Nerissa lay curled up on the soft couch in Drake's his Penthouse. Her phone buzzed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. George's name flashed across the screen again and again—each call a desperate demand for her to pick up.
She let it ring out.
Another call.
Another.
Then a message.
George: Nerissa… please. Come home. I can't stand this anymore.
George: I'll do anything. Just come back to me.
Her fingers tightened around the phone, her chest aching. But she refused to answer. She had promised herself she was done with him—done with the pain, the endless cycle of control and regret.
Drake glanced up from the kitchen counter, his brow furrowed. "Still him?"
She nodded. "He won't stop calling. I wish he'd just let me go."
But George had no intention of letting her go.
Somewhere across the city, George sat in the back seat of his black SUV, phone in hand, jaw tense. His driver kept glancing at him through the rearview mirror, but George's eyes were locked on the screen. She wasn't answering. She was with Drake. And he could already feel her slipping further away with every second.
He dialed again. No answer.
His patience snapped.
"Change of plans," he told the driver. His voice was low but lethal. "We're going to get her. Tonight."
Hours later, Nerissa was drifting into sleep on Drake's couch when the faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Before she could sit up, the door burst open. Two men stormed in—faces hard, movements precise. Drake lunged forward, but one of them shoved him back, pinning him against the wall.
"Nerissa!" George's voice cut through the chaos. He stepped inside, eyes blazing, suit disheveled, like he hadn't slept for days. "You're coming with me."
She froze. "George… what are you doing?!"
Without another word, he grabbed her wrist, ignoring her struggle. She kicked, shouted, but his men were already moving, dragging her toward the waiting vehicle. Drake's furious shouts followed them down the hall.
The SUV roared to life. Nerissa pounded on the tinted windows, but the city lights soon disappeared behind them.
By dawn, she opened her eyes to the sight of endless blue water surrounding them. The boat slowed, docking at a small, private island. The air was thick with salt and isolation.
George stood on the pier, watching her. His voice was low, almost broken.
"You're not leaving me again, Nerissa. Not this time. We needed to talk."
Her heart pounded—not just from fear, but from the dawning realization that she was truly trapped.
The air on the island felt heavy, suffocating even, despite the soft ocean breeze. Nerissa's bare feet sank into the warm sand as George's men pulled her toward the large white villa that stood in stark contrast to the untamed beauty of the shoreline.
"Let me go!" she snapped, twisting against their grip. "You're insane, George!"
George's voice was calm, but the undercurrent of steel was unmistakable. "I had no choice, Nerissa. You wouldn't come home. You left me… i needed to explain."
Her eyes blazed. "Because you broke me! And now you think kidnapping me will fix anything?"
They stepped into the villa. Inside, the air was cool, smelling faintly of lilies and sea salt. George dismissed his men with a wave of his hand, then turned to face her fully.
"I don't care if you hate me right now," he said, moving closer. "But you belong with me. And I'll do whatever it takes to make you see that."
She stepped back until her spine hit the wall. "You can't keep me here. People will look for me."
George's lips curved into a faint, chilling smile. "Let them look. They'll never find this place unless I want them to."
For days, Nerissa refused to speak to him. She stayed locked in the guest room, staring out the open balcony at the expanse of blue stretching endlessly beyond the shore. At night, she heard the waves and wondered if she could swim far enough to escape.
But the island was guarded. Boats came only for supplies, and George's men never left her side.
One afternoon, he came to her room carrying a tray—grilled fish, fresh mango, and cold water.
"You have to eat," he said softly.
She glared at him but took the plate. "Feeding me doesn't make this right."
He crouched in front of her, his eyes dark and intense. "Maybe not. But I'm going to make you remember why you loved me before all this."
She laughed bitterly. "You can't force love, George. You can only kill it."
He didn't flinch. "We'll see."
That night, she stood on the balcony, staring at the stars and listening to the ocean. Somewhere inside her chest, a flicker of fear burned brighter than her anger. George wasn't just trying to keep her—he was trying to erase the part of her that wanted freedom.
And if she didn't find a way out soon, she knew he just might succeed.
George had spent years convincing himself he could live without her. That he could choose logic over longing. That Nerissa's absence would hurt, but he would survive.
He was wrong.
He sat at the far end of the long dining table, a crystal glass of whiskey untouched in front of him, his eyes fixed on the woman across from him. Nerissa was eating slowly, her gaze focused anywhere but on him.
The silence was unbearable.
