The silence between them was unbearable. Days had passed, yet the tension in the house remained thick, suffocating. Layla had never gone this long without speaking properly to Muhammad, and it was eating her alive. She missed him—missed his warmth, his voice, his teasing smirks. But he had shut her out completely, his cold indifference cutting deeper than any words ever could.

Ibty, seeing the emotional wreck Layla had become, decided enough was enough. She showed up unannounced, arms crossed, eyes stern. "You need to apologize properly," she stated, leaving no room for argument.

Layla sighed, running a shaky hand through her hair. "But he won't even look at me, Ibty. He won't listen!" Her voice cracked, frustration and heartbreak colliding into a sob.

Ibty grabbed her hands and squeezed gently. "Make him listen," she whispered, her gaze unwavering. "You've been married for almost two years, Layla. You know how to reach him. He may be mad as hell, but that doesn't mean he loves you any less. You just need to break through his walls."

Tears welled in Layla's eyes as she pulled Ibty into a tight hug. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Ibty chuckled, standing up and smoothing her hijab. "You'd be lost, obviously." She winked, grabbing her bag. "Now, don't forget to wear something sexy. A little extra effort never killed anyone." She smirked and walked out, leaving Layla shaking her head with a small, amused smile.

As the evening approached, Layla knew it was now or never. She couldn't bear another night of this distance between them. So she took a deep breath and got to work.

She cooked his favorite meal, making sure everything was perfect. Then she sauntered upstairs, determined. After a long shower, she slipped into a burgundy off-shoulder crop top that hugged her frame perfectly, paired with faded ripped denim jeans. She applied just enough makeup to enhance her features, letting her long, dark curls fall naturally over her shoulders.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she smiled faintly. She looked beautiful, but most of all, she felt like herself again. Confident. Determined. Ready.

She made her way downstairs, her heart pounding as she waited. Moments later, she heard the familiar sound of his car pulling up. Her pulse quickened.

The front door opened. "Assalamu Alaikum," he greeted, his voice calm but distant.

Layla stood up, hands clasped in front of her. "Sannu da dawowa," she said softly, stealing a glance at him.

"Yawwa, thank you," he replied, his gaze lingering on her longer than expected. She could see it in his eyes—the way they darkened slightly, the way he took her in, like he was trying not to let his guard down.

"Your food is ready," she said, stepping closer. "Why don't you take a shower first? Then we can eat together." She batted her lashes, her voice honeyed with a softness she knew he couldn't ignore.

Something flickered in his expression. Awe. Desire. But he masked it quickly, giving a curt nod. "Okay."

As he turned toward the stairs, she followed. She wasn't going to let him slip away again.

She entered his room without knocking, making him pause mid-unbuttoning his dress shirt. He looked at her through the mirror. "Can I help you?"

"Let me do it," she murmured, stepping closer.

He didn't stop her. His Adam's apple bobbed as she reached up, undoing the rest of his buttons, her fingers grazing his warm skin. The tension crackled between them like a live wire. He held her gaze for a moment before walking into the bathroom, leaving her standing there, heart hammering.

When he returned, freshly showered and dressed in the clothes she had laid out for him, she simply took his hand and led him downstairs.

Dinner was quiet but comfortable. They ate together, the silence no longer unbearable but filled with unspoken words. Afterward, they settled in the living room, the TV playing in the background, neither of them paying attention.

Finally, she broke the silence. "Muhammad, please... we need to talk."

He exhaled, leaning back against the couch. "About what?"

She reached for his hand, holding it tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I was wrong, and I regret it so much. But..." She took a deep breath. "You hurt me too, Muhammad. You didn't even listen to me. You judged me without giving me a chance to explain. Do you know how painful that was?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she spoke, her voice raw with emotion.

His expression softened, the icy barrier around his heart beginning to crack. He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she thought she might break. "I forgive you," he whispered against her hair. "I was angry, but that doesn't mean I ever stopped loving you. Forgive me too for hurting you."

She clung to him, sobbing into his shirt. "I forgive you. I love you, Muhammad. I hate fighting with you."

He kissed the top of her head, his grip tightening. "Shh, it's okay, baby." Then he pulled back slightly, cupping her tear-streaked face. "You know, you look even more beautiful when you smile," he murmured, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

A watery chuckle escaped her lips as she sniffled. "You're such a flirt."

He smirked. "Only for my gazelle-eyed wife."

They stayed there, wrapped in each other's embrace, basking in the warmth that had returned—the warmth of love, of forgiveness, of an unbreakable bond.

Two weeks later...

Muhammad sat frozen, his mind racing, his heart pounding. Had he heard his father correctly?

"Baba, where did you hear that?" His voice was eerily calm, but beneath the surface, a storm brewed.

"Hajiya Munira called me yesterday," his father replied, his tone heavy with meaning. "She said it's serious. She's frightened, Muhammad—worried about her daughter."

"But Baba, I do not wish to do this," Muhammad said, his brows furrowing. His chest tightened with a sense of impending doom. "I only got married two years ago."

His father exhaled, shaking his head as if Muhammad's response was expected yet disappointing. "Muhammad, my son, listen. Her father called me, and you know how much I respect him. When he told me that he wanted my only son to wed his daughter, I couldn't say no right away. I have been wanting to close that deal with his company, and he made it clear that the only way that could happen was through this union."

