Aisha

I sat in my office on the tenth floor, elbows propped on my mahogany desk. My face rested heavily in one hand as I stared blankly ahead, lost in thought. It had been exactly one month since returning from Japan, haunted by memories of that phantom island and the last time I saw Ian.

I had tried moving forward one day at a time, clinging to the hope that time would eventually restore me to my old self and allow me to relegate thoughts of Ian to some distant corner of my mind. But there hadn’t been a single day when he didn’t surface in my thoughts. The memories of our time on that island remained vivid—the fierce passion of our love, the profound connection we shared. It wasn’t mere infatuation; it was genuine love, solidified by countless moments when he watched over me—building fires during cold nights, tending to my wounds when I was injured. And then there was the undeniable gratitude in his eyes after I rescued him from that bear trap.

I found myself smiling unconsciously as the memories surged forward, each one so vivid it felt as though I were living through them again. Shaking my head, I murmured to myself, “It wasn’t real—none of that truly happened.” Yet even if those events had been illusions, our love had been undeniable; that was the truth the celestial being had sought to impart.

I heard a knock at the door which brought me back to the present. “Come in,” I called out. Simon hesitantly opened it, peeking in. He was one of our junior marketers, and his voice trembled slightly as he asked, “Do you have a moment, Mrs Johnson?” I knew why he was so apprehensive—I had treated him harshly before, convinced he was just another privileged white boy who’d landed this job through family connections rather than merit.

Poor guy, his eyes darted nervously as he hovered at the threshold. “Come in Simon,” I said, doing my best to soften my tone. He offered a tight smile and stepped inside cautiously. With a wave of my hand, I invited him to take a seat. He settled into the chair slowly, clearly still on edge. “What can I do for you?” I asked, forcing a lightness into my voice so he wouldn’t feel intimidated by me. Simon’s words stumbled out in fragments as he explained, “It’s about the Henderson case... I… I needed some help.”

I hadn’t fully grasped how much my behavior affected him until that moment. My earlier prejudices had blinded me, preventing me from recognizing the genuine person beneath my assumptions. Simon was simply a kind-hearted young man doing his best in challenging circumstances, and I discovered that he had earned his position—his parents’ minimal involvement hadn’t overshadowed his accomplishments. We discussed the assistance he needed regarding a specific client matter, and after working through it together, I noticed a subtle shift; he seemed slightly more at ease in my presence.

As he rose to depart, Simon paused at the doorway. “Mrs. Johnson?” I glanced up from my desk, meeting his hesitant gaze. He lowered his eyes briefly before softly adding, “I like what you did with your hair.” The unexpected praise brought a warm flutter to my chest. My fingers instinctively grazed the loose curls framing my face—a reminder of that intimate moment on the island when Ian had carefully undone my braids. “Thank you Simon,” I replied, genuinely moved by his kindness. He gave a small nod and a shy smile before stepping out of the office. His simple words truly lifted my spirits that afternoon.

My mind drifted to Dominic, my sweet five-year-old boy. I recalled the day I took him to the safari park I had promised—a cherished memory that still warmed my heart. Though Marcus had initially been reluctant to join us, he eventually agreed to come along. As we rode through the simulated jungle in a jeep-style vehicle, Marcus remained uncharacteristically subdued; he never quite embraced the experience, frequently interjecting negative remarks and inexplicably steering conversations toward race—an unnecessary distraction from the majestic wildlife surrounding us.

I understood Marcus’s frustrations; I couldn’t blame him. When he reached for intimacy, I often retreated behind excuses—fatigue, stress, headaches—all the familiar shields I wielded to keep him at bay.

How much longer could I sustain this distance? Marcus was a man—he deserved affection. Yet the truth remained: summoning genuine desire felt nearly impossible.

As I arrived home that evening, I found Marcus and Dominic in the living room. My son came running toward me with his usual exuberance, and I opened my arms wide to catch him. His small body pressed warmly into mine as I held him close—the sight of his bright, smiling face never failed to lift my spirits. Meanwhile, Marcus rose from the sofa and asked softly, “I’ve prepared some food; are you hungry?” Surprised by this unexpected gesture, I glanced at him skeptically. “You did? What, leftovers?” He shook his head gently. “No, baby,” he explained with a proud smile, “I prepared something special just for you.” For a moment I simply stared in disbelief—Marcus cooking for me? The idea seemed almost too good to be true.

