All I Gave, All Betrayal

I died exactly twenty-four hours ago.

Now, my shattered soul floated against the ceiling of our Seattle penthouse, completely invisible.

The heavy oak front door swung open, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

"It’s massive, Julian," Celeste said, stepping into the foyer.

"Make yourself at home," Julian replied.

He didn't look around. He didn't glance at the empty space by the console table where I always left my keys. He just reached out, grabbed Celeste by the waist, and pulled her against his chest.

"Are you sure we should be here?" Celeste asked, tilting her head up.

"Why wouldn't we be?"

"It just feels a little strange. Being in her house."

"It’s my house," Julian corrected, his tone flat. "She just lives here."

He dragged her out of the entryway and straight into the living room. They crashed onto the center cushions of the pale gray sofa.

My chest would have ached if I still had a physical heart. I spent six months tracking down that exact Camillini leather sofa in Milan. I negotiated the shipping. I arranged the delivery.

Julian didn't care about any of that. He pinned Celeste against the expensive Italian leather and kissed her.

They kissed recklessly, without hesitation. Celeste tangled her fingers in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Julian’s hands roamed over her waist, gripping her tight.

I watched from above, a silent spectator to my own replacement.

Celeste finally pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. "Wait. I'm starving. My flight was six hours long."

Julian leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. "Check the kitchen. There should be something in the fridge."

"You don't have a chef?"

"He comes on Tuesdays. Today is Friday. Just look inside."

Celeste pushed herself off the sofa and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor. She opened the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. The bright LED light illuminated her face as she rummaged around.

"Oh, look at this," she called out.

She pulled out a glass container.

"What is it?" Julian asked, not moving from the sofa.

"Looks like pasta. It smells incredible." Celeste popped the lid off. "Black truffle?"

"Heat it up in the microwave."

"You want some?" she asked.

"No. Eat it."

I drifted lower, hovering just above the kitchen island.

It was my black truffle pasta. I made it yesterday afternoon. It was supposed to be our anniversary dinner. I spent three hours reducing the sauce, grating the truffles, preparing everything perfectly before I left the apartment to buy the wine.

I never made it back with the wine. The drunk driver at the intersection made sure of that.

The microwave beeped loudly.

Celeste grabbed a fork from the drawer and walked back to the living room, eating straight out of the glass container.

"This is amazing," she mumbled around a mouthful of food. "Did she make this?"

"Probably," Julian said, staring at the television screen. It wasn't even turned on.

"It’s really good. A little heavy on the garlic, though."

"Throw it out if you don't like it."

"No, I'm starving." Celeste curled her legs up underneath her on the sofa.

She set the empty container on the glass coffee table a few minutes later. Her eyes wandered over the surface, stopping on a sleek, metallic object resting near the edge.

"Whoa," Celeste said. She leaned forward. "Is this the new Alienware?"

"Yeah," Julian muttered.

"The limited-edition one? They only made five hundred of these." Celeste ran her manicured nails over the glowing logo on the lid. "I didn't know you were a gamer, Julian."

"I'm not."

"Then why do you have a ten-thousand-dollar gaming laptop sitting on your coffee table?"

"It was a gift."

"From her?"

"Yes."

I had waited in a digital queue for eight hours to secure that computer. Julian complained once, months ago, that his work laptop was too slow for his rendering software. I spent my own savings to buy him the fastest machine on the market.

"Can I open it?" Celeste asked.

"Go ahead."

She flipped the screen up. The mechanical keyboard lit up in a wave of neon colors. She pressed a few keys, listening to the sharp, satisfying clicks.

"The switches feel incredible," she said, typing a random string of letters. "Are you sure she won't mind me touching her stuff?"

"She isn't here to mind."

Celeste stopped typing. She rested her hands on her lap and looked at him.

"Julian?"

"What."

"Where did Scarlett go?"

Julian stood up from the sofa. He walked over to the custom bar cart in the corner of the room. He picked up a heavy crystal tumbler and grabbed a bottle of bourbon.

"She's not here," he said smoothly.

"I know she's not here. But where is she?"

He poured two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass. He swirled it slowly, the ice clinking against the crystal.

He turned around to face her. His deep blue eyes were completely empty. Not a single trace of emotion crossed his face.

"We had a massive blowout a few days ago," Julian lied.

"About what?"

"The usual garbage. She complained about my hours. I told her to drop it. She lost her temper."

"So she just left?"

"She packed a bag," Julian said, taking a sip of the bourbon. "She booked a flight to London. Some fashion week nonsense. She's hiding out there."

I stared at him from the ceiling.

A fight? London?

We didn't fight. I kissed him goodbye yesterday morning. I told him I was making his favorite dinner. He smiled at me.

"How long is she going to stay in London?" Celeste asked, her voice dropping lower.

"I don't know. I don't care."

"Will she be mad if she comes back and finds me here?"

Julian set the glass down on the edge of the bar cart. He walked back over to the sofa and stood right in front of Celeste.

"She's not coming back anytime soon," he said.

"You don't know that."

"I do."

He reached out. His fingers brushed against her shoulder, gently pushing a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

His touch was so light. So incredibly tender.

He never touched me like that. Whenever I cried, he would sigh and walk out of the room. Whenever I asked for comfort, he told me I was being needy.

But with Celeste, his hands were gentle.

"Let's not talk about Scarlett anymore," Julian whispered, his thumb tracing her jawline.

"Okay," Celeste breathed, leaning into his palm.

I watched them from the cold, empty air of the penthouse. The truth hit me with a sudden, violent clarity.

He didn't care where I was. He didn't care that I hadn't answered my phone in twenty-four hours. He just used my absence as an excuse.

My death wasn't a tragedy to him. It was the perfect curtain call. A convenient exit so he could finally welcome back his true love, his perfect white moonlight, without any guilt.

He thought I was pouting in London.

He thought he had all the time in the world to replace me.

Downstairs, the heavy wail of police sirens began to echo through the Seattle streets, growing louder as they approached our building.