Chapter 7 Aurelia
AURELIA
The heat here is different from anywhere I’ve ever been. It’s thick and wet, pressing down on everything like a blanket. By midmorning, my clothes stick to my skin, and by afternoon, even sitting still on the balcony feels like effort.
The ocean stretches out endlessly beyond the compound walls, blue-green water that looks beautiful until you remember there’s nowhere to swim to. No escape. Just water and more water, and beyond that, nothing I can reach.
The village is small. Maybe two hundred people total, most of them fishermen who go out before dawn and come back smelling like salt and sweat.
Their boats are painted bright colors—yellow, red, blue—bobbing in the harbor like toys.
The houses are simple, wooden structures with tin roofs that rattle when the wind picks up.
Children run barefoot through dirt roads, and chickens wander freely, pecking at whatever they find.
Helena takes me to the market twice a week. It’s not freedom, but it’s something. A break from the compound walls and the locked bedroom door and the endless hours with nothing to do except think about everything I’ve lost.
The market is in mayhem. Vendors shouting prices for fish, breadfruit, and mangoes. Women haggling over fabric. The smell of frying fish and roti mixing with the salt air. Helena keeps close, her hand occasionally on my arm like a reminder that I’m not here alone, that someone is always watching.
I gave up trying to run three weeks ago.
There’s nowhere to go. The village is tiny, everyone knows everyone, and a pale girl with badly dyed black hair stands out like a wound. Even if I made it past the village, then what? Walk through the jungle until I collapse? Swim across the ocean?
The arranged marriage is dead, which means Victor can’t sell me off anymore. So what am I even running from now?
Nothing. That’s the problem. And I’m not running toward anything either. Just existing in this beautiful prison, waiting for Victor to decide what to do with me.
I meet the Baptiste family on my second trip to the market.
The mother—Marie—is trying to buy rice while her three kids hang off her skirt, and the vendor is shaking his head because she doesn’t have enough money.
The kids are young, maybe five, seven, and nine, all with dark skin and bright eyes and clothes that have been washed so many times the colors are fading.
I watch Marie count out coins twice, her face tight with frustration, and before I can stop myself, I step forward. “I’ll pay the difference,” I say.
Marie looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. Helena’s hand tightens on my arm in warning, but I ignore her. The vendor shrugs, takes my money, and hands Marie the bag of rice.
She stares at me for a long moment, then nods once. “Thank you.” Her voice is soft, accented, and I can see the pride it costs her to accept help from a stranger.
“It’s nothing,” I say.
But it’s the first useful thing I’ve done in a month.
After that, I start watching for them. The Baptistes live in a small house near the edge of the village, close enough to the compound that I can see it from my balcony if I lean over the railing.
The father—Thomas—goes out on one of the fishing boats every morning before sunrise.
Marie works as a house cleaner for wealthier families, and the kids run wild when they’re not in school.
The oldest is a girl named Asha. She’s quiet, serious, with her mother’s eyes and a habit of watching everything like she’s cataloging it for later.
The middle child is a boy named Marcus who never stops moving.
The youngest is another girl, Celine, with a gap-toothed smile, who latches onto anyone who shows her kindness.
I start bringing them things. Nothing big at first. An extra loaf of bread from the compound kitchen. Some fruit that Helena bought, that we won’t eat before it spoils. A bag of rice, when I see Marie counting coins again at the market.
Then it becomes more. Clothes I’m not wearing. Books in English that the kids can’t read yet, but Asha wants to learn from. A toy car for Marcus that I found in one of the compound storage rooms. A doll for Celine with yellow hair and a blue dress.
Helena notices after two weeks. “The pantry is running low,” she says one morning while we’re having breakfast on the balcony. Her tone is carefully neutral, but I can hear the question underneath.
“Is it?”
“We go through food faster than we should. Supplies disappearing.”
I take a sip of my coffee and don’t answer.
Helena sets down her fork and looks me directly in the eye. “I know you’ve been giving things to the Baptiste family.”
“They need it more than we do.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“The point is that we have a budget. The point is that if you keep doing this, we’re going to run out, and then I’ll have to explain to your uncle why his niece is starving herself to feed strangers.”
