Left To Burn: My Husband's Betrayal

Holden Jackson POV: I stood in the airport, a frantic, desperate plea in my voice, but the airline agent just shook her head, her face impassive. "I'm sorry, sir. We cannot disclose passenger information." The vast, echoing terminal, once a symbol of endless possibilities, now felt like a prison. I was trapped, lost, with no idea where to go. She was gone. Truly gone. I drove home, the city lights a blur. The mansion loomed, dark and silent, a monument to my colossal failure. I flipped the light switch, but the emptiness persisted, a chilling presence in every corner. Her scent, once subtly present, was now completely gone. I found a bottle of whiskey and drank until my throat burned, until the world spun, until I collapsed, retching, into the toilet. I looked at my reflection in the mirror-a stranger, gaunt and disheveled, eyes bloodshot and haunted. My wedding ring, which I'd left on the nightstand, felt like a lead weight in my hand. I stared at it, thinking of throwing it away, but my fingers clenched, unable to release it. Isabelle called. I answered, my voice laced with a venom I hadn't known I possessed. "Don't ever call me again, Isabelle. Not ever." I hung up before she could respond, then hurled my phone against the wall. It shattered, a fitting metaphor for my life. I sank to the floor, surrounded by the debris of my anger. Broken glass, shattered memories. My eyes landed on our wedding photo, still hanging on the wall. Celeste, radiant in white, her eyes shining with a love I had so carelessly trampled. She loved me. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, a belated understanding that tore through my chest. And I killed that love. I scrambled through the house, searching for anything, any scrap of her presence. Her old scarves, a half-finished book she had been reading, a forgotten hairclip. Each item was a punch to the gut, a reminder of what I had lost. I remembered her quiet acts of service, her unwavering support, her gentle smiles. I remembered how I had dismissed them, taken them for granted, always comparing her to Isabelle, always finding her lacking. Now, the house was silent. Empty. The space she once filled was a gaping wound. I tried to work, but my mind was blank. My empire, once my sole focus, felt meaningless. I pulled every string, leveraged every connection, but Celeste had vanished without a trace. It was as if she had erased herself from existence. I flew to every major city in Europe, a desperate, pathetic quest, plastering her face on "Missing" posters that were quickly torn down. I posted on social media, begging for her return, only to be ridiculed and condemned by strangers who called me out for my past cruelty. My appearance deteriorated. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping. My clothes hung loosely on my emaciated frame. My assistant, a loyal but exasperated man, tried to intervene. "Mr. Jackson, you're destroying yourself. She doesn't want to be found." I ignored him. I found Maya's address, Celeste's best friend, and waited outside her apartment building for an entire night, a desperate, shivering wreck. She finally emerged the next morning, her eyes cold as she saw me. "What do you want, Holden?" "Maya, please," I begged, my voice hoarse. "Tell me where she is. Please." She scoffed, a look of profound disgust on her face. "She's not 'Celeste,' Holden. She's Celeste. And she doesn't want anything to do with you." "But… I love her, Maya," I stammered, the words tasting like ash. "I need her." Maya's eyes pierced through me. "You love her? Or you love the idea of her loving you? You don't even know what love means, Holden. Tell me, why are you really looking for her?" I stumbled backward, unable to answer. The truth was, I didn't know. I was just a desperate, broken man, chasing a ghost. "She said… 'sorrow is greater than death'," Maya whispered, her voice chillingly soft. "She's dead to you, Holden. And you killed her." The words echoed in my head, a death knell. I drove aimlessly, the city lights a blur. My mind replayed every moment, every callous word, every dismissive gesture. I looked through my phone, searching for photos of her. There were so few. Most of them were of Isabelle. Then, I found an old video, tucked away in a forgotten folder. It was from the night before our wedding. Celeste, in a simple white dress, practicing her vows in front of a mirror, her eyes shining with so much love, so much hope. She was so beautiful, so pure. And I had destroyed her. A sharp pain lanced through my chest. I gasped, clutching my heart. The regret was a physical agony, tearing me apart from the inside. My phone died, plunged into darkness once more. I returned to the mansion, now a hollow tomb. As I cleaned up the shattered glass, I found it. Her old digital diary, hidden in a loose floorboard. I tried to guess the password. It was our wedding anniversary. I opened it, my heart pounding with a mixture of dread and desperate hope. Her words, raw and unfiltered, poured out, a scathing indictment of my cruelty. Ten years of silent, unrequited love. The pain of mimicking Isabelle, just to catch my eye. My cold, transactional proposal. My emotional neglect, my constant prioritizing of Isabelle. Then came the entries about my mother's death, and Isabelle's birthday. The same day. I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. Every year, I had chosen Isabelle over Celeste, over her grief. And she had never said a word. Then, the entry about her pregnancy. Her hope. Her joy. Her little secret, waiting to surprise me.