The following days unfolded like a careful play every word rehearsed, every gesture measured.
Mrs. Vernes no longer walked through the mansion like a guest. She moved with quiet defiance, rearranging the flowers Damien preferred, cooking meals Ayla used to love but hadn't tasted in months, opening the windows to let the sunlight in something Damien clearly disliked.
Each act was small. Harmless.
But in Damien's world, even sunlight felt like rebellion.
"Do you not like the curtains drawn?" he asked one morning, his tone casual yet edged.
"They make the house too dim," Mrs. Vernes replied, folding her hands. "Ayla always loved bright spaces."
Damien's smile didn't reach his eyes. "People change after marriage."
Mrs. Vernes tilted her head. "Or they're changed."
Ayla's spoon slipped from her trembling fingers. The metallic clang echoed in the silence.
Damien's eyes flicked to her just for a second and she instantly muttered an apology, rushing to clean it.
Mrs. Vernes saw it. The way Ayla's shoulders stiffened, the way she shrank.
And her heart broke a little more.
That evening, Ayla found her mother in the garden, staring at the roses Damien had imported from Italy.
"Mama," she whispered. "You shouldn't argue with him. He doesn't like it."
Mrs. Vernes smiled gently. "I noticed."
Ayla sat beside her, wringing her hands. "He's… he just wants things a certain way."
"No, dear," her mother said softly, "he wants you a certain way."
Ayla looked away.
For a brief moment, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, confess something but then the sound of Damien's footsteps on the gravel silenced her.
"Ladies," he greeted, stepping closer, voice smooth and charming. "Such a peaceful sight my two favorite women."
Mrs. Vernes's smile was sweet, almost sugary. "We were just admiring your roses, Mr. Hale. So perfect. Almost unnatural."
His eyes flickered.
Ayla looked between them, uneasy.
Neither of them moved, but the air was thick — like a storm waiting for thunder.
Later that night, Mrs. Vernes locked her bedroom door and took out her phone.
Her fingers hovered over the screen. She had planned to call someone an old friend in the city, perhaps, someone who could help her find out more about Damien Hale.
But then she heard it.
A soft click.
The sound of her door handle turning.
Her heart raced.
Then came his voice, from the other side of the door low, quiet, too calm.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Vernes. Sleep well."
She waited until his footsteps faded before whispering to herself,
"He knows."
Damien stood downstairs, watching the reflection of her room in the dark glass window.
His expression was blank except for the faintest trace of a smirk.
Let her try, he thought. Let her play her little games.
In the end, no one takes what's his.