244. COMPLETE

244. COMPLETE
LAYLA
Seline and Layla worked together in an easy silence. While Layla painted the mural in the nursery, Zaley was setting up in his office, Seline focused on the interior details.
The quiet was oddly comforting for Layla. And when they did talk, it felt even easier. Their conversations slipped between memories, how much they remembered, and the strange weight of carrying the past.
“What do I even do with all this data in my head?” Layla muttered absently, her brush moving across the wall. It was a habit of hers, speaking her thoughts aloud while her hands worked, as if the colours could absorb her questions.
A soft sound of typing broke the silence. Layla turned, and Seline held up her phone.
You replace them with good memories, the screen read.
Layla smiled faintly at her. Seline looked pristine, every detail in place, the white peach shirt tucked into a pencil skirt, her sleek ponytail, the effortless grace she carried. Layla, in comparison, wore her fresh bob cut with wild curls springing loose in every direction. It had become a battle to tame them, though regular spa visits helped. Still, she didn’t bother much anymore. Paint smeared on her cheeks. Layla was just… Layla.
But the thought lingered. One could heal, but never fully return to who they once were. Change was inevitable.
“Is that what you do?” Layla asked quietly. “Replace bad memories with good ones?”
Seline’s fingers moved again.
No. I don’t have happy memories to replace them with. I use the angry ones.
“Like what?”
This time, the reply came instantly.
Like strangling your brother to death.
Layla burst out laughing. “Why are you two even getting married? To kill each other?”
Seline only shrugged, her expression unreadable, before typing again.
I’ve been seeing a therapist. She’s very helpful. Sometimes too clever for her own good, but helpful. Do you want to try?
Layla hesitated, then nodded. “I will. Thank you.”
Seline typed again.
And I also have a proposition for you.
Before Layla could ask, a business proposal popped up on her screen—a partnership in an interior firm.
“I know nothing about interior designing,” Layla protested.
Leave that to me, Seline’s response came swiftly. I need an artist. An investor. Someone with a good eye. You check all the boxes.
“I’d need at least three months to decide.”
Take your time. Just say yes eventually. I already told my boss I’ll beat him in this business.
Layla arched a brow. “You do remember this would be a start-up, right?”
Seline only shrugged, a small smirk playing on her lips. I’m going to kick some asses. Start-up or not.
Layla leaned back. “And who exactly is your boss?”
Her phone lit up with the answer.
Your brother. My fiancé.
Suddenly, everything made sense.

Layla sat cross-legged on the floor before the easel, staring at the canvas that had haunted her for years. The same unfinished face, the boy who had once been Leon, gazed back at her with hollow patience. Half waves, half void.
Seline’s words came to her then, soft and insistent: Replace the bad memories with good ones.
She dipped her brush into the paint.
Slowly, carefully, she filled in what had always been missing. His face emerged in strokes of fire, molten hues that burned against the blues of the sea. Not just anger, not just destruction, but the blaze of a man who would tear down the world to protect what was his.
The waves remained, flowing steadily across his body, grounding the fire, holding it. That was his calmness, his patience, the ocean she had first fallen into. But where the waves touched flame, they did not extinguish it. They coexisted, two forces of him, neither yielding, both whole.
When she stepped back, she saw him at last.
The boy she had once loved. The man she now belonged to. His calm, his power, his patience, his destruction, every contradiction woven into one canvas. And within his eyes, beneath the fire and sea, she had painted something only she could see.
A trace of love. A love that had always been hers.
For the first time, the painting wasn’t unfinished. Neither was he. Neither was she.
It is complete, she thought. I am complete.
And yet… There was one more thing left unfinished. One thing that had been dragged on for far too long.
She pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Kirill’s name, hesitation knotting her chest. Then, at last, she swiped the screen.
"You want me to what?" Kirill’s voice was incredulous, though his eyes remained fixed on the painting.
"God, Layla. If you sell this, you’ll make a fortune. I didn’t know you could draw this well."
He leaned closer, his gaze narrowing, his finger almost brushing the painted jawline. "I think you made him look even more handsome."