"You're still angry," he said finally, his voice low.
She didn't even look up. "I'm beyond angry, George. I'm done."
He swallowed hard. "No. You're not done. You think you are, but… I know you. I know you better than anyone."
Her fork clinked softly against the plate as she set it down. "You don't know me anymore. And whatever you think we had—it's gone."
His chest tightened, each word slicing through him. He wanted to slam his fist on the table, to demand she see reason, to force her to remember what they used to be. But he knew it wouldn't work.
Instead, he leaned forward, eyes burning. "You think I don't see the way you look at me? You think I can't feel it? You can hate me, Nerissa, but I'll never believe you've stopped loving me."
Her lips curled into a bitter smile. "You've mistaken my hatred for passion. They're not the same."
The words hit him harder than he expected. For a long moment, he didn't speak. The truth was unbearable—he had chosen her, fully and without hesitation, but she had already chosen to walk away.
That night, George stood outside her locked bedroom door, his palm resting against the polished wood.
"You're killing me," he said softly, knowing she could hear him. "Every day you look at me like I'm a stranger. But you're still mine, Nerissa. And I won't let you forget that.Drake will never ever have you."
Inside the room, Nerissa sat on the edge of the bed, her heart pounding. His voice no longer frightened her—it infuriated her. She clenched her fists and whispered to herself:
Then I'll make sure you do forget me, George.
And for the first time since she had been dragged to the island, she began to plan not just her escape… but how to make him regret ever thinking she could be kept.
The days on the island blurred into each other—sunrise over the sea, the salty wind, the constant presence of George's men outside her door. But the real prison wasn't the villa. It was George's gaze.
He watched her like a man guarding his last breath. Whether she was reading on the balcony, walking along the sand under armed supervision, or eating in the grand dining hall, his eyes followed her. Always.
One afternoon, he found her sketching in a notebook she had scavenged from the study. He sat beside her without asking.
"You used to draw me," he said quietly, looking at her paper.
Without looking up, she replied, "I used to love you when we were kids. Not anymore."
The sting of her words made his jaw tighten. "You still do. You just don't want to admit it."
She shut the notebook. "You're wrong."
That night, after pretending to go to sleep, Nerissa slipped out of her room. The moonlight glistened on the ocean like shards of silver. She knew the guards changed shifts at midnight; it gave her only a few minutes of weakness in their watch.
Barefoot, she crept along the sand, keeping low until she reached the far side of the island where a small motorboat was tied to a wooden pier. Her pulse roared in her ears. She fumbled with the rope, her fingers trembling.
"Going somewhere?"
The voice froze her blood.
George stepped out from the shadows, hands in his pockets, the moonlight catching the edge of his sharp jaw. His men emerged behind him, blocking any retreat.
"I should have known," he said, walking toward her slowly, like a predator savoring the moment. "I can feel when you're about to run from me, Nerissa. Do you know why?"
She forced herself to meet his eyes. "Because you're a control freak."
He smirked faintly, but his voice was soft, almost tender. "Because I'm in love with you. And every time you try to leave, it's like someone's ripping my heart out of my chest."
His words didn't melt her—they ignited her anger. "Then maybe you should let it be ripped out."
For a moment, his expression cracked, revealing something raw and broken. But it was gone as quickly as it came. He motioned to his men.
"Take her back to her room. Lock it."
As they dragged her away, Nerissa vowed silently: Next time, I'll succeed.
But George, watching her disappear into the villa, thought just as fiercely: I'll never let her go.
The moonlight still lingered over the island that night, the sea whispering against the shore, when George found himself alone in his study. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the desk, but he barely touched it. His thoughts were too loud.
For months—maybe years—he had convinced himself that Isabelle was the right choice. She was fragile, in need of protection. She leaned on him in ways that made him feel necessary, important. But that was all it ever was. Caring for her had been a duty, not a desire.
With Nerissa, it was different. He didn't just want to protect her—he wanted her. All of her. Her stubbornness, her laughter, her sharp tongue, even the way she could look at him with pure defiance and still make him ache for her. She didn't need him, but she had chosen him once. And that made losing her unbearable.
He thought of Isabelle now and felt… nothing. Not the tug of longing, not even guilt. Just a faint echo of obligation that no longer mattered.
But with Nerissa, the pull was relentless. Even her hatred had power over him.
He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. I never loved Isabelle. I loved the role I played for her.
But with Nerissa… I love her for being her.
The sound of footsteps made him turn. One of his men stood in the doorway.
