The night had stopped raining, but the air still smelled of thunder.
Inside the mansion, light shimmered off glass and silver, soft piano notes drifting through the hall like ghosts.
The dining room looked like a dream.
A long table gleamed beneath candlelight golden plates, crystal wine glasses, white roses spilling from the centerpiece.
Everything was beautiful.
Everything was wrong.
Ayla stood by the doorway, uncertain.
Damien was waiting at the far end, his black suit crisp, his expression unreadable.
"You didn't have to do this," she said quietly.
"I wanted to," he replied, voice smooth, almost tender. "It's been a long time since we sat together like husband and wife."
She almost laughed husband and wife.
Those words sounded like something torn from a fantasy she no longer believed in.
Still, she sat.
Dinner began in silence.
Every sound the clink of silver, the rustle of fabric, the low music felt amplified, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Damien poured her wine, his movements controlled and deliberate. "You've been distant lately."
"I've been breathing lately," Ayla answered.
He smiled faintly. "Is that what you call it?"
She didn't respond. Her pulse quickened when his hand brushed hers not from affection, but from memory.
He leaned back, studying her. "You've changed."
Ayla's eyes flicked up. "People do when they survive things."
His jaw tightened.
But then he smiled again slow, dangerous, tender. "You think I don't notice? The way you move differently now, speak differently. The way you look at me like you're trying to see a man instead of a monster."
"I already know what you are," she said softly.
He laughed not loudly, but low and sharp enough to make her heart stumble. "Then you must also know that monsters don't like to be challenged."
She pushed her plate aside. "If this dinner is your idea of peace, we're done."
He rose before she could stand, circling the table until he was behind her. His shadow swallowed hers.
"You slapped him," he whispered near her ear.
Ayla froze. "You saw?"
"I see everything," he murmured, his tone maddeningly calm. "And I'll admit it was beautiful."
Her breath hitched. "You're sick."
"Maybe," he said. "But tell me, Ayla… did it make you feel powerful? Hurting another man? Saying no?"
"Stop."
He didn't. His voice softened instead. "You looked alive for the first time in months. I almost didn't recognize you. The woman who fought back that's the one I fell for."
Ayla turned, meeting his eyes cold against fire.
"You didn't fall for her, Damien. You built her cage."
For a moment, silence.
Then he laughed again this time too softly, too bitterly. "Maybe I did. But even birds born in cages forget how to fly."
She stood abruptly, stepping away. "You think you own me, but every time you try to break me, I remember who I am."
He reached for her wrist not to hurt, not yet but to stop her. His touch was a whisper and a warning.
"You think you can walk away?" he said. "After everything I've done to keep you?"
Her voice was steady, her eyes steady. "Watch me."
She pulled free and walked out, her footsteps echoing through the hollow corridors.
Damien didn't follow.
He stood there instead, staring at the empty chair across from him, wine shimmering like blood in the glass.
His reflection in the window smiled back at him calm, composed, terrifying.
"She'll come back," he said to himself.
"She always does."
But deep down, something darker whispered and if she doesn't, I'll make sure the world itself drives her back to me.