They were flawless—at least in photographs.
That week, their smiles graced the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine. Ayla wore satin cream, Damien a sharp black suit. They looked radiant, hands intertwined, happiness painted like it belonged to them.
In bold gold print beneath:
"The Hales: Power, Passion, and Perfect Balance."
Perfect.
The word lodged bitterly on Ayla's tongue, metallic and sharp.
---
The evening after the magazine launch, the Hale estate gleamed with guests. Crystal glasses clinked, laughter rose in elegant bursts, and soft jazz threaded through the chatter.
"Your wife is stunning, Damien," someone remarked. "So graceful."
Damien laughed, his arm slipping around Ayla's waist. The doting husband, flawless as always.
"She's the reason this house doesn't fall apart."
Ayla tilted her head, let the camera flashes find her angles, her smile polished into submission.
No one saw her flinch when Damien leaned in, teeth barely parting as he hissed:
"Fix your posture. You're slouching like a servant."
Her back straightened instantly.
Applause followed Damien's witty toast, champagne glasses rising in admiration.
No one noticed Ayla's glass remained untouched.
---
When the guests were gone, silence settled into the house. Empty glasses and plates littered the room like remnants of a performance.
"I'll clean up," Ayla murmured.
Damien, swirling scotch at the bar, didn't look at her.
"Good. That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
Her lips pressed together.
"I give you everything—money, clothes, respect. All I ask is a little grace and obedience. And even that seems too much for you."
Her fists tightened at her sides, nails biting into her palms. But she stayed silent.
---
He stepped closer, voice dipping low.
"You embarrassed me tonight. Marcel's wife asked if you were unwell. You looked vacant."
"I was only tired…"
"Then rest. Fix your face. Learn how to act."
His words scraped her raw, and then he walked away, leaving her hollow in the hallway light.
---
That night, Ayla sat before her vanity.
The mirror did not show her—it showed a role. A painted wife in flawless makeup, drilled in the art of nods and smiles.
She removed her earrings, the diamond studs Damien had given her on their second anniversary—back when his touch was tender, not corrective.
Now, his hands adjusted her hair, straightened her sleeves, pressed her into place like a doll.
He didn't kiss her.
He didn't ask how she was.
She wondered if he even remembered the color of her eyes.
---
And yet, every morning, Ayla rose before him. She brewed his coffee, pressed his suits, kissed his cheek even when he pulled away.
Because if she didn't uphold the illusion of perfection, the fragile structure of her life might shatter—
and she wasn't sure if she would survive the collapse.