The rain had stopped by dawn, leaving the world drenched in silver.
Ayla walked along the highway's edge, her shoes soaked, her breath fogging in the cold air.
Every passing car made her flinch. Every shadow felt like him.
She hadn't slept.
Not since the motel.
Her clothes clung to her skin, her hair matted, her mind looping the same thought He found me. He always finds me.
A truck slowed beside her.
The driver an older woman with kind eyes and coffee in hand leaned over. "You look half-dead, sweetheart. Need a lift?"
Ayla hesitated. Trust had become a dangerous word.
But her legs ached, and her fear had turned into trembling exhaustion.
"Just to the next town," she said quietly.
The woman nodded. "Hop in."
The inside of the truck smelled of coffee and rain-soaked leather.
The woman Nora talked softly, her voice grounding, ordinary, safe.
"You running from something?" she asked after a while, not unkindly.
Ayla stared out the window. "Someone."
Nora nodded slowly. "Man like that wears a suit, doesn't he?"
Ayla turned, startled.
Nora smiled sadly. "I can tell. Men like that always look too polished to be real."
For the first time in days, Ayla managed a weak smile.
She didn't give details not yet but Nora didn't press. She just drove, humming softly, like the world hadn't already turned upside down.
Meanwhile, Damien Hale sat in a private office, sunlight streaming across his desk.
A group of reporters gathered before him, microphones ready.
He looked tired perfectly, beautifully tired the picture of a grieving husband.
"I just want her safe," he said, voice breaking slightly. "Ayla has been struggling for months. After her mother's accident… she wasn't herself. I tried to get her help, but she wouldn't listen."
The reporters murmured sympathetically.
One of them asked, "There are rumors she accused you of"
Damien raised a hand gently. "Please. She's my wife. I love her. She needs help, not blame."
A perfect pause.
A perfect performance.
By evening, the headlines screamed:
"Damien Hale's Wife Missing Amid Mental Health Crisis."
"Tragedy Strikes the Hales Again."
And beneath every article his carefully chosen words:
> If anyone sees Ayla, please contact the authorities. She's not well and may be a danger to herself.
Ayla stopped at a small diner on the outskirts of town.
Nora handed her some cash and squeezed her hand. "Get something warm to eat, honey. And be careful who you tell your story to."
Ayla nodded. "Thank you. For everything."
She stepped inside. The smell of coffee and frying eggs hit her like a wave.
It almost felt normal until she saw it.
On the small TV above the counter, Damien's face filled the screen.
> "If you see her, please… let her know I forgive her. I just want her home."
The photo that followed made Ayla's blood run cold
her face, smiling, with the caption:
"MISSING — AYLA HALE (unstable, possibly delusional)."
A few people turned to look at her, murmuring.
Her hand shot to her hood. "Can you turn that off, please?" she whispered.
The waitress shrugged. "Sorry, sweetheart, it's the news."
Ayla's pulse hammered. The walls seemed to close in.
She was no longer the victim.
She was the madwoman who ran away from a perfect husband.
Back in the car, Damien scrolled through his phone, watching security footage from nearby cameras, tracking her trail.
He smiled faintly, tapping the screen where her blurred figure appeared, running across a rainy parking lot.
"Found you again," he murmured.
Then he called someone. "Yes, release another statement. Make sure the police think she's suicidal. That'll narrow their search pattern."
"Understood, sir," the voice replied.
Damien leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, satisfied.
"She can run all she wants," he said softly. "But every road leads back to me."
Meanwhile, Ayla slipped through the diner's back door, her breath ragged, her eyes wide.
The night had fallen again dark and endless.
She didn't know where to go. Only that she couldn't stop.
But somewhere deep inside the panic, a spark flickered faint, stubborn, alive.
If he wanted her story rewritten, she'd write it herself.
And this time, she wouldn't be the victim.
She'd be the one who survived the monster.