Nathan stared at her in silence. His eyes hadn't changed. Still calm, still warm, still feigning tenderness. But behind that calm, his thoughts cracked like a shattered mirror. He never imagined the woman who once obeyed so sweetly, so gracefully, now stood before him like a storm that arrived uninvited.
Nayla didn't scream. She didn't cry. Her words were sharp, yet precise, like she had rehearsed them a thousand times in her mind. And that, for Nathan, was the most jarring part.
It wasn't her anger that shook him. It was her complete control. This wasn't rebellion born from rage. It was resignation born from clarity.
Of course Nathan was surprised. Deeply surprised. But a man like Nathan could always manage a calm smile. Always.
He wouldn't let it show how rattled he truly was, facing this Nayla. This Nayla, who no longer looked afraid. This Nayla, who for the first time in their marriage, was no longer under his thumb.
"Sweetheart—"
She cut him off with a single raised hand. The open palm said like, 'stop talking'. Especially not with that endearment that now sounded revolting.
"You'll regret letting your emotions ruin everything. We have it all, Nay. The warm house. The reputation. The future."
She gave him a look— bitter, piercing. "Stop using the word 'we.' And yes, you have it all, Nathan. What you no longer have is… me."
Nayla turned sharply. Her heels clicked down the corridor, each step a striking echo. Precise, rhythmic, and defiant. She didn't look back, not even when Nathan's footsteps followed a few paces behind.
His long legs moved to match her pace. Always with that signature gait. Composed, in control, too flawless to arouse suspicion.
"Nayla." His voice called out. Soft and concerned. "Don't walk away like this. We can talk."
She almost laughed. Talk? After years of a marriage staged like theater, now he wanted to talk?
Without turning around, Nayla quickened her steps. Her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at the screen, and a name appeared.
-Damian:-
[You said you wanted out. I'm waiting. No questions. Just come.]
The message felt like a cold gust of midnight air— sharp, but invigorating. Dangerous? Absolutely. But there was honesty in the pain Damian offered. No pretense. No honeyed traps. Just raw, brutal intent.
Nayla exhaled slowly. Her mind was chaos. Her emotions, torn and frayed. But one thing was clear, she couldn't and wouldn't return to Nathan's cage.
Damian? He wasn't a safe door. But he was an exit.
"I have to choose," Nayla whispered to herself.
The car wasn't flashy. A sleek black sedan, its shine blending into the night. Parked a few meters away from the crowd. Far enough from the cameras, but close enough for her to find.
Her steps were light, but hurried, like someone fleeing without leaving tracks. Her hand trembled as she reached for the door handle. Only for a second. Then, she opened the passenger door and slid in, as if she'd known all along this was where she belonged.
The scent of leather and masculine cologne wrapped around her inside the car. Quiet and cold. But a kind of safety for a woman trying to turn danger into shelter.
Nayla sat still. She let out a long breath, resting against the seat, closing her eyes. As if sinking into the enormity of the decision she had just made.
In the distance, Nathan saw where she was headed. He quickened his pace, but couldn't run. He wouldn't allow the cameras to catch anything suspicious. So he simply walked faster, calling her name in a tight, contained voice.
"Nayla!"
She opened her eyes. Turned slightly to catch a glimpse of his silhouette approaching in the side mirror. But of course, she didn't get out. Not even to lower the window.
The engine purred softly. Then the car pulled away. This scene was simple, yet it felt like fate had finally come to fetch Nayla from the prison called marriage. As if it was pulling her away from everything that had rotted behind her.
For the first time in a very long while, Nayla felt truly in control of her life. Even if it was in a way that was... perhaps... the most dangerous.