My skepticism melted away as Marcus led me to the kitchen table, where two plates were set with care. The aroma of rich spices filled the air, and I recognized the unmistakable scent of curry goat—a dish I hadn’t tasted in years, not since my last visit to Jamaica. He’d even prepared steamed callaloo on the side, its vibrant green leaves a familiar comfort. “I thought you might enjoy a taste of home,” he said softly. In that moment, the weight of my guarded heart eased ever so slightly.

We settled at the small dining table, exchanging few words as we ate. Yet each morsel held its own language—a silent dialogue woven between us. The succulent meat yielded effortlessly beneath my fork, its rich flavors whispering of affection and care.

As I began to compliment the meal, he cut in with a playful grin. “Your husband has some surprises up his sleeve, you know—I’m usually just a lazy ass.” I laughed softly at his teasing remark before adding sincerely, “Thank you, baby—it’s perfect.” He simply smiled and gave a nod of acknowledgment.

After putting Dominic to bed, I settled on the sofa beside Marcus, leaving a careful gap between us. He shifted closer and draped an arm around my shoulder. I offered a wry smile as he leaned in, his lips brushing the curve of my neck with tender kisses. “I’ve missed you, baby,” he murmured between caresses. My eyes flickered with emotions I fought to conceal; allowing him back in felt terrifyingly vulnerable, though every part of me yearned for it—he truly deserved my effort. Tonight, I resolved to be the wife he needed me to be.

I returned his kisses with growing fervor, our lips melding as his became more insistent. Between heated breaths he whispered, “Let’s go to the bedroom.” I met his gaze and gave a quiet nod of agreement. Rising together, his arm encircling my waist protectively.

Once inside, there was no hesitation—his hands were already tugging at my clothes, kissing me with urgent force that bordered on rough. As garments fell away and skin met skin, I lay back on the cool sheets, feeling the warmth of his naked body pressing against mine.

We kissed with mounting urgency, my body trembling as I tried to relax into the moment. Marcus positioned himself between my parted thighs, the tip of his cock pressing against my slick entrance. With a slow, deliberate push, he slid deep inside my pussy. I gasped softly at the initial stretch, a flicker of discomfort giving way to building need. He began rocking forward with measured thrusts, his breath hot against my skin as he groaned, “I missed this pussy, baby.” His pace quickened—each drive harder and more insistent than the last—and I clung to him tightly, my arms wrapped around his muscular back as he took me with raw hunger.

The bed shook violently beneath us with each forceful thrust, a sharp pain shooting through me as I winced involuntarily. This wasn’t how I remembered our intimacy—never so harsh, never so unyielding. His breathing grew ragged against my neck, his words rough and unfamiliar as he drove deeper. “Marcus,” I pleaded softly, trying to steady myself against his aggressive rhythm, but my voice seemed lost beneath the urgent pounding of flesh against flesh.

Marcus groaned and gritted his teeth as he thrust into me harder than before one last time. I shrieked at the sudden impact, my eyes snapping shut as his cock drove deep inside my pussy. He came heavily, his limp body collapsing on top of me with heavy breaths before rolling off to lie beside me. My own breath came in short gasps; I hadn’t climaxed, and for reasons I couldn’t quite name, everything about this felt wrong. Yet I had yielded to him because I believed it was my duty as his wife.

Marcus lay spent beside me, his chest still heaving with uneven breaths. No tender kiss brushed my cheek, no whispered endearments reached my ears—only the heavy silence of his satisfaction. I slipped away quietly, the cool air of the bathroom enveloping me as I stared at my reflection. In the glass, I didn’t see a lover basking in shared passion; I saw someone hollowed out by violation. My hands trembled uncontrollably. Why did this feel like betrayal? He’s my husband.

