The villa sat at the edge of a cliff, waves crashing far below. It was beautiful in the way a predator's lair is beautiful—isolated, quiet, and impossible to escape without help.
From the moment they landed, Damien hadn't let Ayla out of his sight. He planned the hours, the meals, the conversations. If she lingered too long near a window, he noticed. If she asked about her phone, his jaw tightened.
By the third day, Ayla felt like her chest was closing in. Her mind kept circling the same desperate truth—if she didn't get a message out, no one would know where she was.
That night, while Damien stepped out to take a call, she spotted her chance. His phone lay on the coffee table, screen glowing faintly. Her own phone was locked in the safe, but his wasn't.
Hands trembling, she grabbed it and scrolled through his contacts, finding no familiar names. So she typed in Leon's number from memory and pressed call.
It rang once. Twice. Then—
"Ayla?" Leon's voice, warm with both relief and confusion. "Is that you?"
She opened her mouth—
The phone was ripped from her hand.
Damien stood there, his expression unreadable for a split second before it twisted into something darker. Without warning, his palm struck her cheek hard enough to send her stumbling into the wall.
"You're never contented, are you?" he hissed, advancing. "I bring you here for us—I buy this villa so we can have our time—and you still try to crawl back to him."
On the other end of the line, Leon froze, the sound of the slap and Damien's voice sharp in his ear. His pulse spiked. She's in danger.
Keeping quiet so Damien wouldn't know, Leon muted his end and sent a quick message to a trusted contact: Track this number. Now.
Back in the villa, Damien's breathing was heavy. "If I can't have you, Ayla…" His voice dropped, dangerous. "…then no one will."
She flinched, pressing back against the wall as his gaze slid toward the fireplace. The flames inside danced lazily, unaware of the madness in the room.
Damien moved with sudden purpose, dragging out a can of lighter fluid from the storage cabinet. "We'll end this together," he said softly, almost tenderly. "No more exes. No more doubts. Just us… forever."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "Damien—please—"
He ignored her, splashing the fluid across the curtains, the rug, the wooden beams above. The sharp, chemical scent filled the air.
Far away, Leon was already in motion, grabbing his jacket, phone pressed to his ear as his contact relayed coordinates. "Hold on, Ayla," he muttered, his voice steel. "I'm coming."
In the villa, Damien struck a match.