The warmth of the blanket cocooned Ayla in a fragile sense of safety, the scent of something faintly unfamiliar but strangely comforting lingering in the fabric. She had barely drifted into sleep when the sharp chime of the doorbell shattered the quiet.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. A jolt of panic shot through her, her heart slamming against her ribs as she struggled to orient herself. The dim memories of last night rushed back—Silas, his apartment, the way he had let her stay without question.
For a split second, she almost believed she was still safe.
But then the doorbell rang again, urgent and demanding.
Her stomach twisted.
Ayla turned toward Silas, watching as he exhaled sharply before moving toward the door. His expression was unreadable, but there was a sharpness in his movements, an edge to his normally impassive demeanor.
Without thinking, she moved.
Her body carried her toward him on instinct, as if drawn by an invisible force. And then—before she could stop herself—she stepped behind him, her fingers gripping the back of his sleeve lightly. Not enough to hold him back, but just enough to ground herself.
She already knew who was on the other side.
When Silas finally pulled the door open, the sight that greeted her was enough to make the breath in her lungs turn to ice.
A dozen men stood in the hallway, their presence suffocating. But it was the man in the center who made her feel as though the walls were closing in.
Her father.
His sharp features were carved from stone, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping past Silas to land directly on her. His pristine suit was immaculate as always, not a single hair out of place, as if he had walked straight out of a boardroom. The only thing betraying his tightly controlled fury was the way his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
"Ayla," he said, his voice clipped, devoid of warmth.
Her stomach twisted violently, bile rising in her throat.
She didn't move.
She wanted to say something, to find words that would put an end to this, but her throat felt tight, as if invisible hands were strangling the air from her lungs.
"I said—"
"I'm not going back," she whispered, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice. But despite the fear coursing through her veins, there was steel beneath the words.
A flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—flashed in her father's eyes. Her cousin beside him, a person who always follows her dad's footsteps, let out a derisive scoff.
"Who's this guy?" Richard sneered, nodding toward Silas. "Your man? Didn't even wait for the wedding to be over before running to someone else?"
Heat prickled beneath Ayla's skin.
Before she could respond, her father cut in.
"Enough nonsense," Ray said, his tone brooking no argument. "Ayla, you have responsibilities. Do you think running away will change anything? You are my daughter. You will come back home."
Something inside her snapped.
A bitter laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. It was sharp, humorless, filled with a kind of quiet rage that had been brewing for years.
"Daughter?" she repeated, the word foreign on her tongue.
For the first time since he had arrived, she stepped out from behind Silas.
Her father's eyes darkened.
"I don't have a father," she said, her voice calm, almost eerily so.
A murmur rippled through the bodyguards behind him. The air felt thick, charged with a tension that crackled like an impending storm.
Her father's jaw tightened. "Mind your words, girl."
"Or what?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "You'll drag me back? Lock me up again? Make decisions for me like you always have?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"I gave you everything," he bit out.
"No," Ayla said, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. "You gave me money. You threw a few bills at me every month and called it responsibility. But you never cared. And now, when I refuse to be your pawn, you suddenly remember you're my father?"
Something ugly flashed across Ray's face.
"Ungrateful," he spat. "Everything you have is because of me."
Ayla's lips curled in disgust.
"Everything I have?" she murmured, reaching into her hidden pocket.
She pulled out a sleek black card.
Every cent he had ever given her, untouched. Yes, her mother raised her alone. She never let her took a single cent.
Stepping forward, she held it out to him, her grip steady.
"This is every cent you ever gave me," she said, her voice cold. " My mum raised me! She never let me touch this money you sent as responsibility."
A flicker of shock crossed his face before he schooled his features back into indifference.
"I don't owe you anything," she continued. "You don't get to call yourself my father. You never were."
And that was when her cousin moved.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
One second, Richard was standing there, smirking. The next, he lunged.
"Shut up, you dare to argue with uncle cause of a man! Let's see if I teach him a lesson today. "
Ayla barely had time to react before his fist swung toward Silas.
But she didn't think. She moved.
With a speed she hadn't known she possessed, she stepped in front of Silas, intercepting the attack.
Her cousin froze.
His fist hovered mere inches from her face.
She didn't flinch.
She stared him down, her rage burning hotter than the fear that had once controlled her.
" You dare, " she said, her voice low, steady.
The air went still.
The men behind her father exchanged uneasy glances.
Her father, however, was seething.
"Ayla, you've forgotten your place," he hissed.
"No." She turned back to him, her gaze unwavering. "I finally know my place."
Then, before she could register the movement—
His hand shot out.
The slap came fast, hard, and merciless.
Pain exploded across her face, a sharp, burning sting that radiated down to her jaw. The sheer force of it sent her stumbling backward.
Straight into Silas.
His arms caught her instinctively, steadying her.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Then—
The sharp tang of blood filled her mouth.
A thin trail of red slipped from her split lip, warm and metallic against her tongue.
Silas hadn't moved.
Hadn't spoken.
But when she turned her head slightly, she saw his face.
And the look in his eyes made something cold crawl down her spine.
Her father must have seen it too, because for the first time, he took a step back.
Silas said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The sheer weight of his silence was enough.
Then, Ayla moved.
Slowly, she pushed away from Silas and turned back to face her father.
This time, there was no fear.
No rage.
Just a chilling emptiness.
"You can leave now," she said quietly.
Ray scoffed. "And what? You think this man will protect you?"
Ayla smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't soft.
It was cruel.
"I don't need protection," she whispered.
Then, she took the black card and threw it at his feet.
"This is the last thing you'll ever take from me," she said. "Get out."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then, one by one, they left.
When the door finally clicked shut, Ayla exhaled, her body sagging slightly.
She wasn't crying.
But when she turned back to Silas, she saw something in his eyes that made her chest tighten.
Because for the first time—
She realized he had seen everything.
And for some reason, that unsettled her more than anything else.