THE HUSBAND SHE NEVER WANTED

Chapter 3: THE Notebook

The rain tapped steadily against the windshield, keeping the world outside blurred and distant. Inside, the car was warm, but Layla felt cold all over again as she stared at the words on her screen.

“Stay away from him.”

The message was short, simple, and casual, yet that was exactly what made it terrifying. There was no explanation, no name, and no threat dressed up in dramatic flair—just a blunt warning delivered with the absolute confidence of someone who believed they had the right to interfere in her life. Layla’s fingers tightened around the edges of her phone until her knuckles turned white.

Zayd shifted in his seat, turning toward her as his expression sharpened. The easy, dry humor he had shown a moment ago vanished instantly. “What happened?”

Layla swallowed hard, her throat tight. “It’s another message.”

His dark brows drew together. “From Farouk?”

“No.” She shook her head, her mind racing as she turned the glowing screen toward him. “I’ve never seen this number before in my life.”

Zayd read the short line in silence, his eyes tracking over the digits. “Did you save this contact?”

“No, I told you, I don’t know who it is.”

“Has anyone else been bothering you recently?” Zayd asked, his voice low and deliberate. “Anyone who would know you’re out right now? Anyone who could have seen you get into my car?”

The questions made her blink, a sudden wave of self-consciousness hitting her. “With you?” she repeated.

Zayd exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as if frustrated with his own phrasing. “I mean… near me. Someone who watched us on the road. Seen us. Whatever this is.”

Layla looked back down at the screen. The message sat there like an ugly stain on her night, completely uninvited. It felt deeply violating, as if her personal choices suddenly belonged to a stranger she couldn’t see.

“No,” she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. “No one should even know I’m here.”

“Block it,” Zayd said firmly.

Layla looked up at him, startled by his decisiveness. “Just like that?”

“For now, yes.”

“And if they text again from another unknown number?”

“Then we deal with that too,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The absolute certainty in his voice should not have comforted her as much as it did. He was still a stranger, after all—a man she had met less than an hour ago under terrible, chaotic circumstances. Yet the sheer steadiness of his presence settled something inside her all the same. It wasn’t enough to erase the creeping unease, but it stopped the panic from completely swallowing her whole.

With trembling fingers, she tapped the screen and blocked the number. “There,” she muttered.

Zayd watched her finish, nodded once in approval, and finally pulled the car away from the dark roadside. “Good.”

The city moved quietly around them as they drove into the night. Rain washed the empty roads in a silver sheen, and the amber glow of the streetlights stretched across the wet asphalt in long, trembling reflections. Layla sat incredibly stiffly in the passenger seat, the plush towel still clutched tightly in her lap. She was entirely too aware of everything now—the rhythmic click of the wipers, the gentle hum of the heater, the silent man beside her, and the lingering ache in her chest that Farouk had left behind.

A few minutes ago, she had been desperate not to go home looking broken. But now, the thought of being left alone with her own thoughts felt infinitely worse. She imagined walking into her quiet bedroom, shutting the door, and staring at her phone until the anonymous text transformed into something even bigger and uglier in her head.

“No,” she said quietly into the silence of the car. “Not home yet.”

Zayd glanced over at her briefly. “Alright.”

He didn’t push for an explanation, and Layla appreciated that more than she could express. He didn’t demand to know her secrets or force her to talk. Instead, he pulled into a small, brightly lit roadside café fifteen minutes later. It was the kind of local spot that stayed open late for travellers, late-night students, and people who simply did not yet want to face the reality of going home.

The rain had softened to a light drizzle by then, but the night air was still biting and cold when they stepped out of the vehicle. Layla followed him inside, clutching her handbag defensively against her side, suddenly hyper-aware of her appearance. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her clothes were damp, and her dignity felt like it was hanging on by a single thread.

