Framed By My Ex, Claimed By The Cold-hearted General

Chapter 3

LAYLA POV

"Rayyan..."

His name slipped out of my lips like something fragile. Like something I had no right to say anymore.

How is this possible? My breath caught halfway in my chest as I stared at him. For a moment... everything around me disappeared. The suffocating pressure and the crowd. All of it faded into nothing. All I could see was him.

My fingers tightened unconsciously against his arm, my body still slightly leaning into him from where he had caught me. My heart began to pound again, but this time not from fear, it is for something I had buried for years. What is he doing here?

My gaze traced his face slowly, almost hesitantly, as if I was afraid he would disappear if I looked too away. He looks different now, he is more colder and sharper. The softness I once knew was gone, replaced by coldness and distance.

This can't be. Please... don't tell me. My breath hitched slightly. He is the one that got me out of prison. Before I could even process that thought, his voice cut through the air.

"Soldiers, secure this place and maintain order. Don't let the media come close."

His tone was calm while commanding them. The kind of voice that didn't ask but expected to be obeyed. And they moved... instantly.

Men in uniform surrounded us, stepping in front of the crowd, pushing the reporters back, creating distance. Their presence was strong, controlled, disciplined.

I froze. My eyes shifted from them, back to him. How...? How can he command soldiers like this? Then it hit me.

He must have become someone powerful. Of course, Rayyan would never remain ordinary. He had always been like this. Someone who stood above others without even trying.

And now... Now he stood in front of me like someone I didn't recognize. Yet I knew too well.

"What are you still doing in my arms?" he said suddenly.

"Do you enjoy it?"

The words hit harder than they should have. My breath caught as reality snapped back into place.

I immediately pulled away from him, almost too quickly, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My fingers slipped from his arm as I took a step back, creating distance between us. Distance that felt... necessary. Distance that hurts.

"As-salamu alaikum..." I said softly, lowering my gaze slightly.

The words felt strange on my tongue. Familiar... yet distant.

"Wa alaikum assalam," he replied with no warmth in tone, just a response, a flat and controlled one.

"It's been long..." I added, forcing a faint smile that didn't reach my eyes.

Seven years. Seven years of silence. Seven years of separation. He didn't respond, nor even a glance. He turned and walked away. Just like that. Like I was nothing.

Something in my chest twisted painfully. The same way it did years ago. He took a few steps before stopping. Then he looked back. His eyes met mine.

"Will you move and follow me," he said, his voice carrying that same sharp edge, "or are you still waiting for someone?"

A slight pause. Then.

"Prefer your husband... oh sorry, he is now your ex."

The words landed slowly and deliberately. Like he wanted me to feel every part of it.

"Maybe you prefer to stay with the media and answer their questions," he added.

The noise behind us grew louder again, reporters still trying to push forward, shouting over each other, calling my name. I ignored them. My focus remained on him.

"Are you the one that got me out?" I asked.

The question came out quieter than I expected. But it carried everything. Confusion. Doubt. And something I didn't want to name. He didn't even hesitate.

"Here is not the time to answer your fucking question." His voice dropped, sharper than before.

"If you prefer to stay here, then I'm leaving."

And just like that. He turned and walked away again. No explanation. No answer. For a second... I didn't move. Then the noise behind me surged again.

"Layla!"

"Murderer!"

"Answer us!"

I forced myself forward, my steps quickening as I followed after him. I wasn't going to stay there. Not alone and surrounded by the media.

He walked ahead without slowing down, his stride steady, controlled, as if he didn't need to check whether I was following or not.

As if he already knew I would. We reached a black car parked a short distance away. The moment he opened the door. A reporter rushed forward, pushing past the soldiers just enough to shout,

"Sir! Major General, are you the one that got Layla Abdul Rahman out of prison?"

"What is your relationship with her?!"

"Did you abuse your authority?!"

The questions came one after another. Rayyan didn't even look at them.

"I don't have anything to say to the media," he said coldly.

Short and Final. He entered the car without another word. I followed immediately after him. The door shut.bAnd within seconds. He drove away.

He drove steadily, both hands firm on the steering wheel, his posture straight, unchanged in discipline, yet different in a way I could not fully explain.

The low hum of the engine filled the silence between us, steady and constant, like the only thing keeping the moment from completely collapsing into something heavier.

No words were utter. No questions were asked. Just silence. But it wasn't empty and suffocating.

I turned my head slightly, looking out of the window, forcing my gaze onto the passing streets. Buildings blurred past, people moved freely, life continued like nothing had happened, like the last three years of my life had not been stolen from me.

Freedom. I was out. Yet... it didn't feel real.

My fingers tightened slightly in my lap, curling into the fabric of my clothes as I tried to steady the storm rising inside me. On the outside, I remained calm.

But inside, nothing was calm. Everything was in chaos. When did Rayyan become a soldier?

Not just a soldier... a Major General at that. The title alone carried weight, authority and power. Within just seven years of being apart, he had risen to that level.

Seven years. I swallowed slowly, my throat dry. So much had changed. He had moved forward. Build something. Become someone. And me?

I had lost everything. My family. My name. My freedom. And then... I went to prison. The word echoed bitterly in my mind. While he climbed higher, I had been buried deeper.

The silence in the car stretched further, pressing against my chest. I could feel it between us, thick, unspoken, filled with everything we were not saying.

There were too many questions. Too many things left unresolved. They pressed against my mind one after another, refusing to stay quiet.

Was he the one who got me out? If yes, why now? After everything, after all these years... Why now? Did he still hate me?

His cold tone earlier. The sarcasm. The distance. It was still there. Nothing had softened. Or maybe... it had hardened.

Did he also believe I killed Noor? That question felt heavier than the rest. Because if he believed it.

Then nothing between us could ever be the same. As if it was the same. A faint breath left my lips as my thoughts continued to spiral.

How is his family? Do they also hate me now? Another thought followed, quieter but sharper. Is he married?

I didn't know why that one stayed longer. Maybe because I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the answer. Slowly... I turned my head away from the window.

My gaze shifted toward him. Careful. Hesitant. Like I wasn't sure if I had the right to look. But I did.

And once I did... I couldn't look away. He was still the same. And yet... completely different. His features were sharper now. More defined. Time had carved something stronger into him. His jaw was set, tight, his expression unreadable, his focus fixed on the road ahead.

He just concentrated, no distraction. There was something else too. Something harder to name. An aura. Authority.

It wasn't forced. It wasn't shown off. It was just there, natural and unquestionable. My chest tightened faintly as I continued to watch him.

He was still Rayyan. The same man I once was. I cut the thought off before it could fully form.

My fingers shifted slightly, my hand resting tighter against my lap as I forced myself to breathe steadily.

Say it. Ask him. The question had been sitting in my chest since the moment I stepped out of that prison gate. Since I saw him. Since everything stopped making sense.

But my lips didn't move. Not yet. My gaze lingered on him a moment longer, tracing the side of his face, the slight tension in his expression, the silence he held so firmly.

Did he not want to speak? Or was he waiting for me to? My heart beat a little faster. The air in the car felt heavier with each passing second.

If I didn't ask now... I wouldn't ask at all. My fingers loosened slightly, then tightened again. A small breath left me. And finally.

"Are you the one that got me out of prison?" I asked, my voice quiet but steady, my eyes fixed on him as he drove.

For a second, nothing changed. The car didn't slow. He still didn't look at me.

Then.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. The air in the car shifted and was filled with tension. Like I had just asked a question I wasn't ready to hear the answer to.