Chapter 2

Ayla Hudson POV:

My sarcastic question hung in the salty air, a challenge he ignored. Instead of answering, Connor turned to Ilene, a sickly sweet smile plastered on his face. "This will be perfect for our honeymoon. A quaint place, far from the prying eyes of the city."

I watched, numb, as they discussed their plans as if I wasn't standing right there, as if my life wasn't about to be uprooted again. They had come to our quiet island for a "honeymoon," but I knew the real reason: to drag me back to their gilded cage. He needed me to quell the rumors, to clean up his mess.

"We'll stay here," Connor declared, his gaze sweeping over my small fishing shack-the only home I had known for two years. "It's... rustic."

Ilene looked horrified, her nose wrinkling at the scent of fish and sea salt that clung to everything. "Here? Connor, darling, it smells like... like a fish market exploded in here. My morning sickness can't take this." She clutched her rounded belly dramatically, then bent over, retching loudly into the bushes outside my front door.

I stared at her, a cold knot forming in my stomach. Pregnant. Of course. Another reminder of what I had lost.

"If you don't like it, there's a ferry back to the mainland in an hour," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "No one is forcing you to stay."

Connor' s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Ayla, watch your tone! Ilene is delicate. You always did have a cruel streak, picking on her when she was vulnerable."

His accusation was so absurd, so entirely backward, I almost laughed. It wasn't Ilene who was vulnerable back then. It was me. Always me. But he had rewritten history in his mind, painted me as the villain, and Ilene as the perpetual victim. A part of me hoped Ilene would take my advice and leave, that this nightmare would end as quickly as it began. But that was naive. This was Connor. He never let go until he was done.

"We're staying," Connor said, cutting off Ilene' s faint protests. He walked into my small living area, already taking ownership. He yanked a faded tapestry from the wall, tossing it onto the floor. "This will do." He kicked a stack of my worn books into a corner. He was erasing me, piece by piece.

A bitter wave of resignation washed over me. I moved to straighten the scattered items, my hands trembling slightly. My gaze fell on an old, unopened bottle of lavender perfume on a shelf, a gift from my rescuer, Ethan. He had told me it was to help me sleep, to calm the nightmares. I had never used it, afraid to tamper with the simple scent of the sea that now defined me. But now, with Ilene's theatrical retching and Connor's suffocating presence, I needed something. I uncapped the bottle, the heavy scent filling the small space.

Ilene retched again, a dry, painful sound. Connor rushed to her side, his expression laced with genuine fear. "Ilene? What's wrong? Are you alright?" He stroked her hair, his voice filled with a tenderness I had never heard directed at me.

My heart seized in my chest. Something was truly wrong.

"It's the baby, Connor!" Ilene gasped between heaves, tears streaming down her face. "I think... I think something's wrong!"

Connor's face went pale. "The baby?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Are you... are you pregnant?"

Ilene nodded, sobbing. "Yes! We were going to tell you on our actual honeymoon, but I've been so sick..."

The world tilted. Pregnant. The word echoed in my mind, a cruel, mocking whisper. I instinctively reached for the sturdy wooden table to steady myself, my knees weak. Time, it seemed, had changed everything for them. And nothing for me.

My own memories, sharp and painful, flooded back. Two years ago, on that cursed yacht, I was pregnant too. A tiny, fragile life growing inside me. "Connor," I had whispered, my voice trembling with a hope I hadn't known I possessed. "I'm pregnant."

His reaction then had been a dismissive wave of the hand, his eyes focused on his phone. "Really, Ayla? Now? You know how stressed Ilene is. Her family is going through a difficult time. This isn't fair to her."

Not fair to Ilene. My baby. My hope. He had demanded I terminate it. "Ilene needs me," he had said, his voice cold and unwavering. "Her well-being is paramount. You can have another child later. This isn't the right time."

Then, the accident. The frantic struggle. His hand pushing me away, his voice shouting, "Take the life jacket, Ilene! You're carrying my future!" A sharp kick to my stomach, a desperate attempt to fend off a flailing, panicked Ilene. The searing pain. The blood. The cold, dark water. My baby, gone. All for Ilene. All for his perceived future.

Now, Ilene stood before me, her belly a prominent curve, a symbol of their future, of everything I had been denied. The contrast was a physical blow. I couldn't breathe. I bolted from the shack, tearing through the overgrown grass, away from the suffocating presence of their happiness.

"Ayla! Wait!" Connor' s voice cut through the evening air, surprisingly urgent. He caught up to me easily, his hand on my arm again. "Ayla, come home. Please."

Home. He dared to use that word.