Over those following days, I buried myself in work, trying to escape the lingering unease. The encounter with Marcus had left a bitter residue; instead of drawing us nearer, it drove me further away. I recoiled from his touch, haunted by how little he’d considered my needs—how he’d taken what he wanted without thought for my pleasure or comfort. He hadn’t even attempted to coax an orgasm from me, nor had he eased up when I squirmed beneath him. The question gnawed at me relentlessly: Had he always been this selfish?

My period, normally so reliable, failed to arrive. At first, I paid little attention until a couple of weeks passed and I began noticing subtle changes—a slight queasiness that unsettled my stomach, a bloating sensation, and more frequent trips to the bathroom.

At work, I typed my symptoms into a search engine, trying to understand what was happening. Pregnancy seemed the most likely explanation, though doubt immediately creased my forehead. Marcus and I had only slept together two weeks prior—I couldn’t possibly be showing signs this soon, could I? I dug deeper into the results, discovering that a home pregnancy test typically registers positive only after six weeks along. Curious whether early symptoms might still emerge sooner than that, I refined my query. The consensus online was discouraging; very few women experienced noticeable changes within two weeks of conception.

Within the next couple of days, I purchased a pregnancy test. That weekend, while Marcus was away from the house, I peed on the stick and waited. Even as I stared at it, I convinced myself there was no way it could be positive—not so soon. But when I finally looked down, my jaw dropped in disbelief. My mind raced as I re-examined the result: It’s positive… I’m pregnant.

I disposed of the test and every trace of its existence, my bewilderment lingering as I retreated to my bedroom. There, my gaze fell uponTheir Eyes Were Watching Godresting on the nightstand. I studied it intently—its presence here, having journeyed from the island, defied all logic. And then a realization dawned within me: if that book had somehow traversed those barriers, perhaps other memories—those moments when we made love and Ian came inside me.

“No...oooo!” The word stretched out in a long, horrified gasp. I shook my head violently. That couldn’t be, could it? Yet the possibility kept growing more plausible, coiling tighter around my thoughts like an unwelcome truth. Being pregnant with Ian’s baby? Absolutely absurd.

I’d scheduled an appointment with the doctor to confirm whether I was truly pregnant. On Tuesday, I took the morning off work, naturally keeping it from Marcus. When the physician completed the examinations, he delivered the results: “Mrs. Johnson,” he began gently, “the tests confirm you’re definitely pregnant.” Although I’d braced myself for this outcome, hearing it aloud left me stunned. My voice trembled slightly as I asked, “Do you know when conception occurred?” He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The development of the embryo indicates conception happened between six and ten weeks.” My pulse quickened—I couldn’t deny the significance of those dates. Desperate for an alternative explanation, I pressed hesitantly, “Not two or three weeks perhaps?” The doctor shook his head firmly. “No,” he assured me with clinical certainty, “if it were that recent, you likely wouldn’t even suspect pregnancy yet.” Crap!, I thought bitterly. The confirmation I’d been dreading was now unmistakable.

After a moment’s hesitation, I gathered my courage to ask, “Is there any way to determine who the father is?” The doctor regarded me with understanding, his expression free of judgment. “Yes,” he replied calmly, “you can undergo a Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity Test. It’s entirely safe, though we’ll need a DNA sample from the potential father—or anyone you wish to compare against.” I inquired about how to obtain such samples, and he explained that a simple mouth swab would suffice. He then handed me several sterile swabs. I scheduled another appointment for later that week; until then, I’d have to discreetly collect Marcus’s DNA without raising suspicion.

That night, after we settled into bed, I lay on my side, eyes wide open. I had to remain vigilant until Marcus drifted off. The swabs were stashed safely in my bedside drawer; once I heard his steady breathing deepen into a soft snore, I knew it was time. Carefully, I retrieved one of the swabs and unwrapped it from its sterile packaging—the crinkling plastic louder than expected in the stillness of our room. Marcus lay perfectly positioned on his back. As I leaned closer, however, I realized his mouth was firmly closed. “Great,” I muttered internally with bitter irony. With deliberate precision, I gently pinched his nostrils shut until he gasped for air, his mouth falling open just enough for me to collect what I needed.

