Ashes pile
Six years later, Ayla pulled up to the law firm in her boyfriend's car, ready to report for duty. Inside the office, a tall, striking figure stood with his fiancée and son, a picture of domestic bliss. Ayla, her expression practiced hundreds of times, respectfully offered, "Good morning, Mr. Blake. I'm your new assistant."
At her voice, the man cast a glance her way—cold, distant, the look one gives a stranger. She breathed a silent sigh of relief, her nerves settling.
But then, one night, she jolted awake from a haze, finding herself bound to a large bed. The low, resonant voice that had haunted her dreams for years was now pressed close to her ear.
"This time," he whispered, "it's my turn."
