Morning light streamed through the glass panels, painting the living room in muted gold. The air was calm too calm.
Mrs. Vernes sat by the window, stirring her tea with deliberate grace. Across from her, Damien scanned through the newspaper, his expression unreadable. Ayla moved around the kitchen, silent, careful as though her every movement had to be approved.
"Did you sleep well, Mrs. Vernes?" Damien asked finally, folding the paper. His voice was polite, smooth as silk.
"I did," she replied, smiling faintly. "Though it's difficult to rest in a house where everything feels… rehearsed."
Damien's eyes lifted slowly. "Rehearsed?"
She sipped her tea. "Yes. Perfect smiles, perfect meals, perfect silence. It's all very impressive."
Ayla froze mid-step.
Damien smiled a slow, calculated curve of his lips. "Perfection is a matter of discipline. You'd understand that, being a mother who raised such a well-mannered daughter."
Mrs. Vernes met his gaze without flinching. "Discipline and fear are not the same thing, Mr. Hale."
For a heartbeat, the air between them turned razor-sharp.
Ayla forced a small laugh. "Mama, Damien's just saying"
"I know what he's saying, dear," her mother said softly. Her eyes never left his.
That afternoon, when Damien left for work, Mrs. Vernes walked through the house like someone exploring a museum of secrets.
Everything gleamed every photo, every shelf, every inch too pristine, too lifeless.
No warmth. No trace of Ayla anywhere.
Until she found it in the study.
A single canvas hidden behind a bookshelf. A painting half-finished. The strokes were frantic, desperate, dark.
She touched it gently. Ayla still paints… just in secret.
A door creaked behind her.
"Enjoying the tour?" Damien's voice was low, dangerous.
She turned, smiling with feigned calm. "Your home is… spotless."
He stepped closer, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Some things are better kept hidden, Mrs. Vernes. Especially when they don't belong."
Her smile didn't waver. "Oh, I agree. Secrets have a way of crawling back into the light, though. Don't they?"
He paused — just long enough to betray irritation then walked past her.
"Dinner's at eight," he said flatly. "Try not to be late."
That night, Mrs. Vernes watched her daughter at the table the way she barely spoke, the way she avoided Damien's gaze.
She forced herself to smile, but inside, a plan was forming.
If Damien Hale thought he could control her daughter forever,
he had no idea what kind of war he had just begun.