My Husband Left Me to Die in Antarctica

The ticket was cream-colored. Heavy stock. I pressed my fingertips against the embossed lettering and felt the ridges of the destination: McMurdo Station, Antarctica.

Chase stood in the doorway of our bedroom, backlit by the soft glow of the hallway. His smile was warm. Practiced. I had memorized that smile over five years of marriage. It was the same one he wore when he walked me through crowded fundraisers, his hand steady at the small of my back, shielding me from the stares that followed the woman in long sleeves and tinted glasses indoors.

"Happy anniversary," he said.

I looked down at the ticket again. My throat felt tight. "Antarctica."

"One of the few places on earth where your condition doesn't matter." He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside me. "Six months of polar night. No sun. You can go outside, Callie. Walk around. Be normal."

Normal. The word sat in my chest like a stone. I had stopped using it to describe myself when I was seven years old and a doctor told my mother I would never be able to do the things other children did. But Chase said it so easily. Like it was something I could borrow for a week.

"It's perfect," I whispered. I meant it. I turned to him, and for a moment I let myself believe that this—the ticket, the thought, the careful planning it must have taken—was proof that he still saw me the way he had when we first met. Not as a burden. Not as the woman who lived in the dark. Just me.

He reached for my hand. His fingers were warm. "I knew you'd love it."

I watched his other hand drift to his cuff. He adjusted the silver link once. Twice. It was a small motion. Reflexive. I had noticed it before—years ago, when he told me he had to work late, or when he explained why we couldn't attend my father's gallery opening. I told myself it was nerves. Everyone had nervous habits.

"When do we leave?" I asked.

"Tomorrow morning. I've already packed your bag."

I blinked. "Both of us?"

"Of course." His smile widened. "I wouldn't send you alone."

I nodded. Relief washed over me, and I hated how much I needed it. I had spent so much of my life alone—in darkened rooms, in the glow of a laptop screen, in the silent hours after midnight when the rest of the city slept and I worked on prototypes in our kitchen. But I was never alone when Chase was home. He was the only person who made me feel like I wasn't disappearing.

I leaned into him, and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I closed my eyes and tried to hold onto the feeling. The ticket was still in my hand. I could feel the raised ink beneath my thumb.

"Thank you," I said.

"You don't have to thank me, Callie." His voice was soft. Gentle. "You're my wife."

---

The flight to McMurdo was long. Thirty-six hours of layovers and transfers, the last leg on a military cargo plane with no windows and bench seating that rattled my spine. Chase sat beside me the entire time, his hand resting on my knee, his presence steady. I kept my notebook open on my lap and sketched technical diagrams to pass the time—refinements to the Synapse Interface's neural mapping algorithm. Chase glanced at the page once and smiled.

"Still working," he said.

"Always."

"That's what I love about you." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You never stop."

I felt my chest tighten again. I turned the page and kept drawing.

When we finally arrived, the station was smaller than I expected. A cluster of modular buildings huddled against the ice, connected by covered walkways. The sky was black. Endless. I stepped off the plane and stood on the frozen ground, and for the first time in my life, I was outside without fear. No sun. No threat. Just cold and silence and the strange, disorienting freedom of open space.

Chase took my hand. "What do you think?"

"It's incredible," I said. My voice cracked.

He kissed my temple. "I'm glad."

We checked into our quarters—a small room with a narrow bed and a single desk. Chase unpacked while I stood at the window, staring out at the dark expanse. I could see my reflection in the glass. Pale. Thin. The same face I had looked at in mirrors my entire life, always framed by long sleeves and high collars. But here, I could almost imagine I looked different. Lighter.

"I have to take a call," Chase said behind me.

I turned. "Now?"

"Emergency. Work." He was already pulling on his coat. "I'll be back in an hour. Two at most."

I nodded. "Okay."

He adjusted his cufflinks. Once. Twice.

Then he left.

I waited by the window. One hour passed. Then two. Then four. I tried his phone. No answer. I asked the station coordinator if he had seen him. The man checked the logs and frowned.

"Your husband left on the last outbound flight," he said. "Three hours ago."

I stared at him. "That's not possible."

He showed me the manifest. Chase's name. Departure time. Destination: Buenos Aires.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. An unmarked file. No message. Just a video.

I opened it.

Eleven seconds. Chase and Lennon. A recovery bed. Her hand in his hair. His mouth on her neck. Her voice, soft and warm: "I can't wait to start our future."

I watched it three times.

I did not cry.

I opened my notebook and began to count.