The next morning, I woke to sunlight spilling through the tall windows. My body still ached, but the new house made even pain feel lighter somehow. Sebastian was already in the kitchen, making coffee. The smell filled the room, warm and steady, grounding me.
"Good morning," he said, looking up with that calm intensity that always made me feel both safe and challenged. "Today, we start small. First, a walk outside. You need fresh air, and your body needs movement."
I hesitated. My legs still trembled, my back burned, and the thought of walking felt impossible. But the look in his eyes—expectation mixed with care—pushed me forward. "Okay," I whispered.
He guided me gently outside. The morning air was crisp, and the forest nearby stretched like a quiet ocean of green. Each step was shaky, painful, but he stayed close, his presence a steady anchor.
As we walked, he spoke—about his life, his rise from nothing, the mistakes he'd made, the lessons learned. His words painted a picture of strength I hadn't dared imagine for myself. "Strength," he said, "isn't just about power. It's about endurance, courage, and knowing who you are. You have all of that, Aria. You just need to believe it."
I listened, taking in every word, while small flickers of my trauma surfaced—memories of fear, helplessness, and betrayal. He noticed. He didn't judge, didn't push. He just said, "You feel that pain because it matters. But you can use it. You can turn it into fuel."
By the time we returned home, my legs were trembling, but my chest felt lighter. For the first time, I saw possibility. I could be strong. I could rise. And I had someone who would not let me stay broken, who would guide me—even if it took months, years, a lifetime.
That day marked the first step in reclaiming my life. Sebastian's lessons were harsh at times, gentle at others, but always clear: I was to learn, to grow, to stand. And slowly, for the first time in years, I felt the stirrings of hope and power inside me—ready to bloom.
Over the next few days, Sebastian pushed me gently but firmly. Morning walks became routine, short stretches at first, then longer. Each step made my body ache, but each ache reminded me I was alive. And with every day, my mind began to sort through the chaos of the past.
I started noticing patterns, tiny details that had seemed meaningless at the time: how my ex never let me cook, how certain meals made me weak for hours, the subtle ways my family watched me like I was fragile—or worse, disposable. Each memory stung, but seeing them in order made something click inside me. It wasn't me. I didn't cause this.
One evening, as we sat on the small porch of our new home, the sun setting in streaks of orange and pink, I whispered, almost to myself, "It makes sense now… everything."
Sebastian glanced at me, his caramel skin glowing in the sunset, dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. "Go on," he said gently, curious but patient.
"I… when I cooked, I felt fine. When they cooked, I got sick. I felt weak, dizzy, sick for days. They… they did this to me," I said, voice trembling. "I thought I was imagining it, that I was crazy. But now… it all fits. It's not me, it's them. They were controlling, hurting me… poisoning me, in small ways, over years."
He reached out, brushing my hair back from my face. "Aria… you see the truth now. That's powerful. Most people live their lives blind to it. You see it. And now, we use that clarity to rebuild you."
I swallowed hard, tears brimming. Pain, fear, shame—all tangled inside me. But Sebastian's steady presence held me upright. For the first time, I realized that while the past could scar me, it didn't have to define me. I could rise. I would rise.
And in that moment, I felt the faint spark of something long buried: hope, strength, and a fierce determination. I would reclaim my life. I would fight for my daughters. And nothing—not my past, not my ex, not my family—would ever make me small again.
Sebastian cooked for me every day, never complaining, never questioning. Slowly, over the months, my body began to change. The trembling that once made me drop cups and spill coffee almost disappeared. My digestion, fragile and unpredictable, steadied bit by bit. Only the deep pain and weakness remained, clinging to me like an unwanted shadow.
But there was something else, too. He took me to other doctors—ones who listened, who cared. They examined me and spoke gently, explaining what my body had been through. I began to understand that my health wasn't fine, that my issues wouldn't go away easily—or perhaps not at all.
And that realization broke me in a way nothing else had.
Because their voices returned, echoing in my skull like a curse.
It's your fault.
You're pretending to be sick.
