Left To Die: Now The CEO Begs
On our third anniversary, my husband Marcus walked out on our dinner because his "best friend" Izzy had a crisis.
That was the ninth time he chose her call over my presence. According to the sick bet I made with her years ago, it was game over.
But the true end didn't come in a restaurant. It happened inside a plummeting elevator.
When the cable snapped and the emergency brakes slammed us to a halt, I lay trapped under debris, my leg fractured and head bleeding. Izzy, terrified but scratched-free, screamed for help.
Marcus didn't even look at me.
He stepped over my broken body to scoop her up.
"I've got you, Iz," he whispered, carrying her out to safety while I lay alone in the dust, gasping his name.
He left me to die in that metal box.
Later, when I confronted him, he called me "unstable" and "jealous." He claimed I was a burden, a placeholder he married just to pass the time until Izzy was ready for him.
He even shoved me into a freezing lake to protect her from a confrontation she started.
He thought I would always be there, the pathetic wife waiting in the shadows. He thought his love was a prize I would endure any torture to keep.
He was wrong.
I signed the divorce papers, threw my ring into the ocean, and vanished without a trace.
Three years later, I returned to New York as a celebrated artist, with a man who treated me like a masterpiece, not a prop.
Marcus, now ruined by Izzy’s lies and stripped of his fortune, found me. He knelt in the rain on the city street, weeping, begging for one more chance to fix us.
I looked down at the husband who had let me drown.
"There is no 'us', Marcus," I said calmly.
Then I turned my back on him and walked into my future.
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Chapter 6
Ellie POV
Maine offered a specific kind of silence. It was the kind of quiet that didn't ask anything of me.
I sat on the porch of the rental cottage, a thick wool blanket draped around my shoulders. The ocean was a slate gray, battering the rocks below. It looked angry, but from here, it was just a picture behind glass.
The sliding door hissed open. Julian stepped out, balancing two mugs of coffee. Steam rose from them, ghosting into the cold air.
He didn't say anything at first. He just handed me a mug and perched on the railing opposite me.
"How are the ribs?" he asked.
"Better," I said. "The bruising is fading to yellow."
"And the head?"
"Still attached."
He smiled. It was a small, guarded thing. Julian had been hovering like a sentinel for the last week. He had driven me here, stocked the fridge, and seemingly taken a leave of absence from his own life just to make sure I didn't drown in mine.
"You don't have to stay, Julian," I said, blowing on my coffee. "I'm not going to walk into the ocean."
"I know," he said. "I'm staying because the coffee here is better than in the city."
"Liar."
He took a sip. "Okay. I'm staying because I don't trust you not to starve yourself."
I looked down at the dark liquid in my cup. I had lost weight. My rings—if I were still wearing them—would have slipped right off my knuckle.
"I'm eating," I said.
"Toast doesn't count as a meal, Ellie."
We sat in silence for a while. It wasn't uncomfortable. Julian was the only person who didn't look at me with pity. He looked at me with expectation. He expected me to survive this.
My phone buzzed on the small wooden table between us, vibrating like an angry hornet.
I stared at it. I had changed my number, but Chloe had it. She was the leak in my submarine, letting the water of my old life drip in.
"It's Chloe," I said.
"You don't have to answer," Julian said.
I picked it up. If I didn't answer, she would call the local police. Chloe's love was a battering ram.
"Hey," I said.
"Ellie!" Chloe’s voice was breathless. "Are you sitting down?"
"I am."
"Don't freak out. Okay? Promise me you won't freak out."
"Chloe, just say it."
"It's Marcus. And Izzy."
My hand tightened around the phone. I felt a phantom pain in my ankle, right where the elevator debris had pinned me.
"What about them?" I asked. My voice sounded flat, even to my own ears.
"They're engaged," Chloe said. "It's all over Page Six. It's... Ellie, it's disgusting."
I looked out at the ocean. Engaged. Of course. It had been less than a month since the elevator accident. Less than a month since he left me bleeding on the floor to carry her out.
"Tell me," I said.