I moved the swab forward with painstaking slowness, my approach unnervingly mechanical—like an alien instrument poised to violate its unwitting host. Just as I neared his mouth, Marcus shifted his head downward, and in that sudden motion the swab grazed his nostril instead. He recoiled instantly, jerking a hand to his face. In one swift movement I flipped onto my side, feigning sleep. “What?!” he exclaimed hoarsely as he stirred and shifted beside me. Even with my eyes squeezed shut, I sensed him staring at me intently, every muscle taut with alertness.

He eventually drifted off again. Turning cautiously, I discovered the swab was missing—I had no clue where it had gone. Relieved, I retrieved another from the bedside drawer, silently thanking the doctor for providing extras. This time I steadied myself, carefully guiding the swab toward his mouth and gently slipping it inside his cheek. Wincing slightly, I smoothed it along the inner surface before withdrawing it and sealing it safely in the preservative solution.

I found myself sitting in a conference meeting with senior staff, though my thoughts were far away, consumed by worries over my pregnancy. The paternal test results wouldn’t arrive for a few more days, leaving me constantly on edge. Suddenly, an unsettling queasiness washed over me—a nauseous sensation that signaled I might be sick at any moment. I quickly excused myself from the meeting and hurried to the bathroom.

I rushed into the bathroom and splashed cool water over my face, the shock momentarily clearing my head. My hands trembled as I reached up and brushed my fingers over my blouse; even through the fabric, I could feel how tender my breasts had become. With a deep breath, I lifted the hem of my blouse and glanced down at my belly. There were no visible changes yet, but the subtle firmness beneath my fingertips sparked a mixture of hope and dread within me—I yearned for this child to be Marcus’s, yet in the recesses of my mind, I secretly prayed it wasn’t.

What if it was Ian’s baby? The notion seemed utterly mad, yet the presence of that mysterious book and the precise timing of my pregnancy gnawed at me relentlessly. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no mere coincidence. A faint smile graced my lips as I pictured a mixed-race daughter—a child who embodied both worlds. Secretly, I’d always longed for a girl. And then there was Marcus; I shuddered to imagine his reaction.

The following days were sheer agony, each hour dragging on as I waited for the test results. Marcus didn’t make things any easier—he was relentless in trying to fuck me again, his advances coming one after another. Yet with every unwanted advance, my body remained unresponsive; arousal eluded me entirely as I fought to keep him at bay.

Eventually, Marcus gave up. He spent most of his days slumped on the sofa, sulking and making little effort to find work during his unemployment. Once again, he relied on me to support us both financially.

My fingers flew across the keyboard when suddenly my cell phone vibrated on the desk. Glancing at the caller ID, my pulse quickened—it was the doctor. With a knot tightening in my chest, I answered and listened as he delivered the news: “Mrs. Johnson, the paternity test results from your DNA sample came back negative.” Silence fell over me for a long moment before I managed to ask, “You mean... Marcus isn’t the father?” The doctor responded softly, “I’m afraid not.”

After ending the call, I suddenly felt sick and bolted for the bathroom. In the cramped stall, I dropped to my knees before the toilet, stomach muscles contracting violently as I retched. My fingers clutched the porcelain rim in desperation while my body convulsed, straining to expel something—anything—but only ragged gasps emerged.

I sank to the cold tile floor, back pressed against the stark wall, as tremors shook through me. Tears streamed down my face, silent sobs wracking my body. What am I going to do now, I wondered desperately to myself.

There was little room left for doubt. This had to be Ian’s child; our intimacy on that simulated island felt as genuine as anything in the waking world. That truth resonated deeply – what we shared, both our love and the experience itself, was undeniably real.

As I sat there my mind drifted to the possible outcomes. I pictured the moment of giving birth with Marcus present, his expression hardening upon seeing our mixed-race baby. Would he lash out at me right then and there? A bitter laugh escaped me at the thought. Then I imagined being heavily pregnant, Marcus tenderly caressing my belly as if the child were truly his, Dominic excited to become a big brother.

Then another possibility took hold—giving birth with the father present, Ian’s hand clasped firmly in mine. I could see his warm smile and hear his steady reassurances as we celebrated our love and the arrival of our child together. The vision stirred something deep within me, a swell of emotion that rose and fell with each breath, making my chest flutter with fragile hope. Could such a future truly exist?