The café was nearly empty and smelled faintly of roasted coffee and cardamom. A football match played silently on a mounted television in the corner, entirely ignored by the two young men working behind the counter and a sleepy-looking woman stirring tea at a table near the foggy window. Zayd navigated to a table in the far corner, away from the main entrance, and gestured for Layla to sit.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied automatically.

He gave her a flat look. “That wasn’t a real answer, Layla.”

Layla sighed, letting her shoulders drop. “Tea.”

“Good. You definitely look like someone who should be holding a hot cup of tea right now.”

She frowned up at him. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yes, because it’s still entirely true.”

When he walked away to the counter to order, Layla let herself breathe properly for the first time in what felt like hours. She sat back in the plastic chair and looked around the quiet room, trying to gather the scattered pieces of her mind. Farouk’s betrayal still sat heavily inside her chest, a dull, agonizing ache, but the anonymous message had pushed its way in beside it. It brought a completely new kind of unease—one less emotional and far more instinctive, as though some hidden part of her recognized a dangerous reality before her conscious mind had fully caught up.

She hated that feeling. She hated how easily one terrible evening had transformed from simple heartbreak into something stranger and darker.

When Zayd returned, carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea and a small plate of biscuits she hadn’t asked for, Layla stared at the food. “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

“That’s unfortunate,” he said, setting the plate down precisely between them. “Because I already bought the biscuits. Eat one.”

Layla gave him an unimpressed look. “You’re very bossy, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he said, completely unbothered as he sat opposite her. “But only when people are being entirely unreasonable.”

She should have rolled her eyes and ignored him completely. Instead, because she was freezing cold and emotionally depleted, and because arguing with him felt strangely easier than sitting alone with her grief, Layla reached out and took a biscuit.

Zayd looked insufferably satisfied with himself.

“Don’t smile,” she muttered, taking a small bite.

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are on the inside.”

“That’s scientifically impossible to prove.”

The tea was hot and overly sweet, but the warmth of the mug steadied her hands. They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the kind of quiet that might have felt awkward with anyone else. Yet with Zayd, it felt surprisingly easy. Layla found herself studying him when he wasn’t looking—the sharp, defined line of his jaw, the way he wrapped his long fingers around his cup, and the slight crease between his brows that appeared whenever he was deep in thought. He had shifted gears so quickly tonight, she realized. One moment he was sharp and impatient in the middle of the rain, and the next he was careful and oddly gentle, as though genuine concern came to him more naturally than he wanted people to know.

“You don’t trust people easily, do you?” Zayd asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Layla looked up, startled by the directness of the question. “What?”

He shrugged lightly, taking a sip of his tea. “You keep looking at me like I might secretly try to sell your organs.”

“That’s not true,” she said defensively.

“It’s at least a little true.”

Layla stared at him over the rim of her cup. “I’ve known you for less than a single hour, Zayd.”

“And yet here you are, having a late-night tea with me.”

“That says significantly more about how terrible my evening has been than it does about you or my level of trust.”

To her utter annoyance, that response made him laugh out loud. Something about the warm sound of it loosened the heavy tightness in her chest. It didn’t erase the night, and it didn’t make her forget the silver ring or the public humiliation, but it reminded her that her world hadn’t ended simply because Farouk had turned out to be a liar.

As she went to set her cup down, her eyes caught something on the floor. A small, thin notebook lay near the leg of their table, half-hidden in the deep shadow. Layla bent over to pick it up, assuming a previous customer had dropped it, but the moment her fingers brushed the cover, she realized it was slightly damp from the rain.

And her own name was written clearly across the first page.

Layla went completely, utterly still. Her pulse began to pound violently against her ribs. With slow, unsteady hands, she opened the damp cover.

On the first page, written in dark, bold ink, was a single, chilling line:

‘You should have listened.’

The remaining air completely left her lungs. Across the table, Zayd’s chair scraped back sharply against the tile floor as he stood up.

“Layla?”

She looked up at him, her face drained entirely of color, and turned the notebook around so he could see the ink. In that exact second, the comfort of the café vanished completely.