The plane touched down in Los Angeles just after noon on Saturday.
Layla stepped out, hoodie over her curls, sunglasses on, dragging a small carry-on behind her. The sun hit different here—less cold, less sharp. Everything moved slower, breathed deeper.
Her mom stood by the airport exit in a peach dress and white sandals, eyes already shining.
Layla dropped her bag and ran into her arms.
"I didn't think you'd make it," her mom whispered.
"I promised," Layla said, hugging her tight. "I wasn't going to miss today."
They didn't say much on the drive home. Didn't need to.
The house smelled the same—lavender and warm bread. It was smaller than Layla remembered, quieter too, but filled with the kind of love you don't always notice until the world stops clapping.
They spent the afternoon in the backyard. Foldable chairs, soft music, and pictures of her dad on the table.
Her mom pulled out a photo album Layla hadn't seen in years. "He used to write you little notes on the back of these."
Layla smiled. "He was better at that than talking."
"He said less, but loved deep."
Tears came again. Different ones this time. Softer.
Later that night, they ate jollof rice and grilled chicken on the couch, her mom's legs tucked under her, Layla resting her head on her shoulder.
"No office stress here," her mom said, brushing her hair gently.
Layla laughed. "Just peace."
She didn't say anything about Damian. Didn't want to. Not yet.
But when she went to bed that night, she thought about his eyes watching her walk away.
That little smile.
She didn't know what it meant.
But for now, she just wanted to remember her father, and feel her mother's love.
Damian Days sat in silence.
No back-to-back meetings. No files on his desk. No Layla to assign something last-minute. No sharp heels tapping down the hallway. Nothing.
Just him.
And silence.
He sat in his penthouse lounge, floor-to-ceiling windows stretching across the skyline of Seattle. The view was rich—he owned it. But the air in the room was dry, almost hollow.
He leaned back, phone in hand, swiping aimlessly.
For a moment, his thumb hovered over the calendar.
He remembered the trip that never happened.
Her dad's memorial.
He didn't know why he cared.
But he did.
Next thing he knew, he was on his contact list.
Layla…
Layla-Work…
Layla-Calls…
She was everywhere on his phone.
One wrong swipe.
One accidental press.
Dialing…
"Sh*t."
He reached for the end button just as someone picked up.
"Hello?" A woman's voice. Warm, but cautious.
He paused. "Sorry. I was trying to reach Layla."
A beat of silence.
Then, her voice returned—more tense now. "It's the weekend, sir. I… I think she deserves a little peace. Just for today."
She wasn't rude. She wasn't loud. But she was tired. And asking—no, begging—for Layla to be free.
Just once.
Before he could respond, another voice broke in—soft, anxious.
"Mama, who's that?"
Damian froze.
"Layla, it's—it's him. From work."
Layla's voice came through, panicked. "Give me the phone—please."
Rustling. Then Layla's shaky voice.
"I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry about that. She didn't mean it. She's just tired. I didn't know she answered. Please don't be offended—"
Click.
He ended the call.
No expression. No words.
Just that dark silence again.
He looked out the window.
He hated his mother. Hadn't spoken to her in 19 years.
She left when he was nine. Left him with a man who never said I love you. Only try harder. Only don't disappoint me. Only you're the son of Damian Days Sr., act like it.
That woman walked out on him.
And never came back.
He had no friends. No real lovers. Just business, numbers, headlines, and silence.
But Layla…
He closed his eyes.
And this time, the silence felt heavier.
Scene: California – Saturday Night
Layla stared at her mom across the dinner table, eyes dim.
"I can't believe you answered," she whispered.
"I thought it was a friend. I didn't check."
"You told him to give me peace, Mama. Do you know what that sounds like?"
"I told him the truth."
"Mama, he's my boss. I can't afford to lose this job."
Her mom sighed, guilt in her eyes. "I wasn't trying to hurt you, baby. I just wanted to protect you."
"I know," Layla whispered. "But I need to fix this. I'm flying back first thing tomorrow."
"You don't have to—"
"I do."
She stood, quietly gathering the dishes. Her hands trembled.
She didn't want her weekend ruined. Didn't want the memory of her father shadowed by this.
But she couldn't return to work with that hanging over her head.
She had to clear the air.
If she still had her job.