All Chapters of Unworthy No More : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Isla's POV The door creaked open and a nurse stepped in, her expression polite, clipboard in hand. “Ms. Isla? Sorry to interrupt. We just need your signature on the post-operative recovery consent forms.” I wiped a hand down my skirt. “Right. Of course.” I took the pen with fingers that no longer trembled. Nathaniel stirred as I stepped past him. “Viola…” he mumbled again. I didn’t flinch. I just signed whilst thanking the nurse. Then she walked out, leaving me in my heartbreaking silence. The moment the door swung open without so much as a knock, the brittle thread holding me together snapped. I was sitting there, barely able to breathe, clutching the fading hope that Nathaniel’s whispered words were some cruel illusion, words that cut sharper than any blade: “Viola… I only love you.” I forced my hands to stillness, but inside, everything trembled. My body screamed at me to stand, to run, to scream, but I was trapped in a web of disbelief and dread. And then she walked in. Viola

Isla’s POVThe rain did not fall, it crashed mercilessly. Each drop felt like a punishment, cold and sharp against my skin as I stood at the edge of the roadside, clutching Sophie close to my chest. Her arms were wrapped tightly around my neck, her nose buried in my soaked collar. She hadn’t spoken in the last ten minutes, and that scared me more than the cold.It was almost midnight. The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional blur of headlights sweeping past. My coat was drenched, clinging to me like a second skin, heavy with water and failure. The hem of my skirt had absorbed so much rain it dragged against the sidewalk with every sluggish step.My suitcase, a flimsy old thing with one broken wheel, snagged on every crack in the pavement, squeaking in pitiful protest. I had stopped trying to pull it gracefully; now I just dragged it behind me like dead weight.I had nowhere to go. No motel. No family. No friend nearby. Just a half-drained phone and a shivering three-year

Isla’s POVThe leather smelled rich and clean. Not the artificial kind pumped through cheap taxis, but a scent like cedar and cool wind. The moment the door closed behind me, the chaos of the street fell away. The silence inside the car was almost… sacred.Sophie curled into my side, wet, shivering, and silent. Her little giraffe clutched like a lifeline. I wrapped the damp blanket tighter around her and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. We’re safe now.” I was not sure if I said it for her or for me.A warm hum filled the car. The air conditioning shifted, cooling down, then warming gently. It was like the car sensed us and adjusted. I looked up and met his eyes in the mirror. For a moment, time did not move.The man in the backseat was no longer a silhouette. Now he was real. Solid. A force. The kind of man who did not need to speak to command the room, or in this case, the whole damn car. Alexander Langston.The rainwater had not touched him. Not one drop. His bespoke black suit was imma

Isla’s POVAs the sun streamed through sheer white curtains, Sophie stirred beside me, curled into my side like a kitten. Her breathing was light, and peaceful. For a moment, I simply watched her sleep. Then I remembered the envelope waiting for me in my bag.I slipped out of bed carefully, my feet cold against the hardwood floor. Liz had left a note on the kitchen counter, she had an early breakfast meeting and would be back around noon. The place smelled like vanilla and lemon. Clean, occupied and loved.I made Sophie a bowl of oatmeal, then opened my bag and pulled out the envelope. Cream-colored. Heavy. My name scrawled in calligraphy. The official court seal stamped in red. My fingers trembled. I sank into the kitchen chair, slowly peeling the flap open. Words stared up at me, clinical and cruel: “In the matter of custody: Nathaniel Blake hereby files for full custody of minor child, Sophie Blake, on grounds of financial instability, unsafe housing, and lack of sufficient suppor

Isla’s POV The smell of leather and floor polish now clung to my hands the way grief once did. It was my third week at the shoe store. I had learned how to polish boots to a glassy shine, arrange heels by color gradient, and smile through cracked lips and burning arches. The cash register beeped like a metronome of monotony, and my voice had memorized the same lines: “Would you like to try a size up? These run a bit tight.” No one knew who I was here. And I preferred it that way. Until today. It started like any other shift. I had just finished helping a tired-looking mother try on sneakers for her teenage son when the doorbell chimed again. And in walked the past. Three women. No, three girls I once walked hallways with, shared classrooms and group assignments with. People I had beaten in debates, academic awards, and internships. The first one I recognized immediately. Clara. Law school dropout, but pretty enough to coast through life. Her laughter could slice air. The secon