Chapter 6

Aliza's POV:

A shocked silence fell over the red carpet as I walked away, leaving Dax standing alone. I felt his gaze on my back, a prickling sensation that made my skin crawl. He probably thought I had lost my mind, that I was having a public meltdown. He would attempt to smooth things over, spin a narrative, but for once, I didn't care. The performance was over.

I hailed a taxi, escaping the suffocating glamour of the gala and the suffocating presence of my husband. I didn't go home. Not to his home. I went to my parents' small, cozy house, a place that, despite its own quiet tensions, felt like a sanctuary compared to the gilded cage of the West mansion.

My mother met me at the door, her eyes immediately sensing my distress. "Aliza, darling, what's wrong?" she asked, pulling me into a hug. My father, emerging from his study, looked at me with concern.

"It's Dax," I choked out, the dam finally breaking. Tears streamed down my face. "He's... he's gone too far. He's still obsessed with Frida. He put her on my project, then blamed me for her 'accident,' and then fired me from my dream job! He uses her trauma as an excuse for everything." The words tumbled out, raw and painful. "He even used our baby, my baby, as a bargaining chip for public image."

My parents listened, their faces hardening with every word. My mother stroked my hair. "That man," she murmured, "he's never been good enough for you, Aliza." My father, usually reserved, pounded his fist lightly on the table. "He can't treat you like this! West Enterprises might be powerful, but they can't simply walk all over you!"

"He's still in love with her, Mom," I whispered, the confession tearing through me. "He always has been. He sees me as a convenient distraction, a tool for his family's legacy. He doesn't even know me."

My mother sighed, a deep, weary sound. She held my hand tightly. "Oh, Aliza. That poor boy. Carrying such a heavy burden, living in his mother's shadow." She shook her head. "But you... you deserve more than half a heart, my dear. You deserve complete love."

"But what about the baby, Aliza?" my father asked, his voice softening. "You're carrying his child. That changes everything. You can't just throw away your marriage." He looked at my stomach, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "A child can heal so many wounds." My mother nodded in agreement, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. The weight of their expectations, their hopes for a grandchild, pressed down on me.

Just then, a car pulled up outside. I looked out the window. It was Dax's black sedan. He had followed me. My heart sank.

My mother gave me a stern look. "Aliza, you need to talk to him. Face him. Don't let him walk all over you." She moved to open the door.

Dax stood on our porch, looking surprisingly disheveled for him, though still impeccably dressed. My mother, ever the gracious hostess, offered him a tight, polite smile. "Mr. West," she said, her voice cool. "What a surprise."

Dax offered a practiced smile back. "Mrs. Hayes. Aliza and I had a slight disagreement. I apologize for the abrupt departure." He glanced past her, his eyes searching for me.

My father stepped forward, his expression grim. "Dax, you need to understand, you cannot treat our daughter this way. She's not some toy to be discarded when it suits you. She has a heart. And a brilliant mind."

Dax's smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. "With all due respect, sir, this is a private matter between my wife and me. May I speak with her?"

My mother, sensing the tension, gave me a look. "Go on, Aliza," she urged softly. "Face him." She led my father away, leaving Dax and me alone in the living room.

He walked over to me, his shoulders slumped, a rare vulnerability in his posture. "Aliza," he said, his voice quiet, almost contrite. "I'm sorry. About the gala. About pushing you too hard. I know you've been through a lot." He looked at me, a strange uncertainty in his eyes. "I just... I don't want us to fall apart. Not now. Not with the baby." He reached out, his hand hovering near my arm. "Let's take a trip. Away from all this. Just us. A second honeymoon, of sorts. To reconnect."

A trip. An escape. The idea was tempting, a brief reprieve from the suffocating reality of our marriage. Maybe, just maybe, if we were away from the pressures, away from Frida's shadow, we could find a way back. A foolish hope, I knew, but a desperate one. "Okay," I whispered, surprising even myself. "Okay, Dax. A trip."

We flew to a secluded resort island, a place of pristine beaches and lush, tropical forests. For a few days, it almost felt real. He was attentive, almost kind. We walked on the beach, our hands sometimes brushing, a tentative connection forming in the salty air. We shared quiet dinners, talking about inconsequential things, avoiding the elephant in the room.

One evening, after a particularly pleasant dinner, we returned to our villa. The moonlight streamed through the open balcony doors, casting a soft glow on the bed. He pulled me close, his touch surprisingly gentle. His lips found mine, hesitant at first, then more urgent. I responded, a flicker of the old longing stirring within me. For a moment, just a moment, I allowed myself to forget the pain, the betrayal, the lies. I closed my eyes, letting myself be swept away by the intoxicating promise of his touch. When it was over, he held me close, his breath soft against my hair.

"That was... nice," he murmured, a rare contentment in his voice. He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his hand still resting on my hip. For a fleeting second, I thought, maybe. Maybe there was a chance.

The next morning, we were having breakfast by the pool when I saw her. Frida. She emerged from the main lobby, looking radiant in a wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses, flanked by a small entourage. Her eyes, even behind the dark lenses, seemed to lock onto Dax. A pang of dread shot through me.

