Chapter 5

This morning, Isabella had been doing well. She kissed him goodbye, informing him she would be gone for a week. How? How had this happened? He barely made it inside before collapsing from exhaustion. Reality crashed over him like a tidal wave. She was gone. He had lost his wife.

A strangled sound, between a sob and a roar, escaped his throat. His chest constricted, his hands clenching into fists. The woman he had deceived, the woman he had taken for granted, was gone. Adrian Marsden, for the first time in his life, had lost something irreplaceable.

Isabella Marsden's death was mourned universally. The socialite and philanthropist's shocking disappearance dominated news headlines. Candlelight vigils were held outside the Marsden estate, passersby leaving flowers and murmuring condolences for the seemingly perfect wife taken too soon. Meanwhile, behind the imposing gates and within the once opulent mansion, Adrian Marsden was falling apart.

A stark contrast to his former self, he sat in his study, shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. A man who always held the reins, always had a plan, now had nothing. His usually immaculate office was in disarray, papers strewn across his desk. Beside him sat a half-empty whiskey glass, the amber liquid untouched for the past hour. He hadn't shaved in days; his unkempt beard roughened his once sharp jawline. The low hum of the television was the only sound.

The television reported that Isabella Marsden, the beloved philanthropist whose private jet vanished over the Atlantic two days prior, remained missing despite the discovery of debris. Authorities confirmed Mrs. Marsden’s body hadn’t been found. Experts deemed the odds of survival…

With a sharp click, Adrian switched off the television. Dead. They all wanted him to believe it. He refused. He couldn't. Isabella had to be alive. Not the woman who had always been there for him. No one had ever loved him as she had.

His stomach churned. His phone vibrated; another missed call. His mother, board members, and assistant all demanded answers, all wanted him to carry on. But Adrian couldn't. Not without her.

His fingers trembled as he ran a hand through his tangled hair, the memory of their last morning together screaming at him. Her quiet voice. Her kiss on his cheek. Her parting words, before she left the room: "I know."

How could she have known? What did she mean? Had she suspected something? Had she known something he didn't? The questions tormented him. He frantically searched their recent texts, finding nothing unusual, nothing that hinted at a farewell. Yet, she was gone.

He gripped his phone tighter. This was unacceptable. He had to find her.

Meanwhile, Isabella Marsden had vanished from the world. Standing before a mirror, she barely recognized her reflection. Her meticulously styled dark hair was now sleek, short, and crisp. Her warm brown eyes held a chilling new intensity; the soft features of Adrian Marsden's devoted wife were hardened, dangerous. Adjusting the collar of her tailored black coat, she observed the final transformation. Isabella Marsden was gone. Her name was now Aria Laurent.

Adrian no longer owned her, no longer possessed her. He had broken her, but in doing so, he had created something else: a woman who had given up on him, a woman who would destroy him.

Aria picked up the envelope Keita had left on the table, turning from the mirror. Inside were her new documents: a fresh passport, a new identity, a new beginning. But this wasn't an escape; it was a return. Not as the grieving widow the world believed her to be, but as the woman who would inflict the same pain on Adrian Marsden that he had inflicted on her.

She grabbed her phone, opening the article about her disappearance. The image showed Adrian outside their estate, utterly devastated. He deserved far worse. She typed a message to Keira and closed the article.

Aria: Are things all set up?

A moment later, the response arrived.

Keira: Confirmed. But are you sure about this? There’s no turning back.

A slow, deliberate smile spread across Aria’s lips.

Aria: There never was.

Pocketing her phone, she stepped outside. Despite the cold biting at her skin, she felt alive. Free, for the first time in a long time. But freedom wasn't enough. She craved retribution, and she would have it.

Back at the Marsden estate, Adrian sat in the dark, clutching a nearly empty whiskey bottle. The house was silent, empty. He’d sent everyone away. His mother had begged him to pull himself together, but there was nothing left to salvage. His world had shattered. Yet, something deep inside gnawed at him. Something felt wrong. It wasn't just grief; it was a persistent feeling, a certainty that Isabella wasn't dead.

He sat up abruptly, slamming the bottle down. His mind raced. Debris had been found, but no body. Why? Why was there no trace of her? Then, the thought hit him like a freight train. What if this wasn't an accident? What if Isabella had left deliberately?

His heart pounded. No. It couldn't be. Yet, he knew deep down he had underestimated her. If Isabella was alive… where had she gone? And what was she planning?