Chapter 4

She checked her phone: 3:12 a.m. Adrian was still downstairs in his study. He wasn't sleeping with her. He wasn't faking it anymore. Silently, she left the bed, creeping through the dimly lit room to the closet. One by one, she removed the jewels he had given her—the pearl earrings from their anniversary, the diamond bracelet, and finally, her wedding ring. Each item felt like a lie.

She placed them on the dresser in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Adrian would find them. He would understand. But by then, it would be too late.

Morning

A deafening silence hung in the air. Isabella, in a cream blouse and tailored trousers, descended the grand staircase as sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Adrian sat in the dining room, impeccably dressed in a blue suit, a cup of coffee in his hand. His gaze shot up the instant she entered, but there was no easy smile, no playful charm—only tension.

They hadn't spoken much since their confrontation. He had tried—small talk, a fleeting touch—but she had rebuffed him. Now, as she took her seat, his scrutiny felt heavy.

"You barely touched your dinner last night," he observed.

She met his gaze steadily. "I wasn't hungry."

Adrian studied her for a moment before setting down his cup. His tone softened. "Isabella, we need to—"

"My flight is early," she interrupted, reaching for her juice. "I should leave soon."

Adrian's brows furrowed. "Flight?"

Had he not been listening when she told him last night?

"For the charity event in London," she reminded him. "I told you weeks ago."

It wasn't entirely a lie. The event existed; she just wouldn't be attending. She would be disappearing.

Adrian sighed, rubbing his temple. "Right. I must have forgotten."

Of course, he had.

"How long will you be gone?"

She shrugged. "Two weeks, maybe more."

Long enough for everyone to believe she was truly gone.

Adrian leaned back, studying her intently. "You've been distant."

She tensed, her fingers tightening around her glass. He had destroyed their marriage, built another life behind her back, and yet, he acted as if she was the problem?

Forcing composure, she took a slow sip of juice. "I just have a lot on my mind."

Adrian reached for her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

"I love you, Bella."

Her stomach churned. She heard his voice from the video—low, possessive, saying the same words to Celeste: "She's mine." The urge to pull her hand away was almost unbearable, but instead, she leaned in, kissing his cheek lightly. A final act. A last lie. "I know," she whispered.

Departure

The airport bustled—passengers hurrying to their destinations, families embracing, flight attendants calling for boarding. Isabella, however, had no intention of arriving anywhere.

She moved purposefully through security, her phone clutched in her hand. Keira's instructions were clear: wait for the signal, board the private plane, and escape through the restricted service exit. Her bags would be loaded. The flight would appear normal. Then, somewhere over the Atlantic, the plane would "crash." No one would ever find her body. There was no other choice.

As she boarded the jet, the scent of leather and fresh coffee filled the cabin. The flight attendant greeted her with a smile.

"Welcome aboard, Mrs. Marsden."

Isabella nodded, a farewell nod as Adrian's wife. "Thank you."

She fastened her seatbelt, taking a deep breath. Her phone vibrated. A message from Keira.

"The exit is clear. Proceed now."

Her pulse quickened. Now or never. Isabella loosened her seatbelt and, with careful movements, slipped down the narrow corridor toward the rear exit.

One breath. One step. Keira was waiting. Without a word, they disappeared into the restricted area, a black private car idling near the tarmac. Minutes later, Isabella Marsden was gone.

The News Breaks

Adrian sat at his desk, reviewing papers when Charlotte, his assistant, entered, her face pale.

"Sir, you need to see this."

He barely looked up. "Not now."

"It's about Mrs. Marsden."

The papers in his hand stilled. Slowly, he raised his gaze. "What about her?"

Charlotte hesitated before placing a tablet in front of him. The headline sent a chill through him.

BREAKING: ISABELLA MARSDEN’S PRIVATE JET MISSING OVER THE ATLANTIC

His stomach lurched. He reread the words, his mind refusing to accept them.

"Two hours into its flight, the plane lost contact with air traffic control. No wreckage has been found, and authorities suspect a crash. Rescue efforts are underway."

His pulse pounded. No. No, this couldn't be happening.

With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone and dialed her number. Voicemail. He called again. And again. Nothing.

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. "Sir… I'm so sorry."

Adrian's chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly, almost knocking it over. His world spun. Without another word, he left, ignoring Charlotte's calls. He needed air. He needed to breathe. Because this… this wasn't real. It couldn't be.

As he drove home, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white. And for the first time in his life, Adrian Marsden felt something dangerously close to terror.