Chapter 3

Isabella sat on the chaise lounge in her bedroom, gazing at the metropolitan skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She barely recognized the hollow-faced woman reflected in the glass. Three days had passed since the altercation; three days since her world had imploded.

Even the house staff, who knocked politely each morning offering untouched meals, hadn't spoken to her or entered her room. A plate of uneaten breakfast sat beside a half-finished dinner from the previous night on her nightstand. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored the hunger. Sleep had been impossible; she saw them every time she closed her eyes. Celeste and Adrian. The pictures. The invoices. The twins. His kids.

She'd traversed all stages of grief—heartbreak, anger, denial—but now, only emptiness remained.

A gentle knock echoed through the room on the fourth morning. "Sweetheart?"

Isabella tensed. Adrian. He spoke softly, calmly, as if nothing had transpired. She didn't respond. He didn't enter, though the door creaked open slightly. "You haven't eaten. You need to look after yourself."

She almost scoffed. Look after herself? Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the silk sheets. How could he act as if nothing was wrong?

Adrian sighed. "I understand you're upset, Bella. But isolating yourself won't solve anything. We need to talk."

Talk? Now he wanted to talk?

Her voice, rough from days of silence, was barely a whisper. "Go away, Adrian."

After a moment's hesitation, he exhaled quietly. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." The door clicked shut.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears. For three days, this had been her reality. Yet, Adrian had continued to behave as the devoted husband, even texting her goodnight. But she knew precisely where he went after leaving for work. To her.

That afternoon, Isabella scrolled through her phone. Unread texts piled up: concerned friends worried by her silence after their anniversary; her mother-in-law reminding her of an upcoming charity function. No text from Adrian. No need. He was down the hall, playing the husband.

As she prepared to lock her phone, a notification appeared. An unknown number. A video attachment.

Isabella opened it, frowning. Her heart stopped.

Celeste. In a silk robe that barely concealed her body, she began the recording, adjusting the camera. The opulent condo Adrian had bought her—all too familiar. Celeste offered a languid smile to the lens. "I thought you should see this, Isabella. Because it seems you still believe your husband is yours."

The screen shifted. There he was. Adrian. Isabella’s breath hitched. The man who professed his love, who’d deceived her, who’d pretended nothing had changed.

In the video, Adrian leaned against the bed, whiskey in hand, wearing only dark trousers. His wedding ring remained. Celeste climbed onto his lap, purring, "You're so tense tonight."

Adrian tipped his head back, laughing—the laugh Isabella had fallen in love with. "Maybe because my wife is suspicious."

Celeste traced his jawline. "Darling, she knows. Why don't you just let her go?"

Adrian grinned. "Because she's mine."

The video ended. Isabella remained still, her skin burning as if branded. It had actually happened. Everything. For days, she'd been consumed by grief, wondering if Adrian would choose her, if he regretted his actions, if he'd made a mistake. He'd answered that question in another woman's bed.

"Because she's mine." A claim of possession, not affection.

Something snapped. She placed her phone on the table slowly, gazing at it as if it might explode. A profound, unsettling calm settled over her.

Two choices. Remain. Allow the deception. Give him what he wanted. Suffocate under the illusion of a perfect marriage, letting the world believe the lie.

Or… leave. Not as Adrian expected. Not in a messy, drawn-out divorce he could exploit. Not in tears, begging for answers he'd never give. No. She would ruin him with her departure.

She stood, unsteady at first, then straightened, head held high. She knew what she had to do. He would never see the Isabella Marsden he knew again.

She grabbed her phone, typing swiftly. One message. One person she could trust. "Keira, I need your help." No questions. Just, "yes."

Seconds ticked by. Then—

Keira: Yes.

With a sigh, Isabella pocketed her phone. For the first time in days, she felt alive. The city hummed faintly outside, distant, unreal. Her hands were steady, her heart beat strong. No more. It was over. There was no turning back. The plan was in motion. Keira had handled everything—the plane, the paperwork, the transportation. Isabella Marsden would be gone by tomorrow.