La Fiera

Isabella's POV

They say life's key moments are often quiet, yet seismic - subtle shifts that crack you wide open and reshape you from the inside out. I once believed love was one of those moments, the kind that rewrites your story in the blink of an eye. But maybe it's not the grand gestures or dramatic declarations that redefine us. Maybe it's the small, insistent truths that seep into our bones, the ones that make us question everything we thought we knew about ourselves and the world around us.

It wasn't love that changed me.

It was betrayal.

Alejandro's voice still echoes in my head, sharp and cold like shattered glass.

"You should leave. It's better for both of us."

Better. As if I were a problem to be solved. As if the nights we spent tangled in each other's arms, whispering dreams into the dark, had meant nothing. I stood there, stunned, trying to understand if he was serious.

"I love you," I said. Stupid. Desperate. "This is your child."

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to the floor. "You don't understand. My father......."

"I don't care about your father, Alejandro! I care about you. About us!"

"There is no 'us,' Isabella."

That broke me. I didn't cry. Not right away. I just stood there - dumbfounded - as something inside me cracked.

I was only seventeen, but in the span of an afternoon, I lost everything that made me feel safe. My lover. My home. My future. The child inside me - once a secret we held in hope - had become mine alone to carry.

The Aguilla family wasn't just powerful. They were a dynasty. Ruthless. Wealthy. Feared. And their golden boy didn't have room for mistakes - especially not ones that involved a beating heart.

In the days that followed, I packed everything I could into a single duffel bag. A handful of clothes. A few pesos. A folded sonogram. And a worn photo of Alejandro. I stared at it one last time before tearing it into pieces.

The city turned into a cage. Every street corner felt like a threat. Every shadow, a warning. So I ran.

I didn't know where I was going - only that I had to keep moving. My belly had already begun to swell, a quiet declaration of everything I'd lost and everything I still had to protect.

People stared on the bus. Their eyes drifted to my stomach, then away. Some looked at me with pity. Others with judgment. I didn't care. I was too numb to feel anything anymore.

Every bump in the road made my back ache. Every sleepless night wore me thinner. But I had a goal: get away. Disappear. The Aguillas didn't tolerate loose ends, and I was the biggest mistake Alejandro had ever made. Letting me live was a sign of weakness they couldn't afford.

By the third day, I was dizzy from hunger. A kind woman at a small-town clinic gave me crackers and warm tea. She noticed the way my hands trembled, the way my voice wavered. I lied and told her I was visiting family. She smiled like she didn't believe me - but she didn't push.

Kindness hurt more than cruelty.

It was in a mountain village - too small to show up on any official map - that my legs finally gave out. I collapsed outside a produce stand, my skin pale, lips cracked, breath shallow.

Someone shouted for help, and I remember her face before anything else - Clara. Short, broad-shouldered, with eyes that missed nothing.

She didn't ask questions. Just wrapped me in a shawl that smelled like lavender and smoke, and led me to a modest house hidden behind a grove of citrus trees.

That night, I cried harder than I ever had before.

And for the first time in weeks, someone sat beside me and simply held my hand.

Clara never treated me like I was a burden.

She made eggs and beans every morning, and she made me walk even when my ankles ached. She rubbed oil on my belly and hummed lullabies I couldn't understand. Sometimes, she reminded me of the grandmother I never had. Other days, she was a drill sergeant.

But most of all - she was constant.

Weeks passed. My body started to heal. My heart... not so much. I still woke up reaching for Alejandro in dreams. Still froze when I heard tires on gravel. But when I felt my son move inside me for the first time, something shifted.

I realized I wasn't alone anymore.

At first, the villagers whispered about me - the mysterious girl with city eyes and a swelling belly. But Clara was respected, and no one dared question who she let into her home.

Little by little, they stopped seeing me as a stranger. I learned how to hang clothes the "right" way. How to scrub linens with river stones. How to bake sweet pan de elote like Clara - with burnt edges and too much love.

Still, I kept a knife near the bed. Just in case.

Because the Aguillas didn't know where I was.

Yet.

Clara asked me once - only once - if I wanted to tell her what happened.

We were peeling oranges in silence, the sun warming our backs.

"Whatever storm you left behind, niña... is it still chasing you?"

I paused, hands sticky with juice. "It is."

She nodded once. "Then you better grow teeth."

I didn't know what she meant then. But I never forgot it.

Grow teeth.

That night, I started training. Nothing fancy. Just push-ups. Squats. Running the hill behind the house until my legs gave out. Clara never said a word. She just started leaving a jar of water at the top every morning.

Months passed.

My belly grew. So did I.

Clara gave me a small leather notebook. I filled it with names. Faces. I scribbled my fears in one corner and my dreams in the other. The baby kicked harder every day.

Clara taught me how to shoot. How to stitch a wound. How to disappear into the background.

"Just in case," she'd say, eyes always watching something I couldn't see.

And I waited. I knew the past would catch up eventually.

It hadn't yet.

But it would.

Soon.