I had never tried to find Ian after leaving the plane, yet looking up his name—Ian McGregor—seemed simple enough. The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. My determination solidified as I pushed myself up from the cold tiles, my back throbbing from stiffness. Slowly, I walked out of the bathroom and returned to my desk in the office.

I opened my browser and typed “Ian McGregor” into LinkedIn, only to watch as countless profiles flooded the screen—names spanning every corner of the globe. Shit, this wasn’t going to be nearly as straightforward as I’d hoped. Frustration prickled at me as I scanned the pictures, hoping to recognize his face among the sea of strangers. But without a clear image, finding him felt like searching for a needle in a haystack. My determination hardened; I had to track him down and reveal that I was carrying his child. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned his stunned expression, those intense brown eyes widening as he stammered out a bewildered “How?”

I knew he was a civil engineer in Los Angeles, which should narrow things down considerably. As I clicked through the results, I managed to reduce the possibilities to just five names—a daunting number, but progress nonetheless. One profile immediately caught my attention due to its lack of a photo; considering Ian’s reserved nature and likely self-consciousness about his appearance, it seemed entirely plausible that he might skip uploading an image altogether. Further investigation revealed the company name Aurex Engineering Group listed on that profile, and when I cross-referenced their downtown LA address, everything suddenly clicked into place with striking clarity.

With trembling fingers, I retrieved the company’s contact information and hastily dialed the number. The phone rang several times before a receptionist answered crisply, “Good afternoon, Aurex Engineering Group! How may I assist you today?” Summoning every ounce of composure, I replied, “Hello, I was hoping to speak with Ian McGregor.” My pulse quickened as I awaited her response. “May I ask who’s calling?” she inquired professionally. Hesitating for a moment, I stumbled over my words. “I’m... a friend—someone he knows.” The receptionist paused thoughtfully before stating firmly, “I’m afraid I can’t transfer your call without knowing your name.” Anxiety tightened my chest; revealing my identity felt premature. Desperation crept into my voice as I pleaded, “Please—I’m an old acquaintance and need to share something urgent with him.” A brief silence followed before she finally agreed, “Very well, let me see if he’s available to take your call.” Relief washed over me as tears welled up in my eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered gratefully.

Then I heard his voice---“Hello! Ian McGregor speaking!” My blood turned to ice. It was him, unmistakable, and my throat closed up tight. “Hello! Who’s this?” he repeated, more insistent now. Trembling seized me as I fumbled to disconnect the call. This was too much; I had braced myself for corporate negotiations with high-paying clients where I commanded respect and projected absolute control, yet one syllable from Ian shattered that carefully constructed facade into a thousand pieces.

I had to breath in and breath out slowly trying to compose myself, when I heard a knock at the door. I straightened up and said “Come in”,

“Aisha, I need your assistance,” Richard Thompson stated urgently, the CEO of our company and my superior. “We’re on the verge of securing a deal with MaVerde, and your expertise is crucial.” With practiced professionalism I replied, “Certainly Richard, allow me a moment to gather my thoughts,” then added reassuringly, “I’ll join you shortly.” Richard offered a grateful nod before instructing briskly, “Excellent—conference room 2, see you in a moment.” He hurried off as I composed myself; smoothing my suit and adjusting my hair with measured motions, I stepped confidently out the door, for now Ian will have to wait.

After the meeting concluded Richard approached me, his expression alight with genuine appreciation. “Absolutely brilliant work,” he remarked warmly, “I knew I could rely on you.” My lips curved into a playful smile as I teased, “It was the shoes, Richard—they sealed the deal.” A chuckle escaped him as he retorted, “Well then, I’ll order you a hundred pairs.” I laughed along with his light-hearted reply.

That evening, as I entered the house, Dominic’s bright smile greeted me instantly. His arms wrapped around my waist with a fierce hug and smattered kisses that never failed to melt away the day’s tensions. “Mommy!” he whispered excitedly, “Daddy’s angry.” His words sent a ripple of apprehension through me as I tried to decipher what might have provoked Marcus’ ire. Stepping further inside, I found him slumped on the couch watching television with a sullen expression plastered across his face. “Marcus?” I called out softly, attempting to break through his mood. He refused to meet my gaze. “What’s wrong?” I pressed gently. Without even glancing up, he muttered flatly, “Nothing.”