"You don't want to know the details."
"Tell me."
Chloe sighed. "It was huge. He rented out the botanical gardens in Brooklyn. You know, the one with the rare orchids?"
I knew it. I had begged Marcus to go there with me for our first anniversary. He said he hated humidity.
"He filled the place with white lilies," Chloe continued. "And he hired a private cellist to play that song... the one she likes."
*Clair de Lune*. Izzy loved *Clair de Lune*.
"And the ring?" I asked.
Chloe hesitated. "It’s a yellow diamond. Massive. And... he gave her a Chanel bag. A vintage one. Apparently, it was a 'just because' gift before the proposal."
I closed my eyes.
Rare orchids. Private concerts. Vintage Chanel.
It wasn't just a proposal. It was a performance.
I remembered the bet. The nine times. Izzy had set the terms, and Marcus had followed the script perfectly. Every time he chose her, he was putting a coin in her slot machine. And now, she had hit the jackpot.
He didn't just leave me. He erased me.
I was the intermission. I was the commercial break between the episodes of the Izzy and Marcus show.
"Ellie?" Chloe asked. "Are you there?"
"I'm here," I said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have told you."
"No. I needed to hear it."
There was a pause on the line. I could hear the traffic of New York in the background. It sounded like a different planet.
"There's one more thing," Chloe said. Her voice dropped an octave.
"What?"
"The NYU Alumni Gala is this weekend."
I laughed. It was a dry, cracking sound. "So? I'm not going."
"Everyone is going to be there, Ellie. Marcus. Izzy. They're going to parade around like royalty."
"Good for them."
"If you don't go," Chloe said, her voice hardening, "they win. They get to tell the story. They get to say you're crazy, that you ran away, that you're broken."
"I am broken, Chloe."
"No. You're injured. There's a difference."
I looked at Julian. He was watching me closely, his gray eyes unreadable. He knew who I was talking to. He knew what was happening.
"They sent an invite to your old email," Chloe said. "I forwarded it to your new one. Just... think about it."
I hung up.
The silence of Maine suddenly felt heavy. It felt like hiding.
"Bad news?" Julian asked.
"They're engaged," I said.
He didn't look surprised. He nodded slowly. "Fast work."
"He bought her orchids," I said. "He hates flowers."
"He hates flowers for *you*," Julian corrected.
The words stung, but they were true. Marcus didn't lack the capacity for romance. He just lacked the desire to waste it on me.
I felt a strange sensation in my chest. It wasn't heartbreak. It was anger. A cold, hard knot of anger.
I had spent three years trying to be the perfect wife. I had made myself small so he would have more room. I had swallowed my pride until I choked on it.
And for what? To be the villain in their love story?
I opened my email on my phone. There it was. The invitation. Gold script on a cream background.
*You are cordially invited...*
It was at the Pierre Hotel. The same place where Izzy had staged her fall. The scene of the crime.
I looked at Julian.
"Chloe wants me to go to the Alumni Gala this weekend," I said.
Julian set his coffee down. "Do you want to go?"
"No," I said immediately.
"Then don't."
"But if I don't go," I said, staring at the screen, "I'm just the ex-wife who disappeared. I'm the cautionary tale."
"Does it matter what they think?"
"Yes," I whispered. "It matters to me."
I didn't want to hide in Maine forever. I didn't want to be the victim. I wanted to look them in the eye. I wanted to see the happiness Marcus had bought with my misery.
I wanted to make sure it was real. Because if it was real, then I could finally, truly, let go.
I stood up. The blanket fell from my shoulders.
"I'm going," I said.
Julian looked at me. He didn't try to talk me out of it. He didn't tell me it was a bad idea, even though we both knew it probably was.
"Okay," he said.
He stood up and walked over to me. He reached out and fixed the collar of my sweater.
"If you're going," he said, "you're not going alone."
I looked down at the invitation in my hand. My grip tightened until the edges of the phone dug into my palm.
This wasn't a party. It was a funeral for my past. And I intended to be the best-dressed mourner there.
I tapped 'Accept'.