TWENTY NINE

TWENTY NINE

Chapter 29

PRESENT DAY

Life on the island had slipped into a dreamlike rhythm. The days felt easy, sun-drenched, and almost too perfect. In just a few weeks, Sophia had blossomed with a kind of fearless confidence—chattering away in Greek now without prompting, much to Nic’s joy. That afternoon, she animatedly described the “big black bird” she’d seen perched atop a coconut tree, her small hands flapping with excitement as she spoke to her father in flawless Greek.

Isabelle watched the scene, a flicker of unease in her chest. Nic, just back from his regular weekend away, nodded distractedly, barely looking up from his phone. His replies were automatic, tired, his mind clearly elsewhere. Every Friday, before dawn, he would take the helicopter back to the mainland for work, returning late Monday night. And every time, he returned more worn down. Though by midweek, he would slowly return to the man they both loved—present, playful, affectionate—until Friday came around again and the cycle began anew.

She was growing genuinely worried. It felt more and more like Nic was overworking himself during the weekends just to free up the rest of the week to be here with them. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t tried bringing it up—she had, more than once. But he always brushed it off with a tired smile and a “I’m fine.”

Tonight was Monday evening, and he looked worse than usual—drained, distracted, hollow-eyed. He didn’t even flinch when Sophia painted his nails in loud streaks of blue, pink, and yellow, proudly calling it her “rainbow papa.” That alone told Isabelle something was deeply off.

As the sky dimmed and the sun dipped below the horizon, Isabelle suggested he stay in and rest. He gave a half-hearted nod, not even looking up from where he sat slumped on the sofa. With a sigh, she took Sophia’s hand and stepped out for a walk along the beach, hoping the sea air might clear her head.

The two of them followed the familiar path, barefoot in the sand, until they settled beneath a swaying coconut tree. Sophia played by the shore, chasing the tide in and out, her laughter soft and tired. After a while, she returned, rubbing her legs and murmuring that they ached. Her usual spark seemed a little dimmer too. Isabelle wrapped an arm around her gently and began the slow walk back, a sense of unease curling in her chest.

“I’m doing the best I can, Mother. For Sophie’s sake, if nothing else… She’s my daughter. And I can’t lose her again. She’s going to stay with me… even if it means—”

Nic’s voice was low and sharp, almost a hiss, his back turned toward them as he spoke into the phone. His whole body was coiled with tension. Isabelle couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but his words struck her like a slap. Ominous and unfinished, they sent a cold sliver of dread crawling through her chest.

Even if it means what?

She didn’t realize she was holding her breath. In her mind, the sentence finished itself—Even if it means staying with that hateful, cheating slut. She was braced for it, already clutching her arms around herself as if to shield from the blow.

But he didn’t say it.

He said nothing more.

She stared down at her feet, unsure what hurt more—the silence or the words he hadn’t spoken aloud. But she was certain he meant them. And that was enough.

This was her worst fear playing out in real time. For three long years, Nic had believed she was the woman he’d once found in bed with another man. Three years of distance, of silence, of judgment. And now, even here—on this quiet, beautiful island—he was still carrying that image with him. Still condemning her for something she hadn’t done.

She liked to pretend it didn’t matter anymore. That she’d moved on. But the truth was, it mattered deeply. It mattered too much. And the weight of it was starting to hurt.

Quietly, Isabelle stepped away from the door.

He came out a few minutes later—no smile, no explanation. Just silence. Cold and clipped. His face was blank, his eyes distant, his movements sharp with irritation.

There were no words to soften what she’d overheard, no attempt to explain that the conversation had meant something else. Just a hollow, muttered goodbye and a growing weight in Isabelle’s chest—tight, suffocating, unfamiliar.

He glanced at her briefly, distracted. “Don’t wait for me. I have to go back to Greece. There’s an emergency.”

He didn’t even look at Sophia. Didn’t pause. He moved like a machine toward his office, already grabbing the half-packed bag he always kept ready for his weekend flights.

“But… you just got back from Greece,” Isabelle said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She wasn’t even sure why she cared. His was the last face she wanted to see right now. And yet, she couldn’t stand the thought of him walking away again. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

He didn’t turn around. Just stood there, hunched over his desk. “It’s a deal,” he said quietly, reaching for his laptop. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”

But the more he spoke, the more it scraped at her, raw and unhealed.

“You’re always tired,” she snapped, unable to hold back anymore. “This flying back and forth—it’s too much. Just wait ten minutes. I’ll pack for Sophie and me too. We’ll come with you.”

She didn’t know if she meant it. But she meant something. Anything to break this strange, hollow rhythm they’d fallen into.

She looked out the window. The coconut trees, the golden shoreline, the sunsets that had once felt like paradise now seemed lifeless and gray. All the beauty in the world couldn’t disguise the truth anymore.

Reality had finally pierced the dream—and its sting was venomous.

She wanted out.

“No!”

His voice cracked through the air, sharper than she'd expected—firm, unyielding. Isabelle froze where she stood.

“Not right now. You both need to stay here while I handle this.”

There was no room for debate in his tone, no softness left in it. Isabelle blinked at him, trying to understand.

“What is going on, Nic? Why can’t we come with you?” she asked, her voice rising with confusion and hurt.

“I told you—it’s an emergency. I’ll be back soon.”

