A few days later, we found ourselves on a train, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks doing little to calm my nerves. My hands rested in my lap, trembling slightly, even though I tried to hide it. I kept them clasped tightly, willing myself to breathe steadily.
Sebastian sat beside me, quiet, but I could feel the watchful weight of his presence. Every so often, he would glance at me, sharp and assessing, yet patient.
When we arrived in the town, I followed him silently to the doctor's office. My stomach twisted as we stepped inside, the waiting room sterile and silent, filled with the low murmur of other patients.
Sebastian knocked gently on the door leading to the inner rooms and slipped inside. I waited, fingers nervously fidgeting, my heart hammering in my chest.
He came back a few moments later, face calm but serious. "Wait a little longer," he said simply. "We'll be taken in soon. And don't worry—I shall go with you."
His words were steady, grounding me. Despite the fear twisting in my stomach, a small thread of relief wove through me. For the first time in days, I felt… protected. Someone was here. Someone saw me.
The nurse appeared at the door, her face stiff, eyes sharp. She gave me a quick, dismissive glance before turning to the files in her hand.
Sebastian leaned closer to me, his voice dropping into a quiet whisper. "This nurse is the grumpy one," he murmured, almost as if to make me smile. "Don't let her scare you."
A few minutes later, the door opened again. A young female doctor stepped out, her expression warm but professional. "Come in, both of you," she said.
I rose slowly, my legs still heavy, and followed Sebastian inside. The doctor gestured to the chair across from her desk. "He's told me a little bit," she said softly. "But tell me yourself—if you can—how you've been living."
I swallowed, my mouth dry, and began to speak, my voice halting at first. "I was living in a house… taking care of the kids, animals… building, cooking, washing, gardening… but I felt weaker and weaker, day by day. I started vomiting. I had pain. I still have it. If I think about it, every time my ex or his family cooked and gave me my portion… I had issues. Digestive problems, nausea…" I shook my head, my hands clenching in my lap. "But I don't think that's important. What scares me is this shaking… the tiredness. It comes in waves. I start trembling uncontrollably, and then I'm so weak I can barely stay upright for hours."
My voice cracked.
Sebastian's jaw tightened. He turned to the doctor, his voice calm but edged with steel. "I think she was drugged for a long time," he said. "And now she's showing symptoms of withdrawal."
The doctor's eyes flicked from him back to me, her face unreadable for a moment. "We'll run tests," she said at last, her tone even but serious. "We'll find out what's happening."
The doctor scribbled something quickly onto a sheet of paper, her handwriting swift but precise. She tore it from the pad and handed it to me.
"Take this to the lab," she said gently. Then, pausing, she met my eyes, her expression softening. "He loves you, you know. Not many men care this much."
Her words landed like a stone in still water. I stared at her, startled, unsure what to say.
Sebastian stayed quiet for a heartbeat, then gave a small, crooked smile. "Ah, this doctor likes me too much," he joked lightly, but his voice carried a weight beneath the humor.
I turned to him, my fingers tightening around the paper. "You're saying someone was drugging me… all this time?" My voice trembled. "For years now?"
Sebastian's eyes met mine—steady, serious, but filled with something almost like sorrow.
We left the hospital and stepped into a small bar next door. The warm, dim light hit my face, and for a moment, it felt like a world separate from the sterile white walls and sharp smells of the hospital.
I ordered a fruit juice, something simple, something I could hold without trembling too much. Sebastian ordered coffee, dark and strong, as if it matched the intensity in his eyes.
I stared into my cup, the cool liquid offering a small comfort, and my mind drifted back. Scenes of the past weeks—no, years—flickered behind my eyelids. The fear, the pain, the control, the moments I felt completely invisible… I thought about the trembling, the weakness, the shaking that didn't stop, no matter how hard I willed it.
Sebastian's presence was calm beside me, almost unshakable, and yet I knew he noticed everything—the slightest flinch, the tightness in my hands, the way my breath caught when I remembered.
I sat there with the fruit juice between my hands, staring down at the table. The pieces in my head started falling into place like shards of broken glass.
It made sense now.
When my ex cooked, he never let me into the kitchen. When I ate, I had issues—stomach cramps, nausea, weakness. My weight kept falling. My back and legs burned with pain. But when I cooked for myself, I felt fine. And when his parents cooked, it was the same—days of sickness after.
They hated me. Told me I was a bad wife, a bad mother, a bad housekeeper, that every other woman was better. I worked all day and through the night, washed their bedsheets, cared for them when they were sick, cooked, cleaned, raised children. My ex never changed a single diaper. Even asking him to take us to a hospital was a battle.
What was I thinking, believing I could survive like that?
My eyes blurred. My breath caught, and hot tears spilled onto my hands before I could stop them. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to hold it all in, but the dam had cracked.
Across the table, Sebastian's fingers stopped drumming on his cup. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now, steady and grounding.
"Aria," he said softly, "it wasn't your fault. None of this was."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling. "It feels like it's all true… but I can't believe it. Why would anyone do this? Why…"
The words caught in my throat. My hands shook as I tried to steady them on the table. My mind raced, trying to put pieces together, trying to make sense of the chaos I had lived through.
I had to pull myself together, but I was barely holding on. The realization hit me fully—I had been trapped, manipulated, weakened… and now it all made sense. Every ache, every sickness, every cruel word, every unfair demand.
It was almost too much. My body went cold, and yet a strange clarity ran through me. I saw the pattern, the control, the danger. And for the first time, I understood that leaving, surviving, and fighting back wasn't just necessary—it was inevitable.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied me. "Aria… did you feel sleepy after eating their food?"
I swallowed, my throat dry. "Yes… for hours," I admitted quietly. "I was weak… almost couldn't move."
He nodded slowly, his jaw tight. I could feel the shift in him—his usual calm tempered by something darker. His hands curled into fists on the table, and I caught the glint of controlled anger in his eyes.
"I could… send an inspection onto them," he said, voice low but seething. "Make them pay for what they did. Make sure no one ever treats anyone this way in that house again."
I looked down at my hands, trembling slightly—not from fear, but from a mix of relief and awe. Relief that he saw the truth, and awe at the sheer force he could unleash if he wanted. But part of me felt a twinge of guilt—I didn't want revenge, not fully. I just wanted… safety.
He noticed my hesitation. "I don't mean to scare you," he said, softer now, reaching a hand across the table. "I just… I can't stand to see this done to you."
I stared at him, my hands tightening around the glass. "No… I don't like aggression. I don't like revenge," I whispered, almost to myself. "I'm not like that."
He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned back slightly, letting out a slow breath. "I see," he said quietly. "You're not… like them. You're stronger than that. You want to survive, not destroy."
I nodded, feeling a small weight lift from my chest. Even though my body ached and my mind was still reeling, I realized I had a line I wouldn't cross. I wanted freedom, safety, my life back—not to become someone else's weapon.
Sebastian didn't push. He just reached over and placed a steady hand near mine on the table, a quiet promise of protection without force. And in that moment, I knew I could begin to trust him—not with my body alone, but with the fragile pieces of my mind and heart.
What would lab results show? What now?