Ayla sat on the edge of the custom Italian leather sofa in the master bedroom of the Farrell estate. The glow of her laptop screen illuminated her face in the dim room as she scrolled through the PR itinerary for the Farrell Group’s upcoming week, double-checking every interview slot and press release.
Outside the heavy mahogany doors, the distinct, low growl of an Aston Martin engine cut through the quiet Atherton night.
The engine shut off.
Ayla immediately closed her laptop and set it on the glass coffee table. She stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling mirror, smoothing her hands down the sides of her silk nightgown and adjusting the hem until it fell perfectly.
The heavy double doors to the bedroom swung open.
Axel walked in, bringing a rush of cold California night air with him. Ayla let a soft, practiced smile touch her lips and moved toward him, automatically reaching out to take his haute couture suit jacket as he slipped it from his shoulders.
As the heavy fabric settled into her hands, a scent hit her.
It was faint, but unmistakable – a heavy blend of sandalwood and crushed roses.
Ayla’s fingers stiffened against the wool lapels. Her movements stopped completely. She only ever used unscented, medical-grade skincare. She never wore perfume.
Axel didn’t notice her hesitation. He leaned in and pressed a dry, dismissive kiss to her forehead, then pulled back and lifted a hand to rub the bridge of his nose.
“The closed-door meeting with Sequoia Capital was a nightmare,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion. “They never know when to stop talking.”
Ayla swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat and forced her lungs to draw in a breath. She turned away from him and walked into the climate-controlled walk-in closet, carefully hanging the jacket on a cedar hanger.
When she returned to the bedroom, Axel was standing at the edge of the bed. He yanked his silk tie loose with a frustrated sigh and tossed it carelessly onto the Persian rug, then turned his back to her and began unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt, preparing to head into the master bathroom.
The shirt slid off his broad shoulders and dropped to the floor, exposing the tight muscles of his back.
Ayla’s eyes fell naturally on his left shoulder blade.
Her pupils contracted so fast it physically hurt.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her lungs stopped working.
There, stamped vividly across his left shoulder blade, were three dark red, raised scratches. The skin around them was inflamed, the edges slightly broken and bleeding. The spacing between the marks was exactly the width of a woman’s fingernails, and the downward angle and sheer force of the cuts made it impossible to mistake them for an accidental scrape against gym equipment.
Axel turned his head slightly. He caught her staring directly at his back.
For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed in his deep brown eyes.
He moved instantly, grabbing a thick white towel from the bench and wrapping it tightly around his upper body to hide the marks.
“I scraped myself on a loose nail in the sauna at the club,” Axel said. His voice was perfectly steady, completely natural.
Ayla looked at his face – the face that had graced the cover of Time magazine, praised for having the most devoted, honest eyes in Silicon Valley.
Her stomach violently turned over. Acid rushed up her throat.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw anything.
Instead, she forced the muscles in her face to stretch into a stiff, unnatural smile.
“You should be more careful,” she said, her voice sounding as though it belonged to someone else. “Go take your shower.”
Axel nodded and walked into the bathroom. The heavy door clicked shut, and the sound of the rain showerhead turning on echoed through the wall.
The moment the water hit the tiles, Ayla’s knees buckled.
She collapsed onto the edge of the mattress, gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white. Her eyes darted to the nightstand, where Axel’s private phone lay face down on the marble surface.
Her hand was shaking violently as she reached out and picked it up. The metal felt like ice against her palm. She swiped up on the screen and typed in the four-digit passcode – their wedding anniversary.
The screen shook side to side. Passcode Incorrect.
Ayla’s heart plummeted. A wave of physical nausea crashed over her.
He had changed the passcode. A passcode that had remained the same for three years – changed just one week ago.
The rushing water from the bathroom masked the sound of her heavy, ragged breathing.
The perfect illusion of her marriage shattered into a million jagged pieces in her mind. She thought about the countless nights she had stayed awake until three in the morning, drafting flawless press releases to build his image as the ultimate family man.
A hot, blinding anger erupted in her chest, instantly burning away the grief.
She was being played for a fool.
Ayla set the phone back down on the marble nightstand, making sure it rested in the exact same position as before. She stood, her legs no longer shaking, and crossed the room to her mahogany writing desk. She pulled open the bottom drawer and removed a blank white sticky note and a pen.
With steady fingers, she wrote down the phone number of a top-tier divorce attorney she had memorized years ago.
The morning California sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Farrell estate’s dining room.
Ayla sat at the long mahogany table, her face completely blank, quietly cutting into her fried eggs. Footsteps echoed on the grand staircase as Axel walked down, dressed in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit, tapping his Bluetooth earpiece and barking a termination order to someone in HR.
He pulled out the chair opposite Ayla and sat down. He didn’t look at her. Out of pure habit, he simply waited for her to stand and pour his black coffee.
Ayla didn’t move a muscle. She took a slow, deliberate bite of her food.
“The coffee pot is on your right,” she said, her voice flat and devoid of warmth.
Axel’s hand paused on the table. He looked up at her, his brow furrowing as he registered the sudden drop in temperature. He tapped his earpiece, cutting the call.
His expression softened into a mask of gentle concern, his eyes scanning her face carefully. Last night’s panic was gone, replaced by a calculated performance.
“Are you upset because I got home so late last night, sweetheart?”
Ayla slowly raised her eyes and met his gaze with a dead, hollow stare.
“Was the meeting really that important?” she asked.
Axel didn’t blink. “Everything I do is for the Farrell Group’s Nasdaq bell-ringing plan. You know that.”
Before Ayla could respond, the heavy dining room doors swung open. Martha, the head housekeeper, walked in, followed closely by Axel’s executive assistant, Jared.
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