ELENA'S POINT OF VIEW
The morning sun was too bright.
I squinted against it as voices surrounded me. Villagers. Speaking in their language, concerned tones mixed with relief.
Someone draped a blanket over my shoulders. Another pressed a bottle of water into my hands.
"Drink, drink," an older woman urged gently.
I took a sip, my throat raw and dry.
Alex stood a few feet away, talking to one of the men who'd helped search. His shirt was torn, dirt streaked across his arms, and scratches on his face from the jungle.
He looked exhausted.
And he wouldn't look at me.
Not once.
The walk back to the village felt like a funeral procession. Villagers flanked us on both sides, supportive but quiet. I kept my eyes down, shame burning through me.
This was my fault.
People had gotten hurt looking for me. I'd seen the bandage on one young man's arm, the way he winced when he moved.
All because I'd run into the jungle without thinking.
All because I'd heard Alex on the phone and assumed the worst.
The old woman who'd given me water walked beside me. She leaned close and whispered, "Storms reveal hearts, child."
I looked at her, confused.
She just smiled, patted my arm, and walked ahead.
I didn't know what that meant. But the words unsettled me.
When we reached the villa, the staff rushed out, relief on their faces.
"Mrs. Reyes! Thank God you're safe!"
Alex didn't acknowledge any of it. Just walked straight inside, tracking mud across the pristine floors.
I followed slowly, still wrapped in the blanket, still holding the water bottle.
Inside, Alex went directly to the sink. Washed the mud off his hands and arms. His movements were sharp, controlled.
Angry.
Then he turned to me, his face completely blank.
"Pack your things. We're leaving this afternoon."
The words hit me like a slap.
"What?"
"We're leaving."
"But…"
"Pack. Now."
He walked away before I could respond. Disappeared into another room.
I stood there, frozen.
He was ending the honeymoon.
Because of me.
Because I'd caused so much trouble.
My chest felt tight. I wanted to apologize, to explain, but he was already gone.
One of the staff members approached gently. "Mrs. Reyes, let me help you pack."
I nodded numbly and followed her to the bedroom.
While she folded clothes and placed them in my suitcase, I sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing the blanket.
From the other room, I heard Alex's voice. Sharp. Frustrated.
He was on the phone.
From the tone of his voice, and the sharp edge in his words, I knew it was Victoria.
"This was a mistake," he said. "Forcing us here didn't work."
She was expecting us to give her a grandchild. But I ruined everything with my carelessness.
Her voice rang through the speaker, sharp and demanding, loud enough that I caught pieces. "Grandchild." "What happened?"
"I told you," Alex snapped. "You can't force these things. It doesn't work that way."
More arguing.
Then Alex, cold and final: "We're leaving today. The honeymoon is over."
In Alex's eyes, the trip had failed.
He was never in support of this honeymoon to begin with, and now, this was the perfect excuse to end it on his own terms.
Victoria had sent us here hoping we'd create a baby. Hoping the romantic island and forced proximity would make us fall into bed together.
And it hadn't happened.
The staff member noticed my face. "Are you alright, Mrs. Reyes?"
"I'm fine," I whispered.
I wasn't fine.
Nothing was fine.
But there was no point saying so.
An hour later, we were packed. The villa staff carried our luggage to the dock where a sleek boat waited.
I changed into clean clothes, washed my face, and tried to look presentable.
But I felt hollow.
The villagers had gathered at the dock. It was their tradition, apparently, to give respectful farewells to guests.
Children waved. Women smiled. The men who'd helped search nodded respectfully.
I tried to smile back, but my face felt frozen.
Alex stood beside me, stiff and silent.
Then I saw him.
The old man from the festival approached us.
He stood apart from the others, watching us with those knowing eyes.
He walked slowly, his cane tapping against the wooden dock.
"Before you leave," he said, bowing slightly, "may I offer you a blessing? A reading of your palms for protection?"
Alex immediately stepped forward. "That's not necessary…"
"I'd like that," I said quietly.
Alex turned to me, surprised.
I didn't look at him. Just held out my hand to the old man.
He took it gently, his weathered fingers tracing the lines of my palm.
He was quiet for a long moment. His expression shifted from soft to serious.
"You have a beautiful future," he said finally.
I wanted to laugh. Beautiful? Nothing feels beautiful right now.
"But your path..." He traced a line with his finger. "Has many obstacles."
