Polo

Malik pauses momentarily, his grip on the child tightening ever so slightly.

 "Perhaps," he says, his voice low and measured, "if you were a better mother and took more care of our child, things would be better." 

Layla recoils her expression, a mixture of shock and hurt. "How dare you say that?" she cries, her voice wavering. "I'm a wonderful mother, and you know it!"

Malik ignores her outburst, continuing on his path to the nursery. 

As he gently lays the baby down in the crib, he takes a moment to ensure the child is comfortable and secure, his movements practised and efficient.

Layla hovers nearby, her arms folded across her chest, her gaze fixed on Malik with resentment and something akin to desperation. "Malik - talk to me. I know things haven't been right, but I want to understand. I want to make it better."

Malik turns to face her, his expression impassive. "There is nothing to discuss, Layla," he says, his voice cold and unbending.