Jared walked directly to Ayla and placed a large, iconic orange box on the table in front of her plate.
Axel leaned back in his chair, a smug, triumphant smile spreading across his face – though it never quite reached his eyes, which remained fixed on her, searching.
“Open it. A peace offering.”
Ayla stared at the box. She reached out and pulled the brown ribbon loose, then lifted the lid. Resting inside a velvet dust bag was a Himalayan crocodile Birkin bag – one of the rarest bags on the planet.
“I had my New York office pull it from a private auction before it even went public,” Axel said, his tone dripping with self-satisfaction.
Ayla looked down at the bag. It cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Her chest tightened with a sickening sense of humiliation. He was treating her like a pet, throwing an expensive toy at her to keep her quiet and obedient.
She pushed the orange box away. It slid across the polished wood.
“I don’t need this,” she said coldly.
Axel’s smile vanished. His jaw clenched.
“Don’t be unreasonable, Ayla,” he snapped, his patience evaporating. “I don’t have time for tantrums.”
The sharp click of high heels against marble cut through the tension. The main doors opened wider, and Axel’s mother, Heda, marched into the dining room flanked by two of her own assistants.
Heda didn’t glance at Ayla. She walked straight to Axel and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How did the networking go last night?”
Then she turned her head. Her sharp, critical eyes dragged slowly down Ayla’s body, stopping to linger on her flat stomach.
“Cancel your charity luncheons this week,” Heda ordered, her tone arrogant and unyielding. “You are going to the private clinic for a fertility screening.”
She crossed her arms. “The Farrell family trust requires an heir with blue-blood genetics to stabilize the board of directors before the IPO.”
Ayla’s fingers tightened around the handle of her butter knife. The metal dug into her palm.
“I have no intention of having a child right now,” she said, her voice dropping to a freezing register.
Heda’s face turned red. She slammed her hand down on the dining table, sending the silverware rattling.
“You ungrateful little brat!” Heda shrieked, leaning forward, her eyes filled with pure venom. “You are a fake heiress. You were thrown out of the Joyce family like trash. You have no background, no bloodline, and no value. You are a defective product we took pity on!”
Ayla whipped her head toward Axel.
For three years, he had always stepped in. He had always played the protector when his mother crossed the line.
Axel looked down at his coffee cup and said nothing.
Then he looked up at Ayla and sighed. “Ayla, you’re being overly sensitive again. Stop making my mother uncomfortable. Just apologize.”
The gaslighting hit her like a physical blow to the chest.
She looked at the two of them – the mother who saw her as a breeding mare, and the cheating husband who used her as a human shield. The last microscopic thread of attachment in her heart snapped clean.
Ayla stood so fast her heavy wooden chair scraped loudly against the floor. Her movements were sharp, decisive, and completely devoid of hesitation.
“Save the Farrell family throne for someone else to inherit,” she said, her voice echoing through the room.
She turned her back on them and walked toward the door.
“Ayla! Get back here!” Axel roared, his voice bouncing off the walls.
She didn’t stop. She walked straight out the front doors, down the steps, and into the garage. She climbed into her Porsche 911, slammed the door, and sped out through the estate gates without once glancing in the rearview mirror.
Ayla sat in the driver’s seat of her parked Porsche, fingers hovering over the steering wheel. She had just dialed her best friend Chloe’s number when a text message appeared on her screen.
It was from Axel.
If you don’t show up to the Silicon Valley Innovation Summit tonight, I will freeze every credit card and trust account tied to your name within sixty seconds.
Ayla stared at the glowing words. Her breathing hitched.
She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She needed cash to hire a ruthless divorce lawyer. If he cut her off now, she would be completely paralyzed.
She shifted the car into drive and forced herself to turn toward San Francisco.
By evening, Ayla stepped out of a black town car in front of the Moscone Center. She wore a minimalist, custom-tailored black evening gown that clung to her curves, looking every bit the untouchable billionaire’s wife.
Axel was already waiting at the entrance of the VIP red carpet lane. The moment he saw her, his face transformed. The angry tyrant from that morning vanished, replaced by a mask of overwhelming, practiced devotion.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arm around her waist. His fingers dug into her ribs so hard a sharp pain shot up her spine.
“Smile,” Axel whispered directly into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Don’t you dare ruin the company’s stock rating for next week.”
The heavy double doors swung open. A wall of blinding camera flashes exploded in their faces as reporters screamed their names.
Ayla’s expression shifted instantly. She flashed the flawless, untouchable smile she had spent years perfecting as a top-tier PR strategist.
Axel stopped in the middle of the red carpet and reached into his tuxedo pocket, producing a custom velvet Cartier jewelry box. A collective gasp rippled through the press line. He opened the box, lifted out a blinding, multi-million-dollar diamond necklace, and stepped behind Ayla to fasten it around her neck.
The cameras fired like machine guns. Reporters shouted praises about the Farrell CEO’s legendary devotion to his wife.
Axel leaned in and kissed her cheek. Ayla smiled for the lenses while her stomach cramped with nausea.
They moved off the carpet and into the massive, glittering ballroom. Within seconds, Axel was swarmed by a group of Wall Street investors.
Ayla immediately stepped back, retreating into the shadows along the edge of the room. She lifted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and watched Axel work the crowd.
Then she noticed it.
A faint vibration buzzed in the breast pocket of Axel’s tuxedo. He pulled out his private phone, glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted. His eyes darkened with a specific kind of hunger.
He offered the investors a quick, charming apology, then turned and walked briskly toward the staff corridors at the back of the venue.
Ayla set her champagne glass down on a high-top table.
She knew the layout of the Moscone Center perfectly. She had designed the PR security routes for this exact event.
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