Left Behind, Never Looking Back

Gabriel blinked, and for a split second the rage in his eyes wavered. Panic slipped in where certainty had been, and he instinctively stepped back as though the ground beneath him had shifted. His posture, once defensive and sharp, softened into something almost pitiful—something that looked a lot like fear dressed up as denial.

“What? No—absolutely not!” he blurted out, laughing awkwardly like the sound might erase what I had said. He dragged a hand through his hair, clearly unsettled. “Marielle, you’re misreading everything again. I’m not cheating on you. I’m just… protective, okay? Seeing you with Martin threw me off. I got jealous. That’s all. It’s because I love you.”

He reached for me then, hesitating for only a moment before pulling me into his arms. I didn’t move. I stayed stiff, unresponsive, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against me like a confession he didn’t realize he was making.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into my hair, his voice shifting into that familiar, gentle tone—the one he always used when he wanted things to go back to normal. “We’re both overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I’m sorry, baby.”

Pulling back slightly, he brushed a tear I didn’t even notice I had shed. “Let’s just leave this behind us,” he said softly. “We should focus on what matters. We can plan something for the baby… a memorial. Something meaningful. And after that, when you’re ready, we can try again. We can still have the family we always dreamed of.”

I stared at him, almost in disbelief at how easily he could reshape reality with words. But I was exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleep could fix. My body felt heavy, my chest hollow. I didn’t have anything left to throw back at him.

So I nodded.

A small, fragile curve formed on my lips, like something dry cracking under pressure. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Alright, Gabriel.”

Relief washed over him instantly. His shoulders loosened as if someone had cut a string tied too tight. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Rest now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once he left, I locked the door behind him and slid down slowly until my back met the floor, my face buried in my arms.

Morning came too brightly, too clean, as if the world had no idea what it had done to me. I sat on the edge of the bed staring blankly when my phone vibrated against the sheets.

“It’s all arranged,” my mother’s voice came through the line—calm, precise, controlled. “Your papers are finalized. Visa’s approved. I had to pull a few favors, but it’s done. You’re booked on a flight to Zurich in three days.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Three days.

“Zurich?” I repeated softly.

“It’s private there. Safe. Remote. We still have that chalet—no one knows about it,” she explained. “Are you certain about this, Marielle? Because once you leave, you don’t come back.”

“I just need to get out,” I whispered. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Before she could answer, the door clicked open.

I ended the call too quickly, my body going still.

Gabriel walked in carrying a breakfast tray, placing it on the bedside table like nothing had changed. His tone was casual, but his eyes weren’t—they were sharp, watching.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked lightly. Then, his gaze narrowed slightly. “And what did you mean by ‘I’ll leave’?”

He stepped closer, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Are you planning to leave me, Marielle? Is that it? Are you doing something behind my back? I already told you—no divorce. We’re not—”

“No,” I interrupted softly, forcing ease into my tone. “I was just talking to a travel agent.”

“A travel agent?” he repeated, clearly unconvinced.

“Yes,” I continued, smoothing the moment over. “I was thinking… after everything, maybe we should take a break. A trip. Just us. Like you said last night.” I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “We could go somewhere far. Romantic. Paris… Italy… somewhere like that.”

The suspicion in his face dissolved almost instantly, replaced by relief so obvious it almost made me sick.

“Oh,” he exhaled, letting out a small laugh. “Thank God. You really scared me for a second there.” He shook his head, smiling again as he kissed my knuckles. “That’s a great idea. Of course. We’ll go anywhere you want. I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Really?” I asked, widening my eyes as if I believed him.

“Anything for you,” he said without hesitation.

For the next two days, I played my role flawlessly. The grieving wife learning how to breathe again. I talked about Italy like it was a dream we shared. I smiled at hotel options beside him. I let him hold my hand, let him believe we were still intact.

On my second night—the last before everything ended—he surprised me.

“Get ready,” Gabriel said as he entered the room, holding a small velvet box.

Inside was a diamond necklace that sparkled under the light.

“I got us tickets,” he added, almost proud. “Phantom of the Opera. I know it’s your favorite.”

I looked at the necklace for a long moment before taking it. It was breathtaking. And yet it felt like something meant to decorate a cage.

“Thank you,” I said quietly as he fastened it around my neck.

The theater was exactly as I remembered it—grand, glowing, full of music that once made me believe in forever. We sat in a private box as the chandelier rose and the orchestra swelled.

For a brief moment, I let myself drift. Back to the first time we watched this show together. Back when I had cried during the finale, and he had held my hand like I mattered.

I turned to him in the dim light. His face was lit by the stage glow, focused, almost perfect.

Do you love me? I had once asked.

Of course I do, he had said.

A lie I had mistaken for truth.

Halfway through the second act, his phone buzzed.

He ignored it at first.

Then again.

And again.

His brows pulled together as he finally pulled it out. The screen lit his face. I saw the name before he even reacted—Camille.

His expression changed immediately. He read the message, jaw tightening, then glanced at me before typing back quickly. Another buzz followed almost instantly.

He sighed, annoyed now, and leaned toward me with a practiced look of regret.

“Marielle,” he said under his breath. “I need to go.”

I blinked slowly. “Now?”

“It’s urgent,” he replied quickly. “Something came up with the merger. Investors are panicking. I have to handle it.”

“Can’t it wait?” I asked, watching him carefully. “You promised this night was ours.”

“I know,” he said, already standing and reaching for his coat. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Stay and finish the show. I’ll have the driver pick you up later.”

He pressed a quick kiss to my cheek—barely there, already gone in his mind—and left without another glance.

The velvet curtain swung shut behind him.

I turned back toward the stage. The Phantom sang about darkness and longing, filling the space he had left behind.

I sat alone in the private box, the diamond necklace suddenly heavy against my skin. The empty seat beside me felt louder than the music.

Still, I didn’t cry.

I was past that.

Instead, I opened my bag and pulled out my phone.

One last call before I disappeared.

I dialed the lawyer my mother had given me.

A rough voice answered. “Yeah?”

“This is Marielle,” I said clearly, steady despite everything breaking around me. “I’m ready. Prepare the divorce papers. Send them tomorrow.”