It's all in your mind. Stop taking medication, you don't need it.
Then the words that burned the deepest:
You're my wife. You should do your duty. It's your fault it doesn't work. If it hurts, it will pass soon. Just suffer a few more minutes.
And the worst of all, words that were knives:
You should go to a mental hospital and get money. At least pretend to be dumb. Take those drugs.
I sat on the edge of the bed, their voices rattling inside me, and asked myself again and again: Why? Why did they do this to me? They said they loved me. They said they cared. Yet every action, every moment of my life under them was a slow erosion of my body and my mind.
Even my mother. She, who should have understood me most. She, who should have protected me. I have my own children, and I would die to protect them. How could she not? How could she stand there, watching?
I was screaming inside, though my lips were silent. My whole life had been like watching a stranger in the mirror, a version of myself that didn't notice the chains tightening, didn't notice how bad it had become year after year.
And yet… in that moment, a spark ignited.
I straightened my back and breathed.
I decided.
I would become a businesswoman. I would rebuild myself piece by piece, no matter how broken I felt. And if one day I met them on the street, I wouldn't cower. I wouldn't beg. I wouldn't even look down.
I would walk past them in my own glory—my own life that I built.
I will never let them walk on me again.
I will never beg again.
I am a strong person.
I lived through hell.
And now I will rise.
I sat at the wooden table, the early morning sun spilling across its surface, and looked at Sebastian. My hands fidgeted in my lap. "What can I build? How do I do this? Can you… teach me?"
He smiled, the corners of his caramel-toned face lifting in a way that made the warmth in his eyes almost tangible. "Of course I can," he said. "But first… you need to change."
I frowned. "Change what?"
"Your hair," he said simply.
"No," I replied, instinctively. But he didn't let it go.
"You need to change your image," he said gently but firmly. "You've been carrying memories in that haircut—memories of pain, of control, of everything they did to you. If you want to move forward, we start with this."
I hesitated, then sighed. "Fine."
He took the scissors with a quiet confidence, and I felt my pulse quicken. My hair had been cut haphazardly at home, uneven and neglected, a reflection of the years I had been trapped. My ex never took me to a hairdresser. He never cared. But now… now it felt different.
As he snipped away, the strands fell to the floor, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Short… edgy… almost like a boy. I gasped, shocked by the transformation.
But as days passed, I started to like it. The new look felt freeing, a small but real step away from the person they had tried to keep me as. A version of me that was afraid, silent, and hidden.
I even started video calls with my girls. When they saw me, one squealed with excitement while the other's eyes welled up. I explained softly, "It's easier for me now when I go to therapy, and I need to dry my hair. It's practical."
And it was. Every strand of hair that fell felt like a little weight lifted off my shoulders—a first, small step toward building a life of my own.
I listened carefully as Sebastian spoke, his voice calm but firm, guiding me through ideas I had never even dared to imagine.
"If you want," he said, "you can add half of your investment into a plan I have for starters."
I thought about it. Half of what little I had… it wasn't much, but why not? I had already lost so much; I couldn't lose more. Slowly, I nodded.
We did it.
We got a piece of land not far from our home, and he helped me plant an orchard. Rows of young trees stretched across the field, small but full of potential. He crouched beside me, hands in the soil, explaining patiently.
"Look," he said, pointing to a row of saplings, "this is a long-term investment. Over the years, these trees will bear fruit—sellable fruit, at a good price. Even when I'm gone, you will have this. You can sell by tons. Do you understand?"
I nodded, feeling the weight and the promise of his words.
"Now," he continued, "let me teach you how to calculate this as a businesswoman. You need to know the costs, the growth cycles, the market price, the profit margins. This isn't just planting—this is running a business. You will make decisions. You will think for yourself."
I felt something shift inside me—a mixture of fear, excitement, and determination. For the first time, I imagined a life where I was not just surviving, but building, planning, creating something that was truly mine.
And in that moment, standing among tiny trees that would one day grow tall and strong, I realized: I could do this. I would do this.