"I won't let you hurt them!" Layla screamed, her trembling hand clutching the knife. Kamal, towering over her with a gaze full of malice, stepped toward her slowly, as if his earlier threats were not intimidation but a grim promise.
"You are mine, and I won't let anyone take you from me—not even your children!"
The dimly lit room cast shadows across his enraged face, his features twisted with fury.
There was no way out. Layla's eyes darted toward the locked door, realizing escape was impossible. The children were in the next room, their muffled cries faint but loud enough to remind her why she was here.
"You don't understand. No one escapes me." Kamal took another step, as if he could read her thoughts.
Layla only remembered the single, desperate thrust—the warm blood pooling on her hands, and the sound of his body collapsing to the floor.
She stood frozen, staring at the lifeless figure, his final words echoing faintly in her mind.
Moments of silence passed before she made up her mind. Layla began cleaning the crime scene with caution and precision. Years of living under Kamal's threats had taught her his weaknesses.
She burned his bloodstained clothes.
She moved the body to an abandoned storage shed near the house.
She flooded the room with strong perfumes to mask any suspicious odors.
Days of tension followed before Kamal's death was officially declared an accidental incident. Few cared; he was a mysterious man, disliked even by his acquaintances.
Layla sat with her twin children in the small living room, trying to comfort them after everything they had endured.
"It's all over now. I'm here for you." Her voice carried more than a promise—it carried desperation and hope intertwined.
The twins, a boy and a girl, stared at her with fear and confusion. They had witnessed the horror of their father's tyranny.
"Mama... are we safe now?" the boy asked, clutching her hand tightly.
"Yes, my darling. No one will hurt you anymore."
But she wasn't entirely sure of her own words.
That night, Layla stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. The cosmetic surgeries Kamal had forced upon her made her look much younger than her actual age, but her eyes carried a sadness that couldn't be concealed.
"Forty-five years old..." she whispered, wiping away a tear that slipped down her cheek.
There was only one step left: to build a new life. But where would she go? Her first family was in the past, yet she couldn't forget her three children and her first husband.
"Will they forgive me?" she asked herself, knowing the answer would not come easily.
To be continued...