CHAPTER FIVE: NO WAY HOME

Layla and Dario ended up at the dreary civil office. She sat on a rigid plastic chair with her hands clutched in her lap, fingers pressing into her palms in a quiet effort. Her thoughts drifted, far away and distracted, hardly taking in what the clerk had to say about the document in front of her. Sitting there, both physically and psychologically, she struggled with the fact that she was going to sign something she had never wanted to do. She had once dreamed of a world of love and laughter, maybe with Matthew or the man she really wanted, planning their future and happily signing their marriage licenses.

LAYLA'S POV

Now, as the bizarre circumstance unfolded, I had an unexplained pain and a want to go. As I fought to remain composed and still, tears silently ran down my cheeks, and a chilling cold shook my resolve. At that moment, I felt as though I was in a suffocating dream, absolutely out of air.

I'm having different thoughts. My father was pictured lying in a hospital bed with tubes protruding from his chest and bills piling up like vultures. Our family's business has failed. Nothing—until Dario showed up. He offered to pay for the surgery through my stepmother to pay off our debts, but I had to bear the expense.

I was unable to breach. Why me? Why this cost? I kept thinking about my father's wheezing breaths. Since Dario's money was his only hope, I couldn't let him die. I didn't even have enough money to cover the cost of the wedding planning, so I missed the happy ending, which wasn't my wedding, and now I'm married to a stranger.

I bit absently on my bottom lip while struggling with the stark reality of the marriage contract in front of me.

"No, I can't go through with this," I mumbled to myself.

Confusion swept over me, leaving me gasping for air as my mind kept returning to my father, who was lying in a hospital bed and dependent on Dario. Here I was, exchanging his life for mine.

My eyes strayed to Dario, who sat next to me in his wheelchair, a powerful figure with a stiff back and a tight mouth, radiating a silent turmoil. His well-tailored coat and the gleam of his watch conveyed a sense of wealth beyond my reach. Every stroke he made as he carefully wrote his signature was robotic, cold, and light-hearted. Dario's hands, firm on the pen, did not tremble, and his wheelchair was a throne of silent authority. As if every movement had been practised, his fingers made conscious changes to the grasp of the wheel.

There was a tiny scar on his jaw, hardly perceptible, the remains of a story he had never spoken. He employed his silence as a weapon with the same skill that he applied to his signature. I wondered if he was driven by duty, authority, or something darker, but there was nothing in his gaze to tell me. Before me, the contract loomed, its lettering blending into a cage's bars.

With an almost robotic precision, the clerk, a middle-aged lady with glasses perched awkwardly on her nose, turned the pages. As if calling me to seal my doom, she tapped a line with her chipped fingernail and said "Initial here."

The workplace was a relic of unfulfilled promises; the air was heavy with dust and hopelessness, and the walls were yellowed by time. The room's somber function was mocked by the joyful slogans of faded posters that curled around the edges. With each scratch representing a life change, the table creaked under the weight of many signatures.

The corridor ahead beckoned as Layla halted, a murky tunnel of peeling paint and flickering bulbs, its shadows smothering the sound of her footsteps. It was a place where silent contracts like hers were made, where hope came to die. "No way out" appeared to be whispered by every floor creak.

The moment's weight seemed like a smothering force pressing down on my chest. I glanced at Dario once more in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his thoughts or a crack in his face. He was wearing a mask over his face, his jaw clenched, and he looked at the contract as though it were a battlefield. In a purposeful motion, as though every action was premeditated, his fingertips touched the edge of the wheel. His temple bore a small scar, a skin-etched secret. His quiet was not meaningless; rather, it was a blade, pierced with purpose. I pondered what drove him to conceit for my family or a more ruthless desire—but his unwavering determination was evident as his eyes remained fixed on the paper.

Give me a moment, please. My voice cracked. Lowering the pen, avoiding eye contact with Clerk and Dario, and getting up to enquire about the whereabouts of the restroom before bursting into sobs once more.

Then I started crying uncontrollably, I wished my mother was still with me. What I was going through now could never have happened. My mother’s voice, once a beacon, was gone, but her strength lingered in me. Wiping my tears, I steeled myself, vowing to face this cage with the courage she’d taught me. Even though I was crying, I felt resilient enough to handle the situation as it presented itself.

Clinging to her coat against the cold, Layla paused close to the stone steps. Her breath was like a passing ghost, clouding the air. I wanted to talk and ask him why we were married and why he decided to support my family. I stifled my voice despite my tight throat, holding my questions for a less oppressive moment.

A few steps distant, Dario halted his wheelchair, his silhouette sharp against the light of a street lamp. Although his hands were solid on the armrests, he exuded a tense, coiled energy that contradicted his composure. He continued, "I'll take you to the house," in a low, clipped voice that was an order disguised as a declaration. Layla's voice escaped as she shook her head. "I must first head home. My belongings recall how things have changed how I must get rid of everything I've planned and the memories I have of Matthew.

A word hit me like a blow, I thought, bringing me back to reality. "No," he said, the word piercing the atmosphere. He moved forward a little and fixed her with his icy, unblinking gaze, a glimpse of something darker underneath control, maybe, or a secret he hadn't told her. "You are not permitted to return home."