m., and Muhammad was still not home.

Layla had called him over and over, but he never answered. Her heart raced when she finally heard his car pull up outside. The door opened, and he stepped in.

"Where have you been, Muhammad?" she demanded, her voice laced with worry. "I was worried! You weren't answering my calls! I said I'm sorry!"

He stood in the middle of the living room, one hand in his pocket, the other typing something on his phone.

His next words shattered her.

"Are you done?"

Layla's breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Muhammad didn't spare her another glance. He simply walked past her, heading to his room.

She stood there, frozen. Shocked. Hurt. Tears filled her eyes, but this time, they weren't just from sadness.

They were from anger.

How dare he?

She clenched her fists, remembering Ibty's words.

Fix this before it gets worse.

With renewed determination, she wiped her face and marched upstairs.

She didn't bother knocking. She sauntered in.

Muhammad was standing by the mirror, buttoning his shirt. "Can I help you?" he asked, his tone clipped.

"We need to talk," she said firmly.

"I don't have time for this," he muttered, sitting on the bed. "I'm tired. Leave."

Layla's patience snapped. "Are you seriously going to keep ignoring me over this? Over a tiny mistake? Muhammad, you didn't even listen to me! I am your wife! Not some outsider!"

He shot her a cold, deadly look. "Are you raising your voice at me?"

She gasped. "I didn't mean to. I—"

"Get out."

Her heart stopped. "Muhammad, please—"

"GET OUT!" he roared.

Layla staggered back.

For a moment, she thought about fighting back. About standing her ground.

But the look in his eyes stopped her.

She turned and walked away.

The second she closed the door behind her, the tears came rushing down.

She missed her husband.

And it hurt.

So.......we had our first fight 😫 and it's really really bad😰 Layla should do every possible thing that will make Muhammad forgive her for the mistake she made. Even tho it wasn't entirely her fault ya know😅  still you should never disrespect your husband in any way because your key to jannah is under his feet👌

Who knew Muhammad was this tough? Defs Not me!  But I trust in love 🥰

And as for juwairah smh 🤦‍♀️ she's just what she is.

Well that story is just starting to get juicier💃

I hope you've enjoyed this chapter? No heartbreaks 😅💜

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Love deedah✨