It wasn't thunder. It wasn't some explosion. Just silence. Deafening, pressing silence.
Layla knew even before she emerged from the room that something was wrong. Something in her chest — like pressure, or instinct — as if her bones already knew the truth before her mind did.
She went downstairs barefoot. The tiles were cold. Swaying fingertips that she hadn't even known were shaking until she reached for the doorknob of her father's study and missed the first time.
The door creaked.
And there he was. Kamal. Sitting. Not visiting. Not waiting.
In her father's chair.
Her heart dropped. Mouth went dry. Her voice was caught somewhere in her throat.
"Where's Father?" she asked. The words came out wrong. Like she was choking.
Kamal didn't look at her. Didn't blink. Just resting his fingers on the edge of the desk. "Gone."
Layla didn't understand. She blinked once. Twice. "Gone where?"
He finally looked at her. "Dead, Layla. He died tonight. A heart attack. That's what the paramedics told me."
No panic. No emotion. As if he were discussing the weather.
Her mother stood nearby, holding her own arms like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart. Her lips trembled. Her eyes red. She didn't speak.
It didn't make sense. Her father was fine this morning. They had dinner. He was even laughing at something Irfan said. She remembered. She remembered.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Layla snapped, louder now.
Kamal leaned back. "I understand this is difficult, but it moves fast. The company — the house — all of it needs to be stabilized. As for your father, he wasn't doing so well financially. I've stepped in. I had to."
She stared at him. The words didn't make sense. They just—bounced off her.
He pushed a folder across the desk. "There's a new will."
"No. No, you're lying."
"I'm not." He didn't flinch. "You can verify it. Legal team already did."
She took the folder in shaking hands. The words on the page danced. Her eyes skipped lines. But she saw the signatures. His signature.
Her father's.
Transferred shares. Transferred house. Transferred everything.
Gone.
"You made this," she murmured.
"I didn't."
"You killed him."
Kamal stood up. His voice low. "Don't say something you'll regret. There's nobody else keeping this family off the street already. And you know what — that's changing tonight. You have until sunrise."
"No. No, you can't—"
"Try me."
There were guards outside. Police. Real ones. Probably paid. Probably didn't care.
Layla clenched her fists. Her chest burned. She glanced at her mother, who was still immobile. Irfan wasn't there. Thank God.
"You will pay for this," she said, each word more weighted than the one that came before.
Kamal just smirked.
He said nothing further as he walked past her.
When they rushed outside, their bags packed, the sunlight of dawn was spilling over the sky. The iron gates of the mansion slammed shut.
Layla didn't cry. Not yet.
But something broke within. Something important. And it didn't heal.
Not that night.
Not ever.
She looked at
the house one last time.
And then she made herself a pledge:
This wasn't over.