“Well it’s affecting Dominic, he sees you angry,” I shot back. “Drop it will you,” he snapped. “No! I won’t until you tell me what’s wrong!” Exasperated, he finally stood up. “You’re what’s wrong—ever since you came back from Japan, you’ve changed.” My face burned as he jabbed an accusatory finger at me. I knew I had changed, but explaining how and why felt impossible. I fell silent as he continued bitterly, “You’ve been distant this whole time, and when I cooked for you and we had sex, I thought we’d get back to how we used to be.” Fury surged within me. “You only cooked that meal so you could have sex—all you cared about was yourself.”

“Could you blame me? I have needs as well, do you know how it makes me feel, you not even looking at me anymore.” His voice trembled slightly, exposing a vulnerability I hadn’t seen before. The admission cut through my anger. As Dominic played innocently nearby, I leaned closer, lowering my voice to a whisper. “That night... you fucked me rough, Marcus. You took what you wanted without caring whether I felt any pleasure. It hurt physically and mentally.” he looked at me astonished, “We’ve always had great sex, what changed?”

Marcus dipped his chin, scanning the room as if searching for answers. Then, turning back to me with a ragged breath, he confessed softly, “I feel like I’m losing you, baby.” In that moment, I wondered if the unyielding alpha facade—the pride, the fierce protection—was finally fracturing. Tears pooled in his eyes; I glimpsed a man consumed by love, and perhaps for the first time realized that beneath his hardened shell lay vulnerability. Everyone has a breaking point, and there he was, unraveling before me.

For once, I saw him differently—not just the hardened man I knew, but a decent one wrestling with burdens: joblessness, financial dependence on me, wounds to his self-esteem. My anger dissolved into regret as I moved closer, gently cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. Tears welled in my eyes. “I’m sorry Marcus,” I whispered brokenly. “I’ve been so self-absorbed... I never really saw you.” And then, softly, tenderly, I pressed my lips to his.

Taking his hand, I guided Marcus toward our bedroom. Dominic was happily occupied in his own space as we quietly closed the door behind us. As soon as we were alone, I pulled him close and kissed him with fervent passion. This time I felt everything—the rapid pulse of my heart, the slick warmth between my legs—confirming that something within him had indeed shifted. We undressed slowly, deliberately, and when we lay naked together on the bed he was different; tender and unhurried as he explored my body with gentle kisses rather than immediately seeking release. His cock slid into me with deliberate care, easing in without force. “I’m sorry I hurt you, baby,” he murmured softly against my skin as he began moving with slow, steady thrusts. I cradled his face in my palm and offered a forgiving smile. “It’s okay,” I whispered back in reassurance.

I tilted my head back and shut my eyes as the tension coiled tight within me, every nerve ending alive with sensation. This time was different – his deliberate pace stoked my pleasure higher until I could barely hold back. Clutching his shoulders, I urged him on with a breathy command: “Fuck me, Marcus.” He responded by driving his cock deeper, each measured thrust intensifying the building pressure. The timing proved perfect; as my climax surged through me, he gritted his teeth and released with a low grunt, spilling himself inside me.

The following days provided a respite from the turmoil churning within me. Though the child growing inside me belonged to another man, I resolved to find a solution, no matter how challenging it might prove. Marcus had rekindled hope in our relationship, offering a reason to mend what nearly unraveled. With renewed determination, I retrieved my phone and found Ian’s company contact information displayed on its screen. My finger hovered over the delete option, but something held me back—a lingering connection that refused to be severed. In the end, I chose not to erase the entry and returned my phone to my purse.

A couple of weeks slipped by before we gathered at my parents’ house for a backyard barbecue. Sunlight spilled generously over the lawn, warming my skin as Dominic’s laughter mingled with those of his cousins—my younger brother’s lively kids. Amid the relaxed chaos, I rested a hand on my abdomen; beneath my fingers, a subtle firmness had begun to emerge, hinting at the precious life slowly blossoming within me.