"Because he is," Layla said, steady. "Now, back to what I asked you—"
"No." He cut her off sharply. "Jeremy will live. That’s his punishment for what he did to you. I won’t let him have an easy death. I will fucking kill him."
"Exactly," Layla countered, but he was already shaking his head.
"I will fucking kill him daily."
She reached out, slipping her hands over his, squeezing lightly. "Do you want your fiancé to kill me or what? For the sake of world peace, please don’t touch another man."
Layla smiled faintly, but her voice was unwavering. "Someone told me today that we have to replace the bad memories with good ones. I’ve decided I will. I don’t want you or Leon wasting yourselves on Jeremy, dragging him out just to remember what he did to me. I want to replace those memories, so I can make space for better ones. End this, Kirill. For me. That’s what I want."
"But, Zaley—"
"He will understand," Layla said, certain now, the fire in her eyes matching the fire on the canvas. "I need you to take me to him. I want to have the final word."
And Kirill did.
For a second, Layla felt ashamed at the sight of Jeremy, broken, starved, unrecognisable. It was all because of her. Or so she thought… until Kirill’s voice cut through the guilt.
"You’re not the first woman he violated," Kirill said coldly. "And you wouldn’t be the last if you let him free."
That was what made her move.
"I am getting married," she announced, her voice steady as steel. Her words fell on the hollow shell of a man before her, once a predator, now nothing more than a body without a soul.
"I have a family. I have no worries in the world."
She stepped forward, and Jeremy shrank back, trembling in fear. Just like she had once, years ago, when he had cornered her with his friends.
"You should have stopped when I begged you," she whispered. There was no remorse in her tone. No kindness. Just the blade of truth.
Jeremy made a sound, something between a whimper and a plea.
"Too late," Layla said, flicking open the lighter in her hand, the flame catching in her eyes.
"Too late."

ZALEY
The prison smelled of rust, sweat, and rot. Zaley sat opposite Noah, the steel table between them doing nothing to soften the tension.
Noah’s eyes, sunken but still burning with venom, locked on him.
“You think you’ve won?” His voice cracked into a laugh, sharp and dry. “I took what I wanted. I made them pay for Whiltred. I burned their daughters because they burned mine.”
Zaley leaned forward, unshaken. His voice was low, steady, every word deliberate.
“Yes. I would have done the same if someone touched my girls. I would have annihilated the entire village.” His jaw flexed, the admission sharp as a blade. “But the difference between you and me, Noah—once I got my revenge, I would never again be a victim. I would stop feeding off the ashes.”
Noah’s smirk faltered. Zaley’s eyes darkened, unrelenting.
“The problem is, you still think you’re the one wronged. But you crossed that line years ago. Slowly, you became a monster… convincing yourself it was the right thing. And in the process, you didn’t just punish the people of Whiltred, you took the childhood of countless girls. You touched the wrong person. You touched my Layla.”
Noah stiffened, rage flickering in his hollow gaze. “Since when?” he hissed. “Since when did you know I was the one behind Project Kairo?”
Zaley’s lips curved into the faintest, cruellest smile.
“The moment I remembered who I was.”
For a heartbeat, Noah’s breath caught. The realisation struck him like a blade that Zaley had known all along.
"No, you didn't. You sent Layla for therapy. You trusted me. I was one of you."
Zaley shook his head, crossing his hands over his chest, "If you were one of us, you would have become my daughter's best friend. You never were. I put that line a long time ago. You were too blind to see it."
“You bastard,” Noah spat, fists tightening against the table. “You hid it. You played along. You pretend—”
“I didn’t pretend.” Zaley’s tone was flat, merciless. “I studied you. I wanted to see the depth of your rot. And you never disappointed.”
Noah had no reply. His jaw trembled with fury, veins standing out against his neck. Finally, he choked out, “This isn’t over. Lucifer will come for you. You killed his brothers.”
Zaley leaned back, calm as the sea before a storm. His silence stretched until it felt like a hand around Noah’s throat. Then, almost gently, he answered:
“Let him come.”