"She's locked in her room," the guard said. "Like you ordered."
George nodded but didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the balcony where the night air beckoned. Finally, he said, "She stays here. No more chances for her to run. But… don't be harsh with her."
The man hesitated. "Sir, she hates you."
George's jaw clenched. "I know. And it's killing me."
When the guard left, George crossed the hall to Nerissa's room. He didn't knock—just leaned against the door, listening to the faint rustle of movement inside.
"I never wanted Isabelle," he said through the wood, his voice rough. "I wanted you. Only you. Isabelle… she was a responsibility. But you—" He stopped, his throat tightening. "You're the one I can't let go of. No matter how much you hate me."
Inside the room, Nerissa sat on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. She didn't answer. She didn't even breathe too loudly. But her heart was pounding, because for the first time, she heard something in George's voice she didn't expect—truth.
And that truth terrified her more than the island itself.
The days on the island had been long and tense, but nothing prepared Nerissa for the morning she found George slumped on the veranda, his face pale, his breathing ragged.
"George?" She stepped forward cautiously.
He tried to wave her off, but his arm trembled, and a deep cough tore through his chest. His shirt clung to him with sweat, and his normally sharp gaze was dulled with fever.
"You're sick," she said firmly.
"I'm fine," he muttered, though the words were weak. "Just need… rest."
But Nerissa could see it in the way his body sagged against the chair—he was far from fine. For a moment, instinct battled resentment inside her. She had every reason to let him suffer, to remind him of the cage he'd put her in.
Yet memories she had buried for decades rose unbidden.
She was five years old again, running barefoot through the fields behind their mothers' houses. George had fallen from the old mango tree, scraping his knees and crying out in pain. She had rushed to him without hesitation, holding his hand until their mothers came.
Back then, she never questioned taking care of him. Back then, they were just children—two best friends whose mothers were inseparable, whose laughter carried on the wind.
She clenched her jaw, pushing the memories away, but her feet were already moving toward him.
"Where's your first aid kit?" she asked.
He gave a faint, stubborn smile. "So now you care?"
"Don't make me change my mind," she snapped. "Tell me."
Inside his room, she found the kit and a thermometer. His fever was high—too high. She wet a cloth with cool water and pressed it gently to his forehead.
"You need to drink," she said, bringing him a glass of water.
He looked at her for a long moment before taking it. "You're still the same," he murmured. "Always taking care of me… even when you hate me."
Her chest tightened. "Don't mistake this for forgiveness, George. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because I'm not like you."
He closed his eyes, but a faint smile lingered. "Still… thank you."
As she sat beside him, changing the cloth on his forehead, she realized something unsettling—helping him felt natural. Too natural. And she hated herself for that.
But deep down, she knew why.
Because no matter how far they had fallen from those childhood days, a part of her still remembered the boy she used to run to without hesitation.
The fever lingered into the night, leaving George pale and weak. Nerissa, against her better judgment, found herself in the villa's kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cooking porridge the way her mother used to when they were kids. The scent of ginger and chicken filled the air, soft and comforting.
When she brought the tray to his bedside, George was half-asleep, his brow damp with sweat. She set the bowl on the nightstand and gently shook his shoulder.
"George… eat something."
His eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, he just stared at her, as if unsure she was real. Then, with visible effort, he sat up. She helped him hold the spoon, her hand brushing his.
"You're… cooking for me now wifey? " he rasped, a hint of disbelief in her. Teasing her like they were a kid.
"Don't make it a big deal," she muttered. "You need strength. That's all."
Later, when the porridge was gone and the night grew quiet, Nerissa sat by the window, watching the moonlight dance on the waves. She was about to drift into sleep when a sudden sound made her turn.
George was twisting in the sheets, murmuring incoherently. His face was strained, his breathing rapid.
"No… Nerissa… please…" His voice cracked in desperation, and the sound pierced her like a knife.
Without thinking, she crossed the room and sat beside him. "George," she whispered, shaking him gently.
His eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused. "I thought you were gone," he said hoarsely, his chest heaving.
She swallowed hard, her hand trembling as it brushed the damp hair from his forehead. "I'm here. It was just a dream."
He closed his eyes, his breathing slowly steadying under her touch. Something inside her—something she had been trying to smother for weeks—softened.
Before she could stop herself, she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him. He was warm, trembling slightly, and when he buried his face in her shoulder, she felt the shudder of his breath.