Marcus, bottle in hand, engaged in animated conversation with my brother and a few other guests. Meanwhile, I found solace in the dappled shade of an umbrella, seated upon a patio chair that had been thoughtfully positioned outdoors. Clad in a bright yellow sundress with a sunhat perched atop my head, I sipped my cold orange juice as the warm afternoon breeze carried snippets of laughter and chatter across the lawn.

My father soon approached, pulling up a chair beside me. “How are you doing, darling?” he asked, his thick Caribbean accent carrying both concern and affection. I offered a reassuring smile. “I’m doing well, Dad—just soaking up this lovely weather,” I replied. He chuckled softly before remarking, “This heat is nothing compared to back home; I swear I once felt like I was melting there.”

“Why about a real drink then, some rum maybe?” His words tugged at my thoughts. I remembered the doctor’s warning clearly—I needed to steer clear of alcohol for the baby’s sake. “I’m good, Dad,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t press further. No matter what happened next, I intended to keep this baby and ensure he or she grew up healthy.

Marcus beckoned me over as I rose from my seat. When I reached him, he wrapped an arm around my waist and drew me close against his chest, nearly causing me to spill my drink. Meanwhile, Jacob observed us intently while Marcus continued speaking; Jacob wore a subtle expression of concern on his face. My younger brother was married to a white woman who hadn’t attended the barbecue—likely not merely because of prior commitments, but more due to how our parents might have treated her. He had struggled hard to gain their acceptance, though they still cherished their grandchildren dearly. In every way, Jacob was extraordinary—a truly tender-hearted soul.

Jacob had married his wife even before I met Marcus, a development that left my parents heartbroken and desperate to see me settled down properly. Their relentless pressure eventually steered me toward Marcus, who oddly became like a favored son to them, more than they ever treated their own Jacob. Deep down, I pitied Jacob for all the hardships he endured trying to make our family accept his choices, yet despite my earlier disapproval of his decisions, seeing his genuine happiness now filled me with sincere joy for him.

Later that afternoon, Jacob and I settled into a quiet conversation. “How are you, sis?” he asked gently, his brow furrowed with concern. “Is Marcus treating you alright?” I offered a strained smile, but he saw right through it. “Marcus is great,” I replied quickly. “And how’s Sophia?” He nodded slowly and took a sip of his beer. “She’s doing well,” he said softly before taking a sip looking away. “But what about you—are you truly happy, Jacob?” His gaze locked with mine as he answered earnestly, “More than anything; Sophia means everything to me. That’s what makes it hurt even more that Mom and Dad still won’t accept us.”

“I’m sorry Jacob, if I could change their minds I would,” I murmured. He regarded me with a puzzled expression. “Well you weren’t too happy about Sophia either,” he pointed out quietly, recalling how I had insisted she was using him. And he was right—I had grasped at every excuse imaginable to discourage him from pursuing her. Now, heavy with regret, I admitted softly, “You were right not to listen to me, Jacob. You found happiness and that’s what you deserve.”

“I’ve got to say, your hair looks fantastic today,” Jacob remarked offhandedly, though his compliment warmed me through. I smiled genuinely at his words when Marcus approached. “Yo, what’s up you two?” Jacob gestured casually. “I was just telling Aisha how lovely her natural hairstyle looks on her.” Marcus took a swig of beer and scoffed lightly. “Nah, I always preferred those braids—thought they suited her better.” Jacob turned back to me with a knowing glance that spoke volumes without uttering a word.

Marcus glanced at his watch—the one I’d given him last year—and muttered, “We gotta get going, baby, I’ve got that thing.” I frowned slightly. “Dominic is having such a good time here—you go on ahead and we’ll meet you at home.” Marcus shot me a look I wouldn’t soon forget, his expression simmering with unspoken resentment, as though I had deliberately crossed him. Jacob interjected smoothly, “Don’t worry, Marcus—I’ll drive her home myself.” With that, Marcus spun on his heel and left without another word. Where had that tender side of him gone? The man who had laid bare his fears of losing me… who had made love to me with such exquisite care? In that moment, I realized my hopes for change had been in vain—he remained the same man I’d always known.