I swallowed hard.
He looked up at me, his eyes kind but sad.
"One of these obstacles stands very close to you."
I didn't dare look at Alex. But I felt him tense beside me.
The old man traced another line. "This one here. See how it splits?"
I nodded, though I couldn't really see what he was pointing at.
"Two paths ahead. One path…" He pressed gently. "You stay wounded forever. You let pain define you."
My throat felt tight.
"The other path…" He pressed a different point. "You choose yourself. You rise stronger than you were."
Tears burned behind my eyes.
"You will be wounded," he said softly. "That is certain. But whether you rise... that is your choice."
He released my hand and bowed.
I stood there, shaking slightly, not knowing what to say.
Then he turned to Alex.
"Your turn."
"No," Alex said immediately.
"Please." The old man's voice was gentle but insistent. "This is my farewell gift."
The villagers were watching. Refusing would be rude, disrespectful.
Alex's jaw clenched. Slowly, reluctantly, he extended his hand.
The old man took it, studying the lines carefully.
His brows furrowed.
Several seconds passed in heavy silence.
Then he spoke, and everyone could hear.
"You are still held by your past."
Alex's eyes flashed with something dark. Anger maybe. Or fear.
"If you do not let go," the old man continued, "your past will destroy your future."
Alex's jaw clenched even tighter.
The old man pressed a specific point on his palm.
Alex flinched. Just slightly. I was the only one close enough to notice.
"You fear losing the wrong person," the old man said quietly. "And you fear becoming someone you once knew."
Alex yanked his hand back.
"You know nothing about me."
The words came out harshly. Cold.
The old man didn't flinch. Just bowed again.
"I know a man running from himself when I see one."
Then he looked at me.
"And I know the woman beside him is paying the price."
The words settled over us like a weight.
No one spoke.
Then the old man stepped back, bowed one final time.
"The future speaks softly. Only those in pain refuse to listen."
Alex turned away sharply, walking toward the boat.
The villagers murmured among themselves as he left.
I stood there, unable to move.
The old woman from earlier approached. She pressed something small into my hand.
I looked down.
A shell. Small and white, smooth on one side, sharp on the other.
"When you feel lost," she whispered, "remember, even shells survive storms."
I closed my fist around it, feeling the sharp edge press into my palm.
"Thank you."
She smiled and walked away.
I turned toward the yacht, where Alex was already seated, staring straight ahead.
The staff loaded the last of our luggage.
It was time to go.
I walked down the dock, climbed onto the yacht, and sat beside Alex.
He didn't acknowledge me.
The engine started. The yacht pulled away from the shore.
I watched the island grow smaller behind us. The villagers waved. The old man still stood there, watching until we disappeared from sight.
I squeezed the shell in my hand. The sharp edge bit into my skin.
Pain.
But I held on anyway.
Alex stared at the horizon, his face unreadable.
We sat side by side, but it felt like miles separated us.
The old man's words echoed in my head.
"One obstacle stands very close to you."
I glanced at Alex. His jaw was still clenched, his hands fisted on his knees.
"You will be wounded... but you will rise stronger."
I looked down at the shell in my palm. A tiny drop of blood where the edge had cut me.
Even shells survive storms.
But at what cost?
The yacht cut through the blue water, taking us back to reality. Back to the mansion. Back to the contract.
Back to a marriage that existed only on paper.
I thought about the old man's reading. About the two paths.
Stay wounded.
Or choose myself.
For the first time since I'd signed that contract, I wondered if choosing myself meant walking away from Alex entirely.
Even if it broke me.
Even if I loved him.
The thought settled in my chest, heavy and painful.
I loved him.
I'd fallen for my own husband.
And he saw me as nothing more than an obligation.
The island disappeared completely behind us.
And with it, any hope I'd been foolish enough to hold onto.
I squeezed the shell tighter.
The pain grounded me.
Reminded me I was still here.
Still breathing.
Still surviving.
Even if I didn't know how much longer I could keep doing it.
Beside me, Alex finally moved. Just slightly. His hand opened and closed, as if he was still feeling where the old man had pressed his palm.
I wondered what he was thinking.
If the words had affected him at all.
Or if he'd already forgotten them.
The yacht engine hummed steadily. Waves splashed against the sides.
And neither of us spoke.
Because there was nothing left to say.
The honeymoon was over.
And so, I think, were we.