The sound of breaking glass shattered the quiet morning.
Ayla flinched, her hands still halfway to the breakfast tray. The orange juice Damien had been drinking dripped down the marble counter. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white around the cup's remains.
"Who was that on the phone?"
His voice was calm too calm.
"My mother," Ayla said softly. "She wanted to know if"
"I told you," he cut in, smiling without warmth, "your parents shouldn't call during my mornings."
He stepped closer, brushing her cheek with his thumb, the motion so tender it made her chest ache.
Then his grip turned firm. "They distract you from us."
She swallowed hard. "I'll tell her not to."
He released her and walked away, humming under his breath.
As if nothing had happened.
Later that day, when he left for work, Ayla quietly slipped out of the house.
It was just a walk. Fifteen minutes of air that didn't belong to him.
But even that small rebellion felt like sin.
She stopped by a small flower shop on the corner. The woman there smiled and said, "You look like you could use some color."
Ayla smiled faintly. "Maybe you're right."
She picked a single white lily.
When she returned home, she placed it in a vase by her window a small, secret reminder that she still existed beneath the role of Mrs. Hale.
That evening, Damien returned earlier than usual. His expression unreadable.
"I saw your car on the security feed," he said casually, loosening his tie. "You went out."
Ayla's heart skipped. "Just for a walk"
"Without telling me?"
He stepped closer, his tone still soft, dangerous in its calm. "A wife shouldn't have to hide from her husband."
"I didn't hide"
He placed a finger over her lips. "Shh."
The silence stretched. Then, with a slow smile, he said, "Next time, take the driver. It's not safe alone."
Ayla nodded quickly, her pulse racing.
Damien leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.
"I only worry because you're mine."
When he left the room, her hands trembled so hard the vase tipped, the lily bending but not breaking.
That night, Ayla stared out the window, watching the city lights.
Somewhere beyond them, life was happening free, messy, imperfect.
But hers?
Perfect. Controlled. Beautifully suffocating.
And for the first time, she wondered if love was supposed to feel this much like fear.