Chapter 2 Ayla, you're being overly sensitive again

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 as she quietly cut into her fried eggs.

Footsteps echoed on the grand staircase.

Axel walked down, dressed in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit. He was tapping his Bluetooth earpiece, barking a termination order to someone in HR.

He pulled out the chair opposite Ayla and sat down.

He didn't look at her. He just waited, out of pure habit, for Ayla to stand up and pour his black coffee.

Ayla didn't move a muscle. She took a slow bite of her food.

"The coffee pot is on your right," she said, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

Axel's hand paused on the table. He finally looked at her, his brow furrowing as he picked up on the sudden drop in temperature.

He tapped his earpiece, cutting the call off.

His expression softened into a mask of gentle concern. He watched her closely, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of what she knew. 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. She 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.

Jared walked straight to Ayla and placed a large, iconic orange box on the table right in front of her plate.

Axel leaned back in his chair, a smug, triumphant smile spreading across his face. But his smile didn't quite reach 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.

She lifted the lid. Resting inside the 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.

Ayla pushed the heavy orange box away. It slid across the polished wood.

"I don't need this," she said coldly.

Axel's smile vanished instantly. His jaw clenched.

"Don't be unreasonable, Ayla," he snapped, his patience evaporating. "I don't have time for tantrums."

The sound of high heels clicking sharply against the marble floor interrupted them.

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 even glance at Ayla. She walked straight to Axel, placing a hand on his shoulder. "How did the networking go last night?"

Then, Heda turned her head. Her sharp, critical eyes dragged down Ayla's body, stopping and lingering on Ayla's flat stomach.

"Cancel your charity luncheons this week," Heda ordered, her tone sharp and arrogant. "You are going to the private clinic for a fertility screening."

Heda 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," Ayla said, her voice dropping to a freezing register.

Heda's face turned red. She slammed her hand down on the dining table, making the silverware rattle.

"You ungrateful little brat!" Heda shrieked.

Heda leaned 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. He didn't say a word to his mother.

Instead, 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.

Ayla 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.

Ayla stood up 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," Ayla said, her voice echoing in the large room.

She turned her back on them and walked toward the door.

"Ayla! Get back here!" Axel roared, his voice bouncing off the walls.

Ayla 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 shut, and sped out of the estate gates without looking back in the rearview mirror.