They stayed like that for a long moment, her heartbeat thundering against his. Deep inside, a truth she didn't want to face began to take root: she wanted to start over with him.
Especially now, after hearing from his own lips—fevered and unguarded—that he wanted her, only her.
When she finally pulled back, she met his gaze, and for the first time since being brought to the island, she didn't look at him with pure hatred.
"Get some sleep," she whispered. "I'll be here."
By morning, the fever had begun to break. The sun spilled golden light into the room, casting soft shadows across George's face. His breathing was steadier now, the color slowly returning to his cheeks.
Nerissa sat at the edge of the bed, holding a cup of water for him. "Drink," she said gently.
He obeyed without protest, his eyes never leaving hers. "You stayed," he murmured.
She tried to keep her tone neutral. "You were sick. I wasn't going to just leave you like that."
But George heard the softer undercurrent in her voice. His lips curved faintly. "I don't deserve it… but I'm grateful."
When he dozed again, Nerissa stepped out onto the balcony and pulled out her phone. For the first time since being taken to the island, she saw a faint signal. Her fingers hesitated, then dialed Drake's number.
He picked up instantly. "Nerissa?!" His voice cracked with urgency.
"I'm okay," she said quickly. "Don't panic."
"Where are you? Did that bastard hurt you?"
"No. He's—" She glanced over her shoulder toward the room, lowering her voice. "He's sick. Fever. I've been… taking care of him."
There was a sharp pause on the other end.
"You're what?" Drake's tone hardened, jealousy bleeding into every word. "You're caring for him now?"
"It's not like that," she insisted. "I just—couldn't let him suffer. You know me."
But Drake wasn't hearing her. "Nerissa, do you have any idea what that sounds like? You're trapped on an island with the man who took you away from me, and now you're nursing him back to health?"
Her throat tightened. "Drake…"
His voice dropped lower, raw. "Do you love him?"
The question stunned her into silence. "That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point," Drake bit out. "Because right now, I feel like I'm losing you, and it's killing me."
She closed her eyes, her heart twisting. "I'm not choosing anyone right now. I just called to tell you I'm alive. Don't make this harder."
But when the call ended, she could still hear the weight of his jealousy in her mind.
Back in the room, George stirred. His eyes opened, focusing on her. "You called him, didn't you?"
She froze. "…Yes."
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though tinged with something darker. "And I bet he hated every second of it. Good."
She frowned. "Why would you say that?"
"Because," he said, his gaze locking with hers, "if it's killing him to imagine you with me, then maybe—deep down—you already are."
By late afternoon, George was sitting up against the pillows, a blanket draped over his legs. The fever was almost gone, but his eyes still held the shadow of exhaustion. Nerissa was tidying the small table near his bed when his voice broke the quiet.
"There's something I need to tell you."
She glanced over, wary. "What now?"
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "About Isabelle."
Her grip on the glass she was holding tightened. "What about her?"
He met her gaze, unflinching. "You think there was something between us. That night… when you saw us. You've been holding it against me ever since."
Her jaw clenched, but she didn't deny it.
George's voice lowered, his tone steady but raw. "I was drunk, Nerissa. And nothing happened."
Her heart gave a small, involuntary jolt. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Yes." His eyes didn't waver. "Because it's the truth. I had been drinking. Isabelle was there, crying over one of her meltdowns, clinging to me. I didn't even realize how it must have looked until you walked in. But I swear to you, on my life—there was nothing. No kiss, no touch, nothing beyond me trying to calm her down."
Nerissa stared at him, her chest tight. "Then why keep her around? Why not tell me sooner?"
He looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Because I thought you wouldn't care. And because… I thought she needed me. I wanted to protect her, to be the person she could rely on. But that was all it ever was—a responsibility."
When he looked back at her, his voice softened, almost pleading. "You, Nerissa… you're not a responsibility. You're my choice. My only choice. I wanted Isabelle safe, yes, but I never wanted her. Not the way I want you."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as his words sank in.
He leaned forward slightly, wincing at the movement but never breaking eye contact. "I've made mistakes. I've been controlling, stubborn, and an idiot. But don't believe for a second that my heart was ever hers. It's always been yours. Twenty years ago, now, and until the day I die."
Something in her chest cracked open, just a little. For weeks, she had been so sure she hated him. But now… the certainty was slipping.
She turned away quickly, before he could read the conflict in her eyes. "You should rest," she muttered.
But as she stepped toward the door, his voice followed her, low and unshakable.
"I love you, Nerissa..my wife.."