The Hale mansion glittered that night crystal lights, polished marble, the faint hum of a piano.
A dinner party. Business partners. Expensive smiles.
Ayla moved like a ghost through the noise. She poured wine, smiled when someone looked at her, stayed exactly where Damien had told her to stand.
Perfect wife. Silent ornament.
From across the room, Damien's eyes followed her every step.
Every tilt of her head. Every second she spoke to someone else.
When she laughed at something one of the guests said, his jaw tightened.
Just slightly. But Ayla saw it.
Later, when the guests left, silence filled the house again thick and dangerous.
Damien poured himself a drink.
"You were smiling a lot tonight," he said quietly.
"I was just being polite."
"Polite?" He turned, his voice still calm but his eyes dark. "You touched his arm."
Ayla froze. "What? No, I"
He crossed the distance between them in seconds.
"Do you think people didn't see that? Do you want them to think my wife flirts at my table?"
Tears stung her eyes. "I wasn't Damien, please, I"
The glass shattered.
He'd thrown it against the wall, inches from her face.
Shards fell like rain, glinting in the dim light.
"Clean it up," he said softly.
And walked away.
Her hands trembled as she gathered the broken pieces.
The blood on her fingertips shimmered in the glass.
She stared at it—at the small red bloom against her skin—and something inside her cracked open.
Not loud. Not visible.
But deep.
And for the first time, Ayla wasn't just afraid of Damien.
She was afraid of what he would turn her into.