How could I trust her?

I heard her footsteps on the stairs before I saw her. Each creak of the wood felt like a countdown, building tension in my chest until it was almost unbearable.

When Layla finally appeared in the doorway, the sight of her hit me harder than I expected.

She looked... tired. The spark that usually lit her eyes was dim, replaced by a dull sheen of exhaustion.

Dark circles framed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped like she was carrying the weight of the world. For a moment—just a fleeting moment—I felt the urge to comfort her, to wrap my arms around her and pretend none of this had happened.

But then I remembered why we were here, and the ache in my chest turned to something sharper. Anger, hurt, betrayal—it all churned together, rising like a tidal wave I couldn't control.

"Zaya," she said softly, her voice hesitant. She took a small step into the room, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. "Can we talk?"