The Next Days
Layla didn't sleep much.
Between the sting of Jessy's slap, the echo of Harry's cruel words, and the image of that wine bar kiss—her mind had been a tornado. But through it all, one thing had anchored her:
She had to find the truth.
And she would.
At 6 a.m., she was already dressed—gray slacks, black blouse, hair tied into a sleek bun. Not for beauty. For war.
---
By 8 a.m.
She sat in front of her laptop in her home office. A photo of Sarah smiled at her from the corner of the desk. It grounded her.
Layla opened a folder she usually kept hidden. Inside it were passwords, surveillance access codes, even old contacts from a time when her father ran private intelligence.
She made a few calls. Sent a few cryptic messages.
By 11 a.m., she had her answer.
Jessy had lied.
The man from the wine bar? A known "companion-for-hire" with links to an underground luxury escort ring. Layla found photos, hotel check-ins, even dates that overlapped with Jessy and Harry's "trips."
She stared at the evidence for a long time.
Then saved it all on a USB.
---
By noon, she was at MagnusTech Tower.
She didn't care if she needed an appointment. Her heels clicked with purpose as she crossed the marble lobby, chin held high.
"Excuse me, miss," a receptionist tried, but Layla didn't pause.
"I'm here to see Harry Morgan."
The receptionist hesitated. "He's in a meeting, ma'am."
"Then interrupt him."
Moments later, Harry appeared—face hard, jaw tight.
"You," he muttered, pulling her aside. "What the fuck do you want?."
"Nothing much," Layla said, pulling the USB from her pocket. "This isn't about me. It's about Jessy. She's—"
Harry yanked the USB from her hand. "Stop."
"She's cheating on you, Harry. I have proof."
He stared at her like she'd just insulted his mother.
"You have nothing, Layla. This—this desperate obsession? It's pathetic."
Her throat tightened. "I'm not obsessed. I'm trying to help you."
"Oh, like you helped yesterday? You humiliated her. Slapped her. In public."
"She slapped me first."
"You provoked her."
"I touched your arm!"
"You don't belong in my life," he said, voice rising. "I don't know what your angle is, but stay the hell away from me."
Layla's vision blurred with tears. Her lips trembled, but she didn't speak. Not right away.
Then—quietly, but clearly—she said:
"I know you don't believe me. But I'm not your enemy."
Harry turned away.
She walked out before he could see her cry.
---
That Night
Layla sat on her balcony, knees drawn to her chest, city lights winking beneath her bare feet. The USB sat on the table beside her—untouched since he tossed it back at her later that day, after his assistant returned it with a mumbled apology.
She'd cried.
Harder than she had in years.
But something in her chest stayed steady.
He'll find out the truth.
He'll remember I tried.
And when he does…
She didn't finish the thought.
Instead, she whispered to the night air:
"I'm not done."
Because Layla Parker didn't run from pain.
She turned it into purpose.