After Faking My Death, My Stalker Husband Drowned

The candle on my table flickered, casting dancing shadows across the white tablecloth. Three hours. I'd been sitting alone at Le Bernardin for three hours, nursing a glass of water while couples around me enjoyed their anniversary dinners, Valentine's celebrations, or simply Tuesday night dates. The waiter approached for the fifth time, sympathy etched in the lines around his eyes.

"Another few minutes, Mrs. Bennett?" he asked gently.

I nodded, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Yes, please. My husband is... he's just running late."

He was beyond late. The reservation had been for seven, and the restaurant would close at eleven. The elegant watch Gabriel had given me last Christmas—a consolation prize for spending Christmas Eve with Olivia after she'd had a "crisis"—showed 10:15 PM.

My hand drifted to my belly, the small but distinct bump a reminder of what should have been a joyous third anniversary. Five months pregnant with our first child, I'd hoped tonight would be different. That Gabriel would finally see me—truly see me—as his wife, not just the woman who kept his home while he remained emotionally tethered to his first love.

My phone buzzed against the table, the screen illuminating with Gabriel's name. Not a call. A text.

*Can't make tonight. Olivia needs me for her wingsuit prep. I'll make it up to you.*

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. No apology. No acknowledgment that today marked three years of our marriage. Just another cancellation because Olivia needed him. Wingsuit flying—another in her endless series of extreme sports that mysteriously required Gabriel's immediate attention.

"Mrs. Bennett?" The waiter had returned, concern evident in his voice. "Would you like me to bring your meal?"

I shook my head, gathering my purse and coat. "No, thank you. I need to go."

Outside, the March wind bit through my wool coat as I hailed a cab. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, taking in my evening dress and carefully applied makeup, now streaked with tears.

"Bad date?" he asked sympathetically.

"Bad marriage," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

Our Fifth Avenue brownstone was dark when I arrived home. I moved through the silent rooms, turning on lamps, creating warmth in a house that had never truly felt like home. In our bedroom, I changed out of my dress—the one I'd spent weeks choosing, hoping it would make Gabriel look at me the way he used to, before Olivia reappeared in our lives.

I was sitting at my vanity, removing my earrings, when I heard the front door open. Heavy footsteps on the stairs, then Gabriel appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the hallway light.

"You're home early," he said, loosening his tie. No mention of the missed dinner. No apology.

"The restaurant closes at eleven," I replied, my voice steadier than I expected. "I didn't see the point in eating alone any longer."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Tessa, don't start. Olivia is attempting something incredibly dangerous. She needs proper guidance."

"And on our anniversary, that guidance had to come from my husband?"

"This again?" Gabriel's tone sharpened. "You're being melodramatic. It's the pregnancy hormones making you emotional."

I stood, anger finally breaking through the hurt. "It's not hormones, Gabriel. It's three years of being second choice. It's watching my husband drop everything—including his pregnant wife on their anniversary—because another woman called."

He stepped toward me, his expression darkening. "Careful, Tessa. Don't push me on this."

The warning in his voice made me step back, my hand instinctively moving to protect my belly. Gabriel noticed the gesture and his face softened into something that might have looked like remorse to someone who didn't know better.

"Get some sleep," he said, turning away. "You're tired and upset. We'll talk in the morning."

I lay awake for hours, listening to Gabriel work in his study downstairs, the occasional ping of his phone telling me exactly who was messaging him at two in the morning.

When morning came, Gabriel entered our bedroom with a smile that didn't reach his eyes and an envelope in his hand.

"I have a surprise," he announced, sitting on the edge of the bed. "We're going on a trip. To Colorado."

He handed me the envelope containing two first-class tickets. My heart raced as I noted the destination—a small airport near the Rocky Mountains.

"Mountains?" I whispered, my throat tightening. Gabriel knew about my crippling fear of heights. He'd seen me have panic attacks just looking out from our apartment's tenth-floor balcony.

"It'll be romantic," he insisted, his smile fixed and unnatural. "Just what we need to reconnect."

As he spoke, his phone buzzed. He glanced down, and I caught Olivia's name flashing on the screen. His fingers moved quickly to respond, and something cold settled in my stomach.

"When do we leave?" I asked, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

"Today," Gabriel replied, not looking up from his phone. "Pack quickly. Our flight leaves from JFK in three hours."

At the airport, Gabriel guided me through security with a firm hand on my lower back. His touch, once comforting, now sent shivers of dread down my spine. My hands shook as I placed my carry-on on the conveyor belt, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

"Ready for our adventure?" Gabriel asked, his smile not reaching his eyes as he led me toward our gate.

I nodded mutely, unable to voice the fear growing inside me. As we boarded the plane, his phone buzzed again. Another text from Olivia. Another secret smile on my husband's face.

What was waiting for us in Colorado? And why couldn't I shake the feeling that this trip had nothing to do with saving our marriage?