THREE WEEKS LATER
The sound of the wave crashing rhythmically filled the silence of Isabella's new life as they whispered against the shore.
She gazed at the endless blue horizon from the window of her small apartment. The warm smell of books going up from the bookstore below, mingled with the smell of the sea.
The magnificent Sinclair mansion was nothing like it. Every time she turned on the faucet, the pipe creaked, the furniture was used and the ceiling low. But she was able to breathe for the first time in years.
No staff watching her every move.
No cold, empty bed waiting for her at night.
No Nolan.
Isabella turned away from the window and tightened her sweater around her shoulder. In a corner, a pile of unpacked boxes taunted her.
Only a suitcase of clothes, a few memory items and the memories she was attempting to forget were all she had brought. She had abandoned golden chandeliers for a single flickering lamp, silk gowns for sweaters from the thrift store.
It should have felt like a downgrade.
However, it didn't.
Although it wasn't as severe as it had been the night she left, the pain in her chest was still there. Like a bruise that no longer aches when touched. It had become dull.
After locking the apartment door behind her, she picked up her bag. As she walked to the bakery, the crisp morning air carried the aroma of fresh bread and salt.
"You're late".
Margaret, the owner of the bakery teasingly said as Isabella crept inside. Her hands were dusted with flour and her eyes were kind; she was in her fifties.
"Only by a minute," Isabella countered, smiling as she tied her apron.
The bakery was tiny but always bustling. It was located on the corner of a street where locals gathered every morning. The bell above the door jingled constantly as customers shuffled in for their coffee and pastries.
Isabella was learning even though she had never worked a day in her life before. Margaret had been patient with her despite the fact that she had once burned the first batch of croissants, spilled coffee on customer's leg and even mixed up orders. But now, three weeks in, she was able to move with ease, smiling as she greeted customers, poured coffee and kneaded dough well.
She noticed her reflection in the glass display case of the bakery while she was rolling out a batch of dough. She had changed appearance. Apart from the faint shadows under her eyes, which were evidence of restless nights, something else had changed.
She looked good in freedom.
Margaret slid a tray of fresh bread into the oven and turned to her. "You look better these days, dear."
Isabella paused, glancing at her. "Do I?"
Margaret used her apron to wipe her hands.
"Mhm", she said. "When you first walked in here, you looked like you were running away from something".
Isabella's chest tightened.
She tried to smile. "Maybe I was just looking for something new."
Margaret agreed, unconvinced.
"Well, whatever it is, you're stronger than you think."
Isabella wanted to believe that.
She really did.
The morning rush picked up, giving her an excuse to bury herself in work. By the time the bakery slowed, her arms ached, and flour dusted her hands. A minor victory was that she hadn't thought about Nolan all morning.
She took a deep breath as she locked up for the day and returned to the street. She felt the gentle embrace of the ocean breeze and for the first time since she had left, she thought…
She might actually be able to start over.
As she climbed up the stairs to her apartment, Isabella massaged her temples. Her body was exhausted from yet another long shift at the bakery, and her legs felt heavier than normal.
She thought that she had been pushing herself too hard. She was always moving, waking up early, and spending late nights staring at the ceiling because she couldn't stop thinking.
It must have been that.
Too exhausted to get out of her clothes, she collapsed onto her bed. Sleep overpowered her as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Until, she was woken by a sudden wave of nausea.
Her stomach twisted violently as she gripped the sink, barely making it to the bathroom. She leaned over the toilet, choking, cold sweat sticking to her skin.
She was shaken and out of breath, but the sickness went away as fast as it had appeared.
She pressed a shivering hand on her forehead, wiped her mouth and leaned against the tiled wall.
Maybe something I ate.
But deep down, something felt off.
The next morning, it happened again.
And the morning after that.
By the fourth day, she couldn't ignore it anymore. The same nausea, the same unbearable dizziness that left her holding the counter for balance. It didn't come at night.
Never during the day.
Always in the morning.
One thought came to her mind and a chill went down her spine.
No.
She shoved the possibility into the back of her mind and pushed it away. It was untrue. It wasn't possible.
She knew, though, as she gripped the bathroom sink and gazed at her pale reflection.
There was a problem.
---
Isabella held the little paper bag in her lap as she sat at the corner of the pharmacy parking lot. Inside, the box felt heavier than it should have.
This time it was fear, not the illness that made her stomach turn. Before she grabbed one, she had passed the test walkway three times. She avoided the cashier's inquisitive look at the check counter by keeping her head down.
She told herself, "They don't know you here." Nobody does.
Now, sitting in her car, she stared at the bag, heart pounding.
She wasn't ready.
But she had to know.
Minutes later, back in her apartment, she sat on the edge of the bathtub, waiting.
The test rested on the counter.
Her face down. She couldn't bring herself to look.
Her fingers curled into her palms. She already knew the answer.
Slowly, she turned it over.
Two pink lines.
A sharp inhale. A rush of blood in her ears. The world moved around her.
She gripped the sink, swallowing hard. No. This can't be happening.
But the proof was right there.
Nolan's child.
The weight of it hit her all at once. She had run, thinking she could escape him. That she could leave that life behind.
But she would never truly be free.
Panic rose in her chest and she began to breathe faster. As if seeking comfort, she put a hand to her stomach, but all she felt was fear.
Then—her phone buzzed.
Her heart leaped to her throat as she flinched. No one ever called her.
Hand trembling, she picked it up. Unknown Number.
Her thumb hovered over the decline button.
Then a message appeared before she could make up her mind.Then, before she could decide, a message popped up.
"You can flee, but you won't be able to hide for a long time. He's already looking for you."
Her blood ran cold.
She hadn't told anyone where she was. She had used cash, changed her number, and left no trace.
And yet… someone had found her.
The wind shook the window, the only answer to her whispered question.
And somewhere far away, in a city where his name still carried power, Nolan Sinclair finally learned that his wife had disappeared.