241. #MANINYELLOW

241. #MANINYELLOW
Layla’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing all morning.
“You became famous,” Zahara sang from the kitchen, waggling her brows. “Do you know what’s trending? #meninyellow and #redheads.”
Frowning, Layla checked her notifications. True to Zahara’s words, #meninyellow was everywhere. A candid photo of Zaley, dressed in that pale yellow shirt, smiling down at her and Lilly, had gone viral overnight.
Now people were recreating it. Men in yellow shirts posing with daughters, girlfriends, even pets. Who could have thought Lilly’s obsession with yellow would snowball into the most viral content on social media?
Layla scrolled down, her chest tightening.
Is he Zaley?
Didn’t know he was married. Is she his girlfriend or mistress?
The little girl has his eyes. Must be his daughter.
I love the girlfriend’s dress. Link please!
My cousin saw them there. It was a birthday party—family only. That girl’s his daughter for sure.
Maybe she left him and came back after he got rich.
They should take a DNA test.
Layla’s grip on the phone tightened. The nice comments were drowned out by the cruel, prying ones. Every word about Lilly made her skin crawl. She could already picture her daughter’s reaction—tiny fists flailing at the phone in fury—while Zaley would likely make good on the promise in his eyes: destroy anyone who dared make his girls cry.
This isn’t going to end well.
And then, like a saviour from nowhere, Spencer appeared.
The sparky boy—whose username Layla still cringed at—posted an old reel to his stories. It was grainy video from their high school days.
Spencer, Ayesha, and Layla danced in front of the camera, laughing at themselves. Then, right at the edge of the frame, Leon walked in, expression blank as always. Everyone turned and cursed him, but Leon didn’t even react. He just reached forward, set Layla’s hair back into place, and disappeared off-screen like a ghost.
The caption read: #partypooper.
The next story was a shot of Zaley on one knee, their proposal, his hand in hers.
Spencer was spelling it out for the internet: This isn’t new. They’ve known each other for years. They’re getting married.
Within minutes, the public’s curiosity doubled. The comments grew hotter, louder. The storm was only beginning.
Then there was the video. The one that went viral.
It was on the same day. The birthday. Layla had a small cut on her wrist, nothing serious, but enough for her to wince when she showed it to Zaley.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a scene. He simply took her hand, his thumb brushing over the thin line of red, and leaned down to kiss it as if sealing it away.
Lilly stood between them, her little crown sliding forward on her head as she adjusted it with exaggerated importance. Her eyes flicked to Layla’s wrist, then to her own small ones. A frown pulled at her lips.
“Me… me… me…” she demanded, lifting her tiny hands up toward Zaley.
The crowd around them burst into laughter. Even Layla couldn’t help it. Zaley, usually stone-faced in public, bent down without hesitation, taking Lilly’s wrists in his hands and pressing a kiss on each.
For anyone else, it was just a sweet, funny moment. For Layla, it was another memory stitched into the patchwork of their odd little family.
But someone recorded it.
Despite the rule of no recordings, no random photos. They had hired a professional photographer and made it clear that everything would be shared with the family later. Privacy was non-negotiable. Zaley’s word on that had been absolute.
Yet here it was. Leaked. Circulating. Watched and rewatched by strangers who didn’t know them, who twisted every gesture into gossip.
Layla’s heart sank as she read the comments flooding in:
He kissed the kid’s wrists, too? Must be his daughter. Look how natural they are together.
That’s not just a fiancé. That’s already a family.
Who lets a man like Zaley melt like this in public? She must be something else.
He doesn’t even look like the same Zaley. What’s happening to him?
Layla could already picture his reaction.
The tight clench of his jaw. The way his hands would curl into fists, not at the laughter, but at the breach. Someone had been bold enough or stupid enough to break his rule. To steal a private moment and toss it into the open sea of the internet.
Zaley wasn’t going to laugh. He wasn’t going to shrug it off.
No, he was going to hunt for the one responsible. And when he found them…
Layla shivered. She almost pitied the person who thought this was just an innocent upload. Almost.
Because she knew one thing with certainty.
Zaley would be furious.

The apartment was silent when Zaley came home that night.
Layla peeked from the couch, her heart skipping at the sight of him filling the doorway. He looked the same as always, composed, unreadable, his tie loosened, his jacket draped over his arm.
She braced herself, waiting for the storm.
Instead, he crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed her. Slow. Deliberate. As if he’d been starved for it all day.
“I missed you,” he murmured against her lips.
Her shoulders eased, just a little. The girls were already asleep in their room, their tiny snores soft against the stillness of the penthouse. She had half expected him to march straight there, check on them, but Zaley only lingered by her side, unusually silent.
It wasn’t like him. Zaley’s silences weren’t careless; they were calculated. Which made them far more dangerous.
“Did you…” she asked carefully, her voice steady though her stomach knotted, “did you see the videos? The pictures?”
His gaze flicked to her, sharp but calm. “Yes.”
Layla swallowed. She hesitated, then pushed, softer this time, almost as though saying it too loud might break whatever fragile peace was holding him together.
“And the comments?” She tried to smile, to make it seem light. “About me… being your mistress. About Lilly not being your daughter.”
“Yes.”
That was all. A single word. No scowl. No anger. Not even a flicker of emotion.
She let out the smallest breath of relief, thinking maybe, just maybe, he had chosen to let it go. That he wasn’t going to lose sleep over strangers and their poisoned words.
But then he smiled.
Not the soft smile he reserved for his girls. No, this one was sharper. Controlled. The kind that promised someone, somewhere, was already regretting their choices.
She placed her hands on her hips, "What did you do, Leon?"
“I sued them all,” he said simply, as if discussing the weather. “The paperwork delayed me. That’s why I’m late.” He brushed a thumb over her jaw, his voice softening again. “I promise, I’ll be home early from tomorrow.”
Layla stared at him, her lips parted, torn between shock and the absurd urge to laugh. He said it so casually, as if filing lawsuits against strangers was no different from buying groceries.
In that moment, she realised she had been wrong.
He hadn’t let it go. He never would.
Not when it came to her. Not when it came to his girls.