A Pawn, A Son, A Forced Marriage

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."