Ayla’s POV One of the doctors — a tall, silver haired man, sharp features and a cold clinical expression — gestures toward a high, leather examination table in the center of the sterile room. “Please, sit here, Miss Ayla,” he says, his face completely flat and lacking any warmth. He looks at me, not as a patient, but a specimen to be analyzed under a microscope. I walk over to the table, my legs trembling as I clim up . The paper covering the leather makes a crinkling sound under my weight. I keep my eyes fixed on my lap, focusing strictly on the fabric of my gown, refusing to look at Lucian. But, even without looking, I can feel his heavy gaze burning into the side of my face, watching every single detail. Focus, Ayla. I tell myself, my inner voice overriding the panic. Shut the door. Keep it locked. Do not let them see anything. I shut my eyes for a brief moment, imagining the heavy, iron door in my mind. I slide the bolts into place, throwing the chains into it, locking out
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