It took a moment for the words to settle, but when they did, Muhammad felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted. His blood boiled. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. How could they do this to him? How could they plan his life without even consulting him?

"Respectfully, Baba," he said, his voice tight, "I decline."

His father's head snapped up immediately, eyes narrowing. "Muhammad, never in my life would I have thought I'd hear such words from you."

Muhammad closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself to remain composed. "Baba, I don't mean to sound disrespectful, but I cannot do this. I cannot betray my wife. If you recall, she is only married to me because of an arrangement you made with her father."

"I have spoken to Alhaji Ahmad," his father interjected. "He understands the situation."

Muhammad let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "He understands?" His voice was laced with disbelief. "So my father-in-law was consulted about his daughter's potential heartbreak, but I—the one who is actually being forced into this—was left out of the conversation?"

His father's jaw tightened. "Muhammad, this is bigger than you. This is about family, about business, about legacy."

"Then why not one of my cousins?" he snapped.

"Because she wanted you," his father said simply. "I want you to think about it, Muhammad. Our company's future depends on your decision."

Muhammad sat back, silent, feeling trapped.

"By Allah, if I had another son, I wouldn't have placed this burden on you," his father added, shaking his head solemnly. "But I don't."

He sighed deeply, rubbing his temples, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him.

"Alhaji Hussain said we could have the wedding fatiha in three weeks." His father's voice was firm, final. "Just go home and think about it, my son. I'm sure you'll see that this is the right decision."

Muhammad's throat tightened. His mind screamed No, this is not right! But what could he say? He stood up, his movements slow, reluctant.

"Baba." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Have patience, my child," his father said. "All will be well, Inshallah. And I know if you explain the situation to Layla, she will understand too."

Would she? Would Layla understand that the love of her life was being forced into another marriage for the sake of business?

Muhammad left, his heart heavy with the burden of what was to come.

***

At Khalifa's house, Muhammad paced the floor, his frustration palpable.

"Hey, man, seriously, what's up?" Khalifa asked, watching his friend with concern.

Muhammad kept shaking his head, unable to speak. His thoughts were a mess. His emotions were spiraling. Finally, he muttered the words that made his stomach turn.

"I'm marrying Juwairah."

Khalifa let out a startled laugh. "Yeah, what a good joke."

Muhammad lifted his head, his gaze dark and serious. "Do I look like I'm joking, Khalifa?"

The humor drained from Khalifa's face. "Oh man," he whispered. "Please tell me this isn't real."

Muhammad exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I just came from Baba's," he confessed. "He's already set everything in motion."

Khalifa groaned, running a hand through his hair. "And Layla?"

Muhammad closed his eyes. "I don't even know how to tell her. She'll be devastated." His voice cracked, and for the first time in a long while, Khalifa saw raw pain in his best friend's eyes.

"Just tell her," Khalifa advised. "Be honest with her. You know Layla is a patient person. Allah will bless her."

Muhammad nodded weakly. He grabbed his car keys and drove home, his heart pounding harder with every mile.

****

Layla was curled up on the couch, watching something on Netflix while little Sabrina played with her toys. The moment she spotted her father, she squealed, crawling toward him.

"Dada!"

Muhammad picked her up, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. "Hey, princess."

Layla turned to him with a soft smile. "Hey, baby. Welcome back."

He gave her a light kiss. "Thank you, babe."

She studied him. "You look tired. Rough day at work?"

"Alhamdulillah, it was okay. Just hungry," he muttered, pulling her in for another kiss.

She giggled, nudging him playfully. "Well, the food is in the dining room, not here!"

He chuckled—a deep, rich sound—but it was forced. It wasn't the laugh she knew, the one filled with warmth and teasing. Something was off.

Dinner passed in relative silence, and soon, they were in their bedroom. Layla changed into her pajamas and sat on the bed, stretching.

Muhammad, still fully dressed, sat beside her. His hands were cold when he reached for hers.

"I need to talk to you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

A sudden wave of anxiety washed over her. "Is everything okay, Muhammad?" she asked, her heart thumping.

He inhaled sharply, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. His eyes were haunted, filled with a pain she couldn't quite place. Then, the words left his lips.

"I'm getting married to Juwairah."

Layla froze. She blinked, willing herself to have misheard. "You're joking, right?"

His silence was her answer.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Muhammad, please..." Her voice wavered. "Tell me you're joking."

He exhaled. "Layla, I swear, I had no idea—"

She pressed a trembling finger against his lips, silencing him. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. "And my Daddy knows about this?"

Muhammad hesitated before nodding. "That's what Baba said."

Her body felt numb. "My father," she whispered. "The same father who promised me happiness...?"

She nodded, swallowing hard. "Okay."

Muhammad sat there, staring blankly at nothing, his hands clenched together.

Tears streamed down Layla's cheeks as she reached for him, but then she stopped herself. What was the point?

"I love you, my Layla," he murmured, his forehead pressing against hers, his hands cradling her face. "Please, stop crying. It breaks my heart."

She sniffled, wiping her face. "I want to be alone now."

He watched helplessly as she stood, walked to the door, and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

Muhammad buried his face in his hands.

He had just shattered the woman he loved. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Love, Chiickadee💕