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.

Ayla Hudson POV:

Home. The word felt like a hollow echo, devoid of any meaning when it came from his lips. This island was my home now, in its raw, untamed beauty. Not the sterile mansion in New York, where every corner held a memory of his casual cruelty.

"Home?" I scoffed, pulling my arm away. "What home, Connor? The one where I played housemaid to you and your mistress? Or the one where I was your convenient public relations prop?" My voice was rough, edged with the two years of silence I had forced myself into. "What do you actually want me to do? Come back and polish your silver? Or perhaps babysit your new baby?"

The memories flashed, sharp and clear. As Connor's fiancée, I had been little more than a glorified servant. I fetched his coffee, arranged his endless social engagements, and, most humiliatingly, cleaned up after his late-night trysts with Ilene. I was the perfect, poised partner, always smiling, always agreeable, while my heart slowly bled out. I watched them laugh, watched them touch, then went about my duties, maintaining the perfect facade he demanded.

I glared at him, my eyes burning. He had no right to ask me to return to that nightmare.

Connor, surprisingly, looked genuinely exasperated. "Don't you ever think about anyone but yourself, Ayla? Do you know what I've been through? The time, the money we spent looking for you!" He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, his frustration palpable, yet entirely self-serving. "My family's reputation was in tatters. The press hounded us. They called me a monster, accused me of abandoning you at sea! Do you know what that did to our stock prices? To my standing in the company?" He paused, taking a breath. "And you? You're out here, playing fisherman, running away from your responsibilities!"

His words were so ridiculously self-centered, so utterly devoid of understanding, I almost laughed. Responsibility? He was talking about saving his own skin.

"I didn't 'run away'," I corrected, my voice dangerously low. "I was washed ashore. You left me for dead."

I turned my back on him, walking away from his self-serving narrative, towards the darkening edge of the island, towards the familiar, comforting roar of the ocean. He didn' t want me back because he cared. He wanted me back because I was a loose end, a stain on his perfect image.

I remembered the day the Foster family found me, a lost, terrified child, barely five years old, orphaned and traumatized after being trafficked and abandoned. They had taken me in, funded my education, molded me into the perfect society wife for their heir, Connor. It was never out of kindness, not truly. My tragic backstory, the "lost child saved by the philanthropic Fosters," had been a PR goldmine, boosting their corporate image, silencing whispers of their ruthless business practices. I was their hidden asset, their silent endorsement.

From a young age, I knew Ilene was the one Connor truly desired. His childhood friend, his confidante. But when she went abroad for college, he turned his attention to me. A convenient distraction, a placeholder. He would hold my hand, offer gentle words, and tell me I was beautiful. I, naive and desperate for love, had actually believed him. I thought he had fallen for me, that I had a place in his heart. The dream lasted until Ilene returned, radiant and sophisticated. That' s when my world shattered, again.

"This island, Connor," I declared, turning to face him, my voice firm, "this is my home now. My real home."

His face contorted in anger. "Don't be ridiculous, Ayla! You're being ungrateful! You belong with us!"

Ayla Hudson POV:

He took a step towards me, ready to continue his tirade, but a faint, rumbling sound stopped him. Ilene. Her stomach was protesting loudly from inside the shack.

Connor's gaze sharpened, and he pointed a finger at me. "Make her something to eat, Ayla. Now. She needs sustenance."

The order grated on me, but I knew arguing was pointless. I stomped to the outdoor kitchen, grabbing a cutting board and a knife. The rhythmic thud of the blade against the wood was loud, each chop a release of my simmering rage. I could still hear Connor's hushed, tender words floating in from the shack, aimed at Ilene, comforting her. The sound twisted my gut.

Disgust washed over me, a bitter bile rising in my throat. I stared at the fresh fish on the wooden block, then at the overflowing trash bin beside it. A dark idea sparked in my mind. My teeth clenched. Without a second thought, I reached into the bin and snatched a fish, its scales dull, its scent faintly putrid. It was yesterday' s catch, neglected, already turning.

I minced it quickly, adding generous amounts of garlic, ginger, and pungent herbs-enough to mask the smell, but not the effect. I cooked it thoroughly, watching as the rancid odor cooked away, replaced by the spicy, aromatic steam. When I presented the plate of heavily seasoned fish stew, it looked perfectly appetizing.

I caught Connor's eye as he spooned a large portion onto his plate, then a smaller one for Ilene. He ate with gusto, complimenting my cooking. I offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. He would pay for that tomorrow. A pang of something, fleeting and unwelcome, hit me when I looked at Ilene's plate. She was pregnant. I couldn't risk harming the baby, even if it was theirs. So, I had made sure her portion was from the fresh fish. My revenge had its limits.

Later, as the night settled around us, Ilene emerged from the shack, her face pale, but her eyes sharp. She found me sitting by the cold ashes of the fire pit.

"You really don't want to let him go, do you?" she accused, her voice low and tight.

I looked up, surprised by her directness. "It's him who doesn't want to let me go," I countered, my voice flat.

Ilene stepped closer, her gaze fixed on me. "When I told him I was pregnant, your hands trembled. I saw it." She paused, a smirk playing on her lips. "You still love him, don't you?"

Her words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My heart, a raw, exposed nerve, pulsed with a pain I tried to deny. I couldn't hear anything else. The world went silent, consumed by the echoing shame of her accusation. Was it true? Was there still a sliver of that foolish girl, that naive Ayla, who clung to the memory of a love that never truly existed?

For two years, every night, I dreamt of the yacht, the cold water, and his face turning away. The dream was a constant reminder, a haunting. It wasn' t love. It was trauma. A wound that refused to heal.

Connor stepped out of the shack then, his eyes finding mine, then Ilene's retreating back. He saw the tension, the raw emotion hanging between us.

"Why, Connor?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, but laced with the full weight of my shattered past. "Why did you give her the life jacket?" The question, dormant for so long, finally broke free. I needed to know. Even if it was just to finally bury the last vestiges of hope. I needed to know, because a part of me, a deeply buried, foolish part, still cared.

He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face, then obscuring it behind a veil of smoke. He took a drag, then exhaled slowly. "Is that what you want to ask, Ayla? If I love you?"

"Do you?" The words ripped from my throat, raw and desperate.

He wouldn't meet my eyes. He stared out at the dark ocean, his jaw tight. "Does it matter?"

"It matters," I whispered, the pain in my chest radiating outwards.

"Come back, Ayla," he said, finally looking at me, his eyes devoid of any emotion. "Come back to New York. I'll always be there. For you."

I let out a bitter laugh, a hollow sound that bounced off the silence of the night. Always there. What a joke. I had been so stupid, so utterly foolish, to think I could ever hear the word "love" from him.

I walked forward, snatching the cigarette from his fingers. Before he could react, I pressed the glowing tip against the base of his neck, right above the collar of his expensive shirt, precisely where a faint, purplish kiss mark from Ilene lingered.

He hissed, a sharp, choked sound of pain.

"You're a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a human being, Connor Foster," I spat, the words a burning release. "A complete bastard."