Layla sat straighter in her chair, the previous agitation in her voice giving way to a measured, almost hollow steadiness. She was trying to breathe life into a sequence of memories that felt drenched in the dust of failure and the heavy scent of sacrifice.
"I knocked on countless doors," she continued, the echo of that action sounding heavy in the quiet room. "I presented my credentials, pleaded my case, appealed to reason and compassion. But no one, dear Olivia, ever truly answered. Each time, I was met with the same impenetrable wall of societal convention, the same cold dismissal. But how was I meant to survive? To pay for my mother's care, to uphold my own independence? I was left with only one choice, a deeply bitter pill to swallow... matrimony."
Yet, the irony was cruel: those who proposed were few, and those few were hardly desirable. For a young woman burdened by a troubled history, by the public knowledge of a fractured family, and by a scandalous, unfeminine career, hope was a rare and fleeting commodity. She was forced to cast a desperate eye over the remaining field.
Among the paltry list of eligible men, Baron David stood out—relentless in his pursuit, tireless in his offers of marriage. A man whose desire felt less like affection and more like ownership. Layla had refused him time and time again, her principles a stubborn fortress against his siege. But her refusal was becoming an economic impossibility.
It was during one of those exceptionally trying days, when the weight of her future felt crushing, that she crossed paths with Kyle. She was returning from the market, her basket light but her spirit heavy, when she saw him standing near the corner of the apothecary's shop. It was not their first encounter since his recovery, but this meeting possessed a different, charged atmosphere.
He approached her, his handsome features creased with concern. They found a quiet bench beneath an aging oak tree, and he began to inquire about her well-being, about the unusual pallor of her face that betrayed the depth of her recent suffering.
Layla, usually guarded, felt the dam of her composure crack. The loneliness, the exhaustion, the shame of her repeated rejections—it all poured out. She shared the impossible story of the hospital, the Director's decree, the ludicrous requirement of a husband's permission. She spoke in a bid to find even a shred of solace, a flicker of understanding.
When the torrent of her despair had finally subsided, an audacious, desperate idea took root. Half in jest, half in utter self-mockery, she posed a question that startled even her own ears. It was a plunge into the absurd, a desperate, final gamble.
"Mr. Kyle," she said, her voice barely a whisper, yet carrying the weight of her entire fate. "What do you think about marrying me?"
His striking eyes—the colour of deep, storm-tossed grey—widened in surprise, a momentary crack in his usual composed exterior. Layla instantly regretted the impulse, already bracing herself for the inevitable, gentle rejection.
But his reply came with a shocking, surprising ease.
"Sure, why not? But let us be clear, Miss Layla. I don't believe in fake marriages."
Her cheeks flushed scarlet, the heat of embarrassment quickly replacing the cold dread. "Are you serious?" she stammered, disbelieving. "You would marry me just because I... I asked?"
He smiled, a quiet confidence radiating from him, utterly devoid of mockery or condescension. "I don't see a problem with that. After all," he added, a hint of genuine warmth in his voice, "you saved my life once. Consider this my debt repaid."
His words carried an inexplicable, compelling sincerity. Layla studied him closely, scrutinizing his refined features, his impeccable dress, and his fundamentally gentlemanly demeanor. He was an enigma, a well-bred stranger bleeding on her doorstep one night, and offering her salvation the next. She found herself surrendering to the improbable, life-altering idea. If this was madness, it was a practical one.
"Then," she whispered, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, "when do we start?"
Without a beat of hesitation, he replied:
"Now. We can head to the civil registry office this very afternoon. There is no time to waste."
And so, Layla became Kyle's wife, far sooner and under far stranger circumstances than she could have ever anticipated. It was an unconventional bond, devoid of courtship, passion, or even true friendship, yet it opened the door she thought forever bolted shut. With her new, hastily acquired 'husband' at her side, she marched back to the hospital.
Armed with Kyle's name and the proof of their hasty union, she secured her position, finally overcoming the narrow-minded objections of a manager who had repeatedly dismissed her as a woman without a man's protection.
Kyle stayed with her for precisely one month, a brief, anomalous interlude of stability, before duty—the nature of which he never fully disclosed—called him back to the capital. He promised to return, though Layla possessed no means of gauging the promised reunion, or the duration of his inevitable absence.
But Fate, it seemed, was less a benign observer and more a malicious manipulator. In the void left by Kyle's departure, Baron David's obsession, fueled by rejection and wounded pride, spiraled into outright madness.
Consumed by a toxic blend of lust and entitlement, he abducted Layla and imprisoned her within the suffocating grandeur of his estate, reducing her status to that of a clandestine captive.
She endured the baron's relentless psychological and physical abuse. He sought to crush her will, to make her his possession in every sense of the word.
What the baron did not know, however, was the resourcefulness of the woman he held captive. Drawing upon her deep medical knowledge, Layla used subtle herbs to prepare concoctions that induced vivid, powerful hallucinations in him, making him believe he had consummated his tyrannical desire—though he had never truly laid a hand upon her.
It was a desperate, ingenious act of self-preservation.
In the darkest heart of her captivity, Layla discovered she was carrying a child.
When her daughter was born, a tiny, fragile miracle, Baron David examined the infant's delicate features. Suspicion—cold and immediate—flickered in his eyes. He knew.
The child was not his.
She was an unmistakable reflection of Kyle.
Fury consumed him, and his wrath intensified into unrelenting torment.
Realizing there was no path left but escape, Layla fled the baron's prison under moonless cover, her newborn daughter clutched tightly to her chest. Her desperate journey led her to Olivia's ducal estate, where she revealed her painful, unbelievable story.
When her tale concluded, silence fell, broken only by the faint crackle of the fireplace.
"You mentioned the Baron abused you," Olivia said. "The bruises on your face... are there others?"
Layla met her gaze steadily. "Do you wish to see for yourself?"
Without waiting, she loosened her gown. Olivia gasped at the constellation of bruises covering her skin.
After a long pause, Layla dressed again.
"I came here because I had nowhere left. I was fleeing for my life."
Olivia's voice softened. "I never thought otherwise. You are my husband's sister, even if not in title."
"Thank you. But the Baron will not desist. If you wish me to leave now—"
"I told you I do not mind," Olivia interrupted gently, "but the decision lies with the Duke."
She paused. "Before I go… may I see your daughter?"
Layla nodded. "Of course."
But Olivia stepped back. "No, thank you. Just seeing her will suffice."
She approached the cradle—then froze.
"Is this some kind of joke?" she whispered.
Layla blinked. "What do you mean?"
"She… she looks like me," Olivia breathed.
Layla nodded slowly. "Yes. I noticed it too. She resembles you exactly."
A cold unease gripped Olivia.
She lifted the silver pendant around the infant's neck.
"Where did this necklace come from?"
"It is my husband's," Layla said quietly. "Kyle gave it to me before he left."
Olivia went utterly still.
Then, with trembling hands, she retreated to her jewelry cabinet and pulled out an identical pendant—the twin.
Her voice cracked as she whispered:
"This isn't possible… could it really be him?"