“I’m not starving.”
“Not yet.”
We stare at each other across the table. The ocean breeze makes the curtains flutter, and somewhere down in the village, I can hear children laughing.
“They have three kids,” I say quietly. “Thomas works fourteen-hour days on the fishing boats and barely makes enough to cover rent. Marie cleans houses for pennies. The kids are hungry, Helena. I can see it in their faces.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not. But I’m not doing anything else.”
Helena’s expression softens slightly. “I’m not saying stop. I’m saying be careful. Your uncle finds out you’re depleting resources to help locals, he’s not going to be pleased.”
“Victor’s never pleased.”
“Fair point.”
She goes back to her breakfast, and I know the conversation is over. She won’t stop me, but she also won’t help. It’s the balance we’ve found in the last month—Helena is kind but firm, sympathetic but loyal to the family first.
I’m okay with that. It’s more than I expected.
The kids start coming by the compound after that.
Not inside—the walls are too high, and the gate is always locked—but they play near it, close enough that I can talk to them through the bars.
Asha brings me shells she finds on the beach.
Marcus shows me a lizard he caught and named George.
Celine sits on the other side of the gate and tells me rambling stories about her day in a mix of English and Bajan Creole that I’m slowly learning to understand.
I look forward to seeing them. It’s the only part of my day that feels real, that doesn’t revolve around waiting for Victor to decide my fate.
One afternoon, Celine gives me a flower. It’s small, white, already wilting in the heat, but she picked it herself and carried it all the way to the compound just to hand it to me through the bars. “For you,” she says, gap-toothed smile bright.
I take it, and something in my chest cracks open. “Thank you,” I manage, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Celine beams and runs off to chase Marcus, who’s stolen her doll and is holding it above his head while she shrieks at him to give it back.
I stand there holding the flower, and I don’t understand why I’m crying. It’s just a flower. Just a kind gesture from a child who doesn’t know anything about me except that I sometimes give her family food. But I can’t stop the tears.
Helena finds me like that ten minutes later, sitting on the ground with my back against the compound wall, face wet, clutching a wilted flower like it’s something precious. She doesn’t say anything, just sits down beside me and waits.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say finally.
“You’re exhausted,” Helena says. “And you’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m crying over a flower.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, but the tears keep coming. Everything suddenly feels too big, too overwhelming. The heat, the isolation, the endless waiting.
“I think I need to lie down,” I say.
Helena helps me up and walks me back inside. The air-conditioning hits like a shock after the humid heat outside, and I’m shivering by the time we reach my room.
“Rest,” Helena says. “I’ll bring you dinner later.”
She leaves, and I collapse onto the bed.
I’m asleep within minutes.
The exhaustion doesn’t go away.
Over the next week, it gets worse. I’m sleeping ten to eleven hours a night and still waking up tired. My body feels heavy, like I’m moving through water. Simple things—walking to the market, sitting on the balcony, talking to the kids through the gate—leave me drained.
Helena notices. Of course she notices. “When’s the last time you had your period?” she asks one morning while we’re having breakfast.
I look up from my plate, where I’ve been pushing eggs around without eating them because the smell makes my stomach turn. “What?”
“Your period. When was it?”
I try to remember. The last one was…before the plane. Before Cassian. Before everything fell apart.
“I don’t know,” I say. “A while ago.”
“How long is a while?”
“I don’t know, Helena. I’ve been a little distracted.”
“You’ve been tired,” she says slowly. “Nauseous in the mornings. Emotional. Your breasts are tender—I’ve seen you wince when you put on your bra.”
“It’s the heat. The stress. Being locked up in this place—”
“Aurelia.”
The way she says my name stops me cold. We stare at each other across the table, and I feel the world start to tilt.
No.
No, that’s not possible.
I count back the days in my head. The plane was six weeks ago. The hotel was six weeks ago. The last time I had my period was…before that. Which means…
No.
Helena stands up and leaves the room. I hear her moving around, opening drawers, rummaging through cabinets. When she comes back, she’s holding a small box.
A pregnancy test.
She sets it on the table in front of me, and I stare at it like it’s a live bomb.
“You need to take this,” Helena says quietly.