Chapter 8

Atlas pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaustion weighing him down. He returned to the estate. Everything remained exactly as it had always been. His books still lined the shelves. His favorite mug sat on the kitchen counter. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in their bedroom. It was as if she had never left, as if the past twenty-four hours hadn't shattered everything.

He sank onto the leather couch, his gaze fixed on the enormous wedding portrait dominating the living room. The image had always been there, but tonight, for the first time, he truly saw it. The bride and groom stood side by side, hands entwined. To an outsider, they looked like the perfect couple. But a closer look revealed something else: a quiet sorrow lingering in both their eyes. He hadn't understood it before, but now he did. The sadness in his gaze? It was the sadness of a man who had married a woman he believed he didn't love.

In the beginning, they had treated each other like old friends—polite, respectful, but always with an invisible wall between them. Until that night. That night when Atlas came home reeking of whiskey, his composure shattered, his defenses down. He had pinned her beneath him, his breath uneven, his voice raw as he murmured her name again and again like a prayer: Celeste. Celeste. Celeste. She hadn't pushed him away. Instead, she had kissed him first—a hesitant touch that quickly turned desperate. That night, something between them snapped. There was no more distance, only tangled sheets, whispered names, and two hearts pressed so close together it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

From that night on, they had become what the world believed them to be—an inseparable couple, a husband and wife who belonged together. And Atlas had convinced himself that what he felt for her was just guilt. Every birthday surprise he planned, every moment spent by her side—it was all guilt, nothing more.

But now, he finally realized the truth. His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. In the day-to-day moments of their life together, in the small intimacies they had shared, he had fallen in love without even noticing. His eyes squeezed shut, his mind flooding with images of her: the way she laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners; the way she moved in the mornings, hair messy, skin warm from sleep.

Then—another image surfaced—her face, pale with pain. His eyes flew open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His hands trembled as he clutched a delicate silver locket between his fingers. A sharp, unbearable pain tore through his chest, unlike anything he had ever felt before.

“Atlas, don’t be sad,” a soft voice cooed from behind him. Slender arms wrapped around his shoulders, a familiar scent filling the air. Atlas stiffened. For a brief, wild moment, his heart leaped with hope—Celeste, she had come back. He turned abruptly, pulling the figure into a desperate embrace, his voice rough and frantic.

“Celeste, you’re back,” he murmured against her hair. “Don’t leave me. I won’t divorce you. I’ll fix everything—let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you, please.”

A long pause. The body in his arms remained unnaturally still. Then, a quiet, tremulous inhale. And a voice that wasn’t hers. “Atlas… it’s me,” Ivy whispered.

A suffocating silence filled the space between them. For one long, agonizing moment, Atlas remained still. Then, realization crashed into him like a tidal wave. He pushed her away. Ivy stumbled back, her expression faltering. His gaze, once desperate, was now cold, cutting through her like ice.

“You’re not Celeste,” he said, his voice sharp enough to wound. He took a step back, as if repulsed. “Why are you here?”