Chapter 11
Atlas’s vision cleared, the haze of rage dissipating, leaving only a cold, steely resolve. “Take her to the police,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, final.
A sharp gasp escaped Ivy’s lips as she struggled for breath, wracked by violent coughs. Clutching her throat, she stared at him in disbelief, horror mingling with desperation. “No… you can’t do this to me,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “Atlas, you love me! You promised—you said you’d always protect me!” Her eyes glistened with hysteria.
Atlas didn't spare her a glance. With a curt wave, his security team moved in, subduing Ivy as her screams echoed through the vast estate.
The moment the door slammed shut, an eerie stillness fell over the house. Atlas inhaled sharply, trying to steady his racing heart. “Still no sign of Celeste?”
“No, sir. No trace of her,” came the quick reply.
His throat tightened. Without another word, he ascended the stairs, his footsteps heavy as he entered their bedroom. The bed was untouched, the sheets still faintly carrying her scent. He lowered himself onto the mattress, burying his face in the pillows as if he could will her back into existence. His fingers brushed against a single long strand of her hair. Carefully, he picked it up, cradling it against his chest. A breath trembled from his lips. And for the first time in years, a single tear slid silently down his face. “Celeste… where are you?”
He lay on her pillow, staring at the ceiling, the past rushing back with cruel clarity: her gaze hazy with love on those late nights; her whispered name, curled against his chest, believing herself safe in his arms.
His body jolted upright as a sharp pain shot through his chest. He gasped for air, but it felt as if a weight pressed down on him, suffocating him. He had to get out.
Atlas bolted down the stairs, shoving open the front door and stumbling outside, the cold night air hitting his burning skin. But it offered no relief. Every shadow, every scent, every memory was a blade against his already ravaged soul.
He staggered toward the driveway, his body moving on instinct, the crushing grief unrelenting. He collapsed onto the steps of the grand entrance, his hands gripping his hair, his eyes vacant.
The rain began softly, then intensified into a downpour. Yet he didn't move. The icy water seeped into his clothes, his skin, his bones, but the numbness had settled in long before the rain began. His body swayed, exhaustion dragging him under. Then, everything went black.
On the other side of the world, the midday sun beat down relentlessly, beads of sweat trickling down my skin as I pressed forward, my boots digging into the rocky path. I was nearly there. My breath was ragged, my limbs heavy, but as I lifted my gaze, my heart swelled. The mountain peak stood just ahead, towering against the endless blue sky.
A weary smile touched my lips. With one last push, I stepped onto the summit. The world unfolded beneath me—a breathtaking expanse of valleys and rivers, rolling hills and endless horizons. I threw my arms open, letting the wind rush past, carrying away the last remnants of my old self.
This had been my father’s dream—to see the world, to stand atop mountains, to embrace the vastness of the earth. But he never got the chance. So now, I would do it for him. For us.
For five years, I had dreamed of traveling, of seeing more than the walls of that estate, more than the same city I had been confined to. But every time, Atlas had found a reason to stop me. And so, year after year, I had stayed. For five years, the only sight I had truly seen was him.
But not anymore. From now on, my world would be filled with landscapes, oceans, stars—everything I had once been denied. I lifted my camera, capturing the beauty before me, the moment frozen in time. And then, with a small, determined breath, I uploaded it online. A reminder that freedom was always within reach.
“Mr. Whitmore! We’ve found her. Someone posted a photo of her from the mountain summit on Instagram.”