Dax saw her too. His body stiffened. His fork clattered against his plate. "Frida," he breathed, a mixture of shock and concern in his voice.

Frida gave a small, sad smile, a picture of fragile vulnerability, and walked past our table, her gaze lingering on Dax for a moment, then dropping. She didn't acknowledge me. She just walked away, her shoulders slumped, a silent plea for his attention.

Dax started to rise. "What is she doing here?" he muttered, a worried frown creasing his brow.

"Dax, no," I pleaded, my hand gripping his arm. "Don't. Not again."

He hesitated, his gaze torn between me and the retreating figure of Frida. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he might choose me. He sat back down, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You're right," he said, though his eyes still followed her. "You're right."

Just then, his phone buzzed. It was Mrs. Evans. He answered, his voice low. I couldn't hear the words, but I saw his face change. A resigned sigh. He hung up.

"Frida's agent found out she was here alone," Dax explained, his voice flat. "They're worried about her mental state after the accident. They sent her here for 'rest and recuperation.' Apparently, she specifically requested this resort, thinking it would be quiet and private." He didn't meet my eyes. He didn't have to. The implication was clear. Frida was here because she knew he was here.

My heart plummeted. It wasn't a coincidence. It was another calculated move, another disruption. My brief reprieve, our "second honeymoon," was shattered. He had chosen me, for a moment, but fate, or rather, Frida, had intervened.

"I need to go," I said, my voice cold, devoid of emotion. I stood up. "I can't do this anymore, Dax."

He looked at me, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. "Aliza, where are you going? Don't be ridiculous. We just had a moment. We were finally-"

"There is no 'us,' Dax," I cut him off, my voice sharp. "There's only you, and her, and the ghost of your past. I can't live like this." I walked away, not looking back, the tropical sun suddenly feeling cold and unforgiving.

I found a quiet spot on the beach, under a swaying palm tree, trying to breathe. Just as I thought I could compose myself, a shadow fell over me. I looked up. Frida. She stood there, sans sunglasses, her eyes red-rimmed, a picture of wronged innocence.

"Aliza," she began, her voice quivering. "I know you hate me. I know you think I'm trying to steal Dax. But you don't understand. Dax and I... we have a connection. A bond forged in trauma. He saved me, Aliza. He promised me."

My blood ran cold. "He promised you what, Frida?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The childhood memory, the boy who had comforted me, had made me a promise, flashed in my mind. The one I had always attributed to Dax.

"He promised to always protect me," Frida whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "After the accident, he was there. He saved me from those dreadful men. He swore he'd never let anything bad happen to me again." She looked at me, her gaze challenging. "You can't compete with that, Aliza. He'll always come back to me."

My mind reeled. Dax saved her? No. It was me. That day, in the abandoned warehouse... the boy with the kind eyes, the gentle touch, the whispered promise... That was me. My memory was clear. He had seen me, a terrified little girl, hiding from men with harsh voices, had shielded me, said he'd always protect me. I had always believed it was Dax. A decade of misguided love, built on a foundation of a lie.

"You're lying," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

Frida' s smile was triumphant, twisted. "Am I? Ask him, Aliza. Ask him who he truly saved that day. Ask him who he made his promise to." She leaned closer, her voice a venomous hiss. "Go ahead. Ask him. He'll choose me. He always does."

A sudden, sharp pain lanced through my abdomen, worse than anything before. My vision blurred. I clutched my stomach, a gasp escaping my lips. Was it the stress? The shock? The absolute, gut-wrenching betrayal? The world spun.

I felt a surge of cold fury, pure and unadulterated. This woman, this manipulative, calculating actress, had built her entire future on a lie, had stolen my past, and in doing so, had destroyed my present. And Dax, blinded by his own misremembered trauma, had let her. He had believed her. He had chosen her, again and again, over me.

"You won't get away with this, Frida," I spat, my voice shaking. "I'm going to tell him the truth. I'm going to expose you."

Frida merely laughed, a cold, brittle sound. "Go ahead, darling. Tell him. He won't believe you. He never believes you." She turned, walking away, leaving me crumpled on the sand, the pain in my body intensifying, the world spinning out of control.

I managed to drag myself back to the villa, the pain now a constant, agonizing throb. Dax was gone. Of course. Just his note on the bedside table: Gone to check on Frida. Be back soon.

My phone rang. It was my lawyer. "Mrs. West," he began, his voice grim. "We have a problem. Frida Brennan has just filed a restraining order against you, claiming you assaulted her in the lab, causing her injury, and now harassed her at the resort." He paused. "And she's claiming you're deliberately trying to disrupt her career and her personal life. She's alleging emotional distress, and she's using the 'miscarriage' as proof of your instability."

I dropped the phone. The room swam. My head pounded. Everything was crashing down. Dax, Frida, the baby, my job, my reputation, my very sanity. It was all gone. All because of a lie, a misremembered past, and a man who refused to see the truth.

Suddenly, the world went black. I felt a sharp, indescribable pain, a tearing sensation, and then, nothing. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, the phone still clutched in my hand, my last conscious thought a desperate, silent plea for it all to end.