The sunlight was soft, too gentle for a house that had shattered glass only hours ago.
Ayla stood by the window, her fingers wrapped in a bandage. The faint scent of blood still clung to her skin no matter how many times she washed her hands.
Behind her, footsteps echoed on the marble floor.
Damien.
She stiffened, expecting his anger again — but instead, he carried a silver tray. A single rose lay beside a cup of coffee.
"Good morning," he said smoothly, as though last night had never existed.
Her lips parted, confusion flickering in her eyes. "Good… morning."
He smiled, setting the tray beside her. "You were trembling yesterday. I shouldn't have raised my voice."
His hand brushed her hair from her face, fingers lingering too long. "You're delicate, Ayla. You need to be protected, not hurt."
Protected. The word felt like a lock rather than comfort.
He took her bandaged hand gently, kissed her knuckles. "Does it hurt?"
"No," she whispered. But it did not the cut, the contradiction.
He led her to the table for breakfast, serving her like a gentleman, pouring juice, cutting fruit. His voice was soft, his touch steady.
Anyone walking in would've seen devotion.
But Ayla knew this tenderness was not forgiveness.
It was possession, dressed as love.
When she reached for the toast, he lightly placed his hand over hers.
"From now on," he said, voice smooth but firm, "I'll decide who you talk to at these events. I don't want misunderstandings."
Her throat went dry. "I wasn't—"
He smiled. "I know. But the world doesn't. And I don't want anyone thinking my wife is careless."
Her heart dropped. There it was control disguised as care.
Later, when he left for work, Ayla sat in silence.
The rose he'd given her lay in the coffee cup, its petals slowly sinking in the dark liquid.
She didn't know which version of him was real the man who shattered glass…
or the one who kissed her bruised hands.
All she knew was that both of them owned her now.