Ayla Verne never believed danger could look kind.
But that was before she met Damien Hale.
It began on an ordinary afternoon at the local market.
She was helping an old woman pick fallen oranges off the ground, murmuring soft apologies even though it wasn't her fault. Her dress was plain, her hair tied loosely, and her smile—shy, almost fragile.
And that was the moment Damien saw her.
He had stopped his car nearby, irritated at the crowd, ready to honk. But his gaze caught her—kneeling on the dusty road, helping strangers, thanking the fruit vendor who scolded her for blocking the way.
No makeup. No pretense. No arrogance.
Just quiet obedience. The kind of softness that made him feel powerful simply by watching.
She didn't notice his eyes following her every move.
By the time she disappeared into the narrow lane with her shopping bag, Damien Hale had already decided—
he wanted her.
Not because she was beautiful.
But because she was easy to mold.
A week later, he showed up at her doorstep.
The Vernes were startled when a luxury car stopped outside their modest home. Damien stepped out, perfectly composed, his smile disarming.
"I'm Damien Hale," he introduced himself, shaking her father's hand. "I met your daughter last week. I couldn't forget her."
Ayla froze near the doorway, the grocery bag slipping slightly from her hand.
Her mother's eyes widened. Her father beamed, surprised but impressed by the name. Everyone in town knew the Hales—wealthy, respected, powerful.
Damien was charm incarnate, his tone warm, his posture respectful. He complimented their home, praised Ayla's upbringing, spoke about family values like he truly believed in them.
Every word felt smooth—too smooth.
Ayla sat quietly beside her mother, her heart hammering. She could feel his gaze on her, steady and unblinking.
When their eyes met, something cold slid down her spine.
"Your daughter," Damien said, his voice soft but firm, "has a rare grace. I'd like to ask for her hand—formally."
Her parents were speechless. Then delighted.
A man like Damien Hale, asking for their daughter's hand? It sounded like a dream.
But for Ayla, it felt like a door closing quietly behind her.
She tried to protest later, gently—said it was too sudden, that she barely knew him.
Her mother only smiled. "You'll learn to love him, sweetheart. He's perfect."
And maybe he was.
Too perfect.
That night, as Ayla stood by her window, the street below was quiet. A car idled in the distance, its headlights dimmed.
She couldn't see the man inside, but she felt it—eyes watching, waiting, claiming.
Her phone buzzed.
Damien: You looked lovely today. Don't worry, Ayla. I'll take care of everything from now on.
She stared at the message, uneasy.
Because something in his words didn't sound like comfort.
It sounded like a promise—
and a warning.