People adored Damien Hale.
He was photographed shaking hands with world leaders, cutting ribbons at children's hospitals, and gracing glossy magazine covers titled "The Perfect Gentleman." When he entered a room, conversations stilled, as if even sound deferred to his presence.
To the world, he was golden.
But to Ayla, he was winter itself—unforgiving, endless, and cold.
---
That morning, the scent of toast lingered in the kitchen. Ayla stood by the counter, carefully plating breakfast. Damien sat at the dining table, the faint glow of his tablet reflecting in his unreadable eyes.
"You burned the toast," he said, his tone flat but sharp enough to cut.
She turned quickly. "I can make it again."
He looked up slowly, as if studying a disappointing detail in a painting.
"Is this the best you can manage, Ayla?"
Her throat tightened. "No, I—"
He slid the plate away, distaste curling his mouth.
"You've had years to master the simplest tasks. Years. And yet failure seems to be the one thing you've perfected."
Her hands trembled, so she clasped them behind her back where he couldn't see.
"I'll do better."
"You always say that," he replied with a sigh heavy with disdain. "I'm beginning to think you enjoy wasting my time."
The silence that followed tasted of ash.
---
By noon, they were seated in a bright downtown café with Damien's business partner and his elegant wife. Damien played the doting husband flawlessly, pulling out Ayla's chair, brushing her shawl over her shoulders when a breeze touched her skin.
"You know," he said with a charming laugh, "Ayla's the reason I haven't gone mad from work. She's my calm in the storm."
The table admired him, as they always did.
Ayla smiled too—her carefully practiced smile, the one that didn't reach her eyes.
No one noticed the way Damien's hand tightened bruisingly on her thigh beneath the table when she accidentally spilled a drop of water.
No one heard his whisper, dipped in venom:
"Do that again, and you'll regret breathing."
Her laugh joined the others at the table, hollow and thin.
---
That evening, the world's "perfect gentleman" returned home and loosened his tie, his expression already cooling.
"You embarrassed me today," he said flatly.
Ayla froze. "What?"
"You looked vacant. Silent. Do you want people to think I married a porcelain doll?"
"I was just…quiet."
"You were pathetic." His words landed like stones. "Next time, try not to make me look like a fool."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. He'd already turned away, dismissing her with silence more punishing than any scream.
---
Later, the bathroom lights stayed off long after her shower. Ayla sat curled on the cold tiles, damp hair clinging to her back, a towel clutched against her chest like it could shield her from words that still echoed.
She tried to remember the last time Damien had touched her with tenderness.
She tried to remember the last time she had looked into the mirror and recognized herself.
But memory failed her.
---
That night in bed, Damien lay scrolling through his phone, his mouth curving faintly at something—or someone—on the screen.
Ayla turned to her side, her voice barely a whisper. "Goodnight."
He didn't answer. He never did.
Her eyes burned in the darkness, but she told herself something she hadn't dared to before:
One day, silence won't be all I have left.