And just like that, he was gone. Out the door, down the path, and within minutes the rhythmic thump of helicopter blades roared overhead. Isabelle stood beside Sophie by the window, watching the aircraft rise into the darkening sky. Her daughter waved eagerly, her little hand pressed to the glass.

Isabelle stared after it, silently willing him to look back. Please let him be looking. Please let him be waving back. Otherwise… What had all the sacrifices been for? The lost years, the bruised pride, the lonely waiting?

But the night didn’t end there.

It got worse.

Sophie, who had earlier been complaining about aching legs, was now lying curled on the sofa, her small body flushed and trembling. Her head throbbed, her limbs hurt, and soon she was burning with fever.

Isabelle tried everything—cold compresses, water, even a children’s painkiller—but nothing seemed to help. Two hours passed in a blur of worry, her heart pounding as Sophie whimpered in her sleep.

Panicked, she reached for her phone and called Nic.

No answer.

She tried again. Still nothing.

With her hands shaking, she finally left a voice message. “Nic, it’s me. Please call me back as soon as you can. Sophie’s sick. It came on fast—she’s burning up. I don’t know what to do.”

She hung up and stared at the phone, hoping it would ring. But the silence pressed in around her like a wall. By 9 p.m., Sophie was nearly unconscious. Her skin burned to the touch, her fever climbing past 103°F, and her breathing had grown shallow. Isabelle had called Nic over and over again—dozens of times—left voice messages, texts, frantic pleas. But nothing. Not a single reply.

Panic clawed at her chest. She was alone in a foreign land, with no nearby pharmacy, no hospital, no doctor—no one she could trust or even speak to properly. Her hands trembling, she finally did the only thing she could think of.

She ran to find the fisherman and his wife—the kind couple who cooked, cleaned, and cared for the villa grounds. When they opened the door, one look at Isabelle’s tear-streaked face and the limp child in her arms told them everything.

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Can someone take us to the city? I need a hospital—now.”

The man didn’t hesitate. He nodded sharply, already grabbing his coat. “I’ll bring the boat around.”

His wife stepped forward, calm and composed, taking Sophie gently from Isabelle’s arms. “Tha kratáo to koritsí,” she said softly—I’ll hold the little girl. She moved with quiet efficiency, locking the villa doors, checking the windows, as if this were second nature to her.

Within minutes, they were on the small fishing boat, rocking gently under the dark sky, the engine sputtering to life. Isabelle sat huddled beside the woman, clutching Sophie’s hand, silently willing her daughter to hold on. The night air stung her cheeks, and the sea stretched out around them—endless, cold, and terrifying.

But at least they were moving. At least she wasn’t waiting anymore.

Isabelle had once believed that no night could be worse than that night—the one etched into her soul like a scar. The night she had woken to find her husband standing over her, his face carved with disbelief and disgust, as if he would’ve preferred to find her dead rather than in another man’s arms. The shame of that moment had nearly broken her.

But tonight, even that memory seemed to pale in comparison.

By the time the small taxi boat pulled into the quiet harbor near the port, Sophie’s fever had climbed dangerously close to 104°F. Isabelle held her limp daughter tightly, her arms aching, her heart racing in panic.

Vasilis—the great, stoic fisherman—was right behind her, carrying the bag of essentials they’d managed to grab in the rush. Beside him, Eleni moved swiftly and silently, her face tight with worry, never straying far from Isabelle’s side.

They hurried toward the small hospital, its weathered white walls glowing faintly under the dock lights, a fragile beacon in the darkness. Isabelle clutched Sophie closer, praying—pleading—that help was just a few steps away.

An hour and a half later, the doctor returned with the test results. “It’s the flu,” he said gently. “Quite common this time of year.”

He offered a reassuring smile as he handed over the prescription. “A short course of antivirals and plenty of rest—she’ll be just fine.” His tone was warm, carefully measured, the kind reserved for frightened parents. Isabelle nodded, clutching the paper like it was a lifeline.

Sophie was resting now, curled up beneath a thin hospital blanket, her forehead still warm but no longer burning.

For the hundredth time that night, Isabelle reached for her phone and called Nic.

Still no answer. The line was dead. His phone was switched off.

Grinding her teeth, she dialed his assistant next. The call connected—but all she could hear was noise. Loud music, bursts of laughter, cheering. It sounded like a party. Isabelle tried to speak, to ask where Nic was, but the young woman on the other end couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear her.

Frustrated beyond words, Isabelle ended the call.

She sank down on a hard plastic bench outside the room, her body still running on the adrenaline of the last few hours. Now that the worst had passed, her limbs felt like lead, her nerves fried, her thoughts scrambled. But beneath it all, the numbness had started to creep in—thick and heavy.

Nic was unreachable. And she was exhausted from trying to reach him.

About half an hour later, Sophia stirred, groggy and pale but no longer burning. Her fevered eyes blinked slowly in the dim hospital light as she looked up at her mother.

“Where’s Papa?” she asked softly.

The question hit like a punch to the chest. Even in her delirium, even pumped full of antibiotics and barely awake, her daughter’s first thought was of him. It was devastating to realize that, just like Isabelle, Sophia too had been carrying quiet fears and insecurities.

“Is he coming for my birthday?” she mumbled.

A nurse nearby gave Isabelle a gentle look. “She’s just delirious, speaking nonsense. Don’t pay it any mind.”