The mansion was too quiet.
Even the clocks seemed afraid to tick.
Ayla stood in the doorway, her mother's note trembling in her hand, the words burning into her skin like truth written in fire.
Don't trust him. Leave tonight.
Outside, the sky had turned the color of bruised violets that strange hour between dusk and despair. The chandelier light fractured across the polished floor, throwing slivers of gold against the marble walls.
She moved through the corridor on bare feet, her breath shallow, her pulse loud enough to drown out her thoughts.
Every step echoed. Every shadow looked alive.
Downstairs, Damien was in his study. She could hear the faint sound of his voice smooth, polite, steady speaking on the phone.
Even in half-darkness, his control was absolute.
It frightened her more than rage ever could.
"Yes, the deal goes through tomorrow," he said calmly. "No errors. I want it clean."
A pause. Then a soft, humorless chuckle. "You know I don't tolerate mistakes."
He ended the call, poured himself a drink, and leaned against the window. The reflection of the city lights glinted off the glass cold and sharp, like the man himself.
Ayla swallowed hard, clutching the note tighter.
You're not safe.
She moved quickly upstairs, into their bedroom.
Her fingers shook as she pulled a small bag from the wardrobe. A few clothes, her mother's photo, her wedding ring she hesitated, then slipped it off, letting it fall with a soft metallic thud onto the dresser.
The sound echoed like finality.
Her heart raced as she opened the balcony door, the night air rushing in. For a moment, she looked back at the room where her laughter had died, where her dreams had been silenced.
And then she whispered, "I'm done being afraid."
She turned only to freeze.
Damien stood in the doorway.
He wasn't angry.
That was the terrifying part.
"Going somewhere?" he asked softly, almost amused. His voice was silk and a noose.
Ayla's breath hitched. "I ....Mama isn't well. I just wanted to"
He stepped forward. "You're lying."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "Damien, please, I..."
"Do you think I don't notice when things change?" His tone darkened, quiet and dangerous. "The way you look at me now. The way you flinch when I touch you."
She backed away until her spine hit the wall.
"Damien please..."
He tilted his head, studying her as though she were an experiment. "Someone told you something. Didn't they?"
Ayla's throat tightened.
He smiled then that slow, devastating curve that could fool the world. "Ah. Your mother."
Her tears broke free. "She almost died"
"And she should have stayed silent," he murmured, stepping closer until his breath ghosted her cheek. "I gave her that mercy once. I won't twice."
Something snapped inside her.
Ayla pushed him back not with strength, but with desperation. "You're sick!" she cried. "Whatever you think this is it's not love!"
His eyes turned to ice. "No, Ayla. It's devotion. You'll understand one day."
When he left the room, she stood frozen for a long moment, every nerve screaming.
Then instinct took over.
She grabbed her bag, ran down the back stairs, and slipped into the night.
Rain had started to fall soft at first, then harder, like the sky itself was trying to wash her clean.
She didn't look back. Not once.
Behind her, in the glowing windows of the mansion, Damien watched glass in hand, smile faintly playing on his lips.
"Run if you want, my darling," he whispered into the empty air. "I always find what's mine."
And the storm swallowed her whole.