As Zaley stepped out of the prison gates, his phone buzzed.
A text from Kirill.
We killed Jeremy. I’m taking a one-month vacation.
Zaley’s jaw tightened. He hit the call button immediately.
Kirill picked up with a long, tired sigh.
“Who killed Jeremy? On whose permission?” Zaley’s voice was low, lethal.
“Come to the warehouse. You’ll know.”
“How the fuck did this happen?” Zaley snapped.
“Lighter. Fire. Boom. Easy-peasy.”
“Cut the crap, Kirill. Who is with you?”
The line went dead.
Zaley stood for a moment, phone still pressed against his ear, his reflection caught in the black screen.
“He will die in my hands,” he muttered as he gunned the engine and tore down the road.
The warehouse smelled of smoke and gasoline, charred wood still hissing in the corners. The air was thick with the aftermath of fire.
Zaley’s footsteps echoed like gunshots, his presence filling the space before his shadow even fell across them.
Kirill stood off to the side, leaning against a steel beam, arms folded. But Zaley’s eyes never touched him. They found her.
Layla.
Her hair clung to her temples with sweat, her fingers still faintly stained with soot, the lighter she had used resting on the ground. She didn’t look broken. She didn’t look haunted. She was sitting there, breathing slowly, steadily, her gaze on the blackened remains.
For the first time since reading Kirill’s text, Zaley felt something he hadn’t expected.
Relief.
“Layla,” he said, voice low, controlled. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”
Her eyes lifted to his, and he had his answer before she spoke.
“I did it,” she said plainly. “And I don’t regret it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t weak; it was sharp, biting, final. Zaley waited for her to falter, to show some crack, some trace of the innocence he always thought he had to protect. But there was none.
She stood, stepping closer until she was in front of him. “He stole my childhood. He would’ve stolen more from others if I let him live. I’ve carried that weight long enough. Tonight, I put it down.”
Zaley’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I have two kids waiting at home,” she went on, her voice steady, even proud. “I’ve lived through worse than killing a monster. And I did what was necessary. Not just for me. For every girl who never got the chance.”
Her words hung between them like a verdict.
Zaley searched her face, waiting for guilt, shame, something. Instead, he found something far more dangerous.
Freedom.
He exhaled slowly, almost a laugh, though nothing about it was amused. “You scare me, Layla.”
She held his gaze, unflinching. “Good.”
Later that night, the fire was nothing but a memory. The warehouse was gone. Jeremy was gone.
And Layla sat on their bed, cocooned in a blanket like a guilty child, a half-finished beer bottle dangling from her hand. Her hair was a mess, her eyes glassy, not from tears, but from the slow, lazy fog of regret creeping in.
“I think I’ve officially ruined my karma,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for divine judgment to strike her down. “I mean, do murderers get second chances? Probably not. I’ll reincarnate as a cockroach. Or worse, your secretary.”
Zaley sat beside her silently.
She peeked at him through the rim of the bottle. “You’re judging me, aren’t you?”
“No,” he said calmly.
“Liar.” She groaned, pulling the blanket tighter around her. “God, what if my girls find out? I’m supposed to be the good mom who bakes cookies, not—‘oh by the way, Mommy once lit a guy on fire.’”
Her voice cracked halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Zaley leaned back on his hands, watching her unravel in the most familiar way. Messy. Dramatic. Utterly hers. Just like she’d always been.
Finally, he reached over, plucked the beer from her grip, and set it aside. His arm slid around her shoulders, pulling her against him.
“You did what you had to do,” he said, steady as stone.
Layla rested her head on his chest, sighing like a girl who’d gotten caught sneaking out of the house. “Yeah, but I still feel like crap.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to give me one of your terrifying mafia speeches?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she grumbled, looking up at him.
“Because you don’t need one,” he said simply. “You just need someone to sit here and listen while you dramatise your bad decisions.”
That earned him a muffled laugh against his shirt. She hit his chest lightly. “Asshole.”
“Mess,” he countered.
And just like before, like years ago, when she’d cry over some small disaster and he’d sit through it with infuriating patience, Zaley stayed.