LOGINLayla spends the next few days hyperaware of herself.
Not in the way that feels vain or self-conscious, but in the way that makes her constantly assess where she is standing, who is near her, and how easily a moment might be misread. Sofia’s words echo in her head despite her attempts to ignore them.He’s been tracking you all afternoon.Layla tells herself that Sofia is projecting. That Luca is observant by nature. That noticing people doesn’t mean claiming them.Layla learns that waiting changes shape.At first, it feels like absence - the missing weight of attention, the quiet spaces that no longer hum when she steps into them. Then it becomes something else entirely. Space. Distance. The kind that forces clarity instead of feeding longing.She doesn’t see Luca for weeks.Not accidentally. Not from across rooms. Not reflected in glass. He keeps the terms with a discipline that feels deliberate rather than performative. No messages beyond what’s necessary. No presence that could be mistaken for pressure. No watching.It unsettles her more than if he’d broken them.She fills the days with ordinary things. Work. Long walks. Conversations with Sofia that circle carefully around what happened without fully landing on it.One evening, Sofia finally says, “Mum signed the separation papers.”Layla’s breath catches. “How is she?”“Tired,” Sofia replies. “But clear. She says it’
The silence that follows exposure is not empty.It is structured. Intentional. Luca recognises it immediately - the kind of silence that exists because something is being measured, not avoided. He hasn’t contacted Layla. He hasn’t tried. He said he wouldn’t, and that matters more now than it ever has.The penthouse feels different without her.Not quieter. Just… unfinished.Three days pass before Sofia’s mum asks to speak to him alone.She doesn’t raise her voice. She never does. She pours tea with steady hands, sits across from him at the dining table, and regards him like a woman who has already done the crying somewhere private and has moved on to something sharper.“I need to know what you want,” she says.Luca doesn’t answer immediately. He knows better than to rush this.“What I want,” he says carefully, “is not the same as what I choose.”“That’s convenient,” she replies.“It’s honest.”
It doesn’t happen the way Layla expects.There’s no shouting. No dramatic confrontation. No sudden explosion that forces everything into the open.Instead, it arrives quietly.Layla is sitting at the kitchen table at her flat, pretending to work, when her phone buzzes with a message from Sofia’s mum.Can you come over this evening? Just you. I’d like to talk.No emoji. No warmth.Layla’s stomach drops.She considers lying. Pretending she’s busy. Delaying the inevitable. But Luca’s words from the night before echo in her head.This doesn’t continue unless it withstands daylight.She types back a single word.Okay.The penthouse is hushed when she arrives. Too quiet. The lights are lower than usual, the city beyond the glass muted by rain streaking down the windows. Sofia’s mum sits at the dining table, hands folded around a mug she hasn’t touched.Luca is there too.St
Sofia doesn’t wait long. Layla knows it the moment her phone lights up the next morning, Sofia’s name sharp against the quiet of her bedroom. She lets it ring once. Twice. On the third buzz, she answers. “Come over,” Sofia says. No greeting. No softness. “Now.” Layla sits up, heart already racing. “Sof—” “Now,” Sofia repeats. “Before I convince myself I’m imagining things.” The line goes dead. The penthouse feels different in daylight. Less dramatic. More exposed. The glass walls reflect instead of conceal, and Layla can see herself in them as she steps inside - pale, composed, carefully neutral. Sofia is waiting in the living room, arms folded, jaw set. Her mum is nowhere in sight. “You kissed him,” Sofia says flatly. Layla stills. “You don’t get to—” “I saw you,” Sofia cuts in. “Not the kiss. The aftermath. The look. Don’t insult me
The fallout is immediate.Layla feels it the moment she steps back into the noise of the room, Sofia’s stare burning into her back, her mum’s voice suddenly too bright, too deliberate. The party continues, but the atmosphere has shifted. Something has been disturbed. Something has been noticed.She doesn’t see Luca again for the rest of the evening.Which is almost worse.When she finally leaves, Sofia walks her to the lift in silence. It isn’t the comfortable kind. It’s tight, coiled.“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Sofia says at last, arms crossed. “But I need to know one thing.”Layla’s heart pounds. “What?”“Are you in trouble?”The question lands heavier than accusation would have.“No,” Layla says, truthfully. “I’m not.”Sofia studies her for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay. Then just… don’t let him decide things for you.”Layla manages a smile. “I won’t.”T
Layla spends the next few days hyperaware of herself.Not in the way that feels vain or self-conscious, but in the way that makes her constantly assess where she is standing, who is near her, and how easily a moment might be misread. Sofia’s words echo in her head despite her attempts to ignore them.He’s been tracking you all afternoon.Layla tells herself that Sofia is projecting. That Luca is observant by nature. That noticing people doesn’t mean claiming them.The problem is, Luca doesn’t correct the impression.The next time she comes to the penthouse, it’s for something deliberately public. A small gathering. Friends of Sofia’s mum. Colleagues. People who don’t know Layla well enough to watch her closely.Luca is already there.He doesn’t approach her. He doesn’t isolate her. He doesn’t even speak to her for the first half hour.And yet, Layla knows exactly where he is at all times.She feels it w



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