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THE SERENITY OF THE APARTMENT HAD LONG DISAPPEARED WHEN LAYLA CAME STRUTTING BACK IN. Before this, Astrid was just jealous and irritated, now she was just angry. Every snide and rude comment that fell from Layla's lips only added fuel to the fire.
The thing was that Layla had this whole modest thing she liked to do, and Astrid was all for it until Layla began to criticize her for not practicing modesty. Her favorite thing that Layla had said to her was, "you'll never find a suitable husband if you dress like a whore."
All of this was pilling up and Astrid knew it was only a matter of time before she got physical. It was no secret that she was a great fighter in both long-distance and hand-to-hand combat. Layla, on the other hand, refused to join the training, claiming she had men to do that for her—this thinking made sense when you take into consideration the internalized misogyny that Layla's mother had drilled into her daughter during her upbringing.
"Anakin," Layla whines as he takes a seat next to Astrid at the dining table. Her eyes were wide, feigning innocence. Her hand pats on the seat next to her as she pouts, "sit next to me, I only have four days left."
