Between Wealth and Worship

Chapter 4 - A world of her own

Layla had always been different from her siblings. While Zayd embraced the role their father had groomed him for, and Amina found peace in staying close to home, Layla had sought freedom. A freedom that could only be found far away from the traditions and expectations she felt suffocated by. At 21, she had packed her bags, bought a one-way ticket to Paris, and left South Africa behind, running not just from an arranged marriage her father had planned, but from a life she had never chosen.

Paris had offered her everything she had dreamed of—anonymity, creativity, and the chance to reinvent herself. She'd started her fashion brand, Maison Layla, out of a small studio in Le Marais, quickly catching the attention of Parisian influencers and local boutiques. Her designs were bold, modern, and uniquely hers. Before long, her name was whispered at fashion shows and written about in underground fashion magazines.

But the glamorous world she built came at a price.

Her rise in Paris had been faster than she had ever expected, but her success wasn't solely due to her talent. Behind the scenes, Layla had quietly secured investors to keep her fledgling brand afloat. What she hadn't known at the time was that those investors were part of the Parisian underworld—men who owned nightclubs, casinos, and more illicit businesses than she cared to know about. They were powerful, connected, and, as she would learn, impossible to escape.

At first, Layla had convinced herself it didn't matter. Her designs were selling, her name was in all the right places, and she had finally escaped the life she had once dreaded. But after a few years, the weight of those ties began to crush her. The men who had backed her business now expected favors—introductions at exclusive events, custom designs, a seat at her table at fashion weeks. They reminded her, quietly but firmly, that they had made her who she was.

Layla wanted out. She wanted to sever the ties, to take full control of her brand without the shadow of her investors hanging over her. But when she tried to part ways with them, the response was swift and brutal.

"No one walks away from us," one of them had said, his voice dripping with menace over the phone one late Parisian night. "Not without consequences."

And those consequences came swiftly. Rumors began to spread through the Parisian fashion world—rumors that her brand was being funded by criminal money. Journalists sniffed around, and it wasn't long before the scandal hit the press. Articles splashed across the fashion tabloids, tying Layla's name to the underworld. Boutique owners started pulling her designs from their racks, and clients canceled orders without a word.

It had all unraveled so quickly. In the span of a few weeks, Maison Layla was done. The Paris office, once bustling with seamstresses and designers, had to be closed overnight. Layla, once celebrated on the local fashion scene, had to flee.

She returned to South Africa with little fanfare, the scandal thankfully having not reached Durban. Her reputation in Paris was shattered, but here, she could start over. Or so she hoped.

Layla sat in her new office in Durban, staring at her phone. It had been weeks since her return, but the Paris nightmare still haunted her. The Durban branch of her fashion line was small, and for now, only a handful of clients were interested. It wasn't anywhere near what she had built in Paris, but it was something. She could rebuild from here. But every time her phone rang or a message pinged, she wondered if it was the past catching up to her.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair as she scrolled through the latest numbers. Sales weren't where they needed to be. Layla had invested a significant amount in this new venture, and now, she was running dangerously low on funds. She had kept the Paris closure under wraps from her family, not wanting them to see her failure. If this new branch didn't succeed, it would be more than just a financial blow—it would be the end of her career.

As she sat there, lost in thought, one of her assistants knocked on the door. "Layla, I've finished organizing the fabrics for the new collection. Oh, and I left my musallah in the breakroom. I'll grab it on my way out."

Layla barely looked up, nodding distractedly. But once the assistant was gone, her gaze drifted to the prayer mat folded neatly in the corner. For a moment, she felt an unfamiliar pull. It had been years since she had prayed. Paris had been a whirlwind, a world of its own, and she had distanced herself from everything that reminded her of home—including her faith.

But now, sitting in the quiet of her office, far from the chaos of Paris, the sound of the adhan in the distance reached her ears. Something in her stirred. Before she knew it, she was unfolding the musallah, placing it gently on the floor. For the first time in years, Layla stood before her Creator, unsure of what to say, but knowing that she needed this moment of stillness.