As Jacob navigated the car through the streets, I glanced back at Dominic and Jacob’s children. My niece and nephew, twins with fair skin and springy coiled hair, sat buckled securely in their seats. Their bright eyes met mine with affection—they adored their Auntie Aisha. In that tender moment, my thoughts wandered to my unborn child. I envisioned that same beauty within my womb, a future filled with love and hope. Tears gathered in my eyes as the weight of possibility pressed upon me. “Everything okay, sis?” Jacob asked softly. I quickly brushed away the unshed tears and nodded in reassurance.

“I’ve noticed how Marcus treats you,” Jacob ventured cautiously, careful not to overstep. I stared straight ahead, unwilling to engage. “Are you sure you’re alright?” His question hung in the air until I snapped, “Stop asking me that, Jacob—everything is fine.” Immediately regretting my sharp tone, I fought to steady my emotions. He wisely chose not to press further, instead offering gently, “If you ever need to talk, call me anytime.” I gave a curt nod. “Okay.”

Sitting at my desk, I found myself lost in thought, replaying that day Jacob drove us home. I yearned to confide in him—how Marcus had once again paraded his machismo in public, treating me like some prized possession on display right before my brother’s eyes at our family barbecue.

It was mortifying among my family—Marcus had performed that spectacle in front of friends before, but in front of our relatives? That crossed a line. After Jacob dropped us off at home, I discovered Marcus sulking on the couch once again. His mood no longer mattered to me; I simply put Dominic to bed and retired for the night myself.

With trembling fingers, I retrieved my phone and dialed Jacob’s number. Knowing he worked from home, I hoped he might spare a few moments. “Hi Aisha, you okay?” His voice carried genuine concern. “I’m fine,” I lied, my breath catching as the words tumbled out. “Do you have a moment?” He assured me he did. Then, haltingly at first, I poured out everything—the humiliation of Marcus parading me before our family at the barbecue, his crude displays of ownership that Jacob had witnessed firsthand. My brother listened without interruption, the silence heavy as he absorbed each painful detail.

There was no way to explain about Ian or the life stirring within me; that secret remained too impossible to explain. Yet soon enough my changing body would betray me—I could already feel the faint swell beneath my clothes. The realization struck with sudden clarity: Marcus was not the partner I needed. Tears streamed freely down my face as I confessed these truths to Jacob, releasing months of pent-up anguish in choked sobs.

Then he uttered words that chilled me to the bone. “Listen to me carefully Aisha,” he began, his tone measured and deliberate, “I’m going to say one thing and I believe it’s the most important decision you’ll ever make.” My pulse quickened as I waited with bated breath. I strained to hear him draw a slow, steady breath before he spoke again: “I love you Aisha, I want to see you happy—you do what your heart tells you.” He paused briefly before adding, “That’s where the truth lies.” Those very phrases—murmured by my younger brother—were exactly what the ethereal voice had told me word for word.

My heart thudded in my chest as I lingered outside the entrance of Aurex Engineering Group, Ian’s workplace. Compelled by an inexplicable urge, I felt driven to see him face-to-face rather than simply calling. Upon entering the lobby, the receptionist greeted me with a warm smile and asked how she might assist. I smiled in return and inquired about Ian; to my surprise, she recognized me immediately. “Weren’t you the woman who phoned before?” she asked. Astonished that such a brief interaction had left an impression, I nodded confirmation. With another smile, she offered to check his availability and reached for the phone to dial his extension.

My body trembled uncontrollably, a knot of anticipation and dread tightening within me. What if he no longer remembered our connection? What if his feelings for Helen had been rekindled? The receptionist set the phone down, her expression apologetic. “It seems he isn’t answering,” she explained gently, “he might have stepped out for lunch. You’re welcome to wait.” My heart dropped as I murmured thanks. In that moment, nausea surged through me anew—the dizziness intensifying more severely than before. “Are you alright?” she asked as my legs buckled beneath me and I collapsed backward.

With the anticipation of hitting solid ground, I felt nothing—as though I were floating—when suddenly a pair of arms caught me, wrapping securely around my frame. “Aisha?” a familiar voice called out in disbelief. I gazed up at his stunned face, tears welling in my eyes as I whispered, “Ian?”