A Pawn, A Son, A Forced Marriage

Two years ago, my fiancé, Connor, tossed the only life jacket to his mistress, Ilene, and watched me drown. I was pregnant with his child.

He found me living a quiet life as a fisherman's wife on a remote island, dragged me back to his world, and revealed a shocking truth: our son, the one I thought I'd lost, was alive. He had been raised by them all along.

Connor divorced Ilene and tried to force me into marriage, using our son as a pawn. But the boy he'd raised was a stranger, twisted by his father's cruelty, calling me a "bad woman."

That's when I knew I had to destroy them.

I returned to the island, not as a victim, but as Ayla Garcia, the island chief's long-lost daughter.

"Connor Foster," my father roared, his voice echoing through the hall, "you dared to touch my daughter? Get out of my sight, now!"

He thought he could ruin my life, but he never realized he was trespassing in my kingdom.

Chapter 1

Ayla Hudson POV:

I thought I had buried the past two years ago, along with the girl I used to be. But the past, it seemed, had a way of finding me, even in the quietest corners of Maine.

He stood there, by my fish stand, a stark contrast to the rough fishermen and salty air. His suit looked out of place, too sharp, too expensive for this forgotten town. His eyes, once familiar, were like chips of ice when they landed on me.

"Ayla Hudson," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "I almost thought you were dead."

It was a statement, not a question.

"It's been two years since the yacht accident," he continued, as if discussing the weather. "A long time to be gone."

My stomach clenched. The waves, the dark water, the cold that seeped into my bones. The memory was a dull ache, always there, just beneath the surface. He had looked at me, then at Ilene, and the life jacket had been in his hands for only a second before he tossed it to her. I remembered his face, a mask of calculated indifference, as I slipped beneath the surface. He wasn't just cold; he was a void. A black hole that sucked all the warmth from a room. From my life.

I turned away, reaching for a bucket of ice. "What do you want, Connor?" I asked, my voice as flat as his. "I'm busy."

A hand, soft but firm, gripped my arm. Ilene. She had always been there, a shadow in my life. Now, she was a bright, terrible presence, with a slight roundness to her belly that I couldn' t miss.

"Ayla," Ilene simpered, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Is that really you? You've… changed. So much sun. And those hands. Rough." She looked at my scarred, working hands like they were something dirty.

"Are you even sure it's her, Connor?" Ilene asked, her eyes narrowed. "She looks nothing like the Ayla we knew."

They remembered the Ayla groomed for high society, perfectly polished, a trophy on Connor's arm. This Ayla, smelling of fish and salt, with calloused hands and sun-streaked hair, was a stranger to them. Good.

Connor's gaze lingered on my face for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

I tugged my arm from Ilene's grasp, my heart hammering. I just needed to get away.

Connor's grip was instant, iron-hard on my wrist. "Don't even think about it."

Panic rose in my throat, a bitter taste. He was still the same. Still controlling.

He pulled me closer, his eyes scanning my face, then my neck. His fingers, cold and intrusive, brushed against the collar of my worn shirt. He pulled it down.

The fabric ripped slightly, exposing my shoulder, my collarbone, the curve of my chest to the curious stares of the few customers at the stand. Humiliation burned through me.

Whispers started, a low hum that sounded like buzzing flies. "Who is that?" "What's he doing?" I heard them, every word a fresh sting.

My hand flew up instinctively to cover myself, but Connor's grip was too tight.

"The starburst birthmark," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he were identifying a piece of property. "Just above your left breast."

His eyes, cold and assessing, bore into mine. There was no apology, no remorse. Only a confirmation.

He was doing this on purpose. To strip away my newfound dignity, to remind me of where I came from, of who owed him. It was like a recurring nightmare. Eight years ago, almost to the day, he had done something similar. Proving his ownership. He'd forced me to strip in front of his friends-a "fidelity test," he'd called it. To prove I was "his." The shame had been a physical weight, crushing me.

The last flicker of hope, of any lingering warmth I might have held for the boy he once pretended to be, died a swift, brutal death.

I dropped my hand. What was the point? He already knew. He wanted the world to know, too. I let him look. Let them all look.

The small, star-shaped mark, an innocent splash of pigment, stood out against my skin. It was undeniable. I was Ayla. Their Ayla.

"Satisfied, Connor?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, but laced with enough venom to cut. "Or do you need more proof that I'm still your little charity case?"