Six Years A Ghost, Now Real

JILLIAN BELL POV:

My hand lingered on my lower abdomen, a phantom ache for the child I had carried. I remembered Kasen, a tiny boy, burying his face there, murmuring about how special my body was, proof that I was his superhero mom. The memory was a fresh knife twist. Now, he saw me as something to revile. The betrayal was complete, absolute.

Tears, hot and relentless, finally came. They streamed down my bruised face, washing away the last vestiges of hope. My body shook with silent sobs. The son who once adored me now used my very being as a weapon against me.

When the tears finally subsided, a cold, hard resolve settled in. There was nothing left for me here. Nothing. I looked around the opulent room, once our shared sanctuary. It was now just a gilded cage, filled with painful memories and the lingering scent of Kallie's perfume.

My gaze fell upon my possessions. A few clothes, some books. Nothing of true value, nothing that tied me to this life anymore. My eyes landed on a small, framed photo on the nightstand. It was my father, smiling, his arm around my mother. The last tangible link to a love that was pure, uncomplicated. I picked it up, my fingers tracing their faces. This, and only this, would come with me.

I pulled out the signed divorce papers and the medical proof of my recent loss from my clutch. I placed them carefully on Cristian's side of the bed, weighted down by a heavy paperweight. A clear message. A final act of defiance, not for him, but for myself. I was done. Done with them. Done with this whole toxic charade.

I walked out of the room, out of the house, without a backward glance. The night air was cool, an indifferent witness to my escape. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was never coming back.

CRISTIAN JOHNSTON POV:

The evening had been a disaster. Kallie was still fuming, her staged injury a constant reminder of Jillian's "lunacy." Kasen was upset, caught in the crossfire. And I? I was furious. Jillian would pay for this. She would pay dearly.

I stomped back into the house, ready to confront her, to lay down the law. She needed to understand her place. But the house was silent. Too silent.

"Jillian!" I roared, my voice echoing through the empty halls. No answer.

I checked the living room, the kitchen, her study. Nothing. A knot of unease began to form in my stomach. Where the hell was she? She couldn't have just… left.

I threw open our bedroom door, expecting to find her cowering, waiting for my wrath. The room was empty. The bed, perfectly made, screamed of her absence. My anger flared, quickly turning to frustration. She was playing games.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. I called her cell. Straight to voicemail. Then her office line. Nothing. The unease morphed into a prickle of genuine concern. Had she actually left?

My phone rang, a jarring sound in the silent room. It was an unknown number. I frowned, answering curtly. "Cristian Johnston."

"Mr. Johnston, this is Atlantic Airways. We regret to inform you that flight AA127, scheduled for 10 PM to London, has been involved in a… catastrophic incident." The voice was calm, professional, yet chilling.

"Flight 127?" I scoffed. "What does that have to do with me? I didn't have anyone on that flight." My mind was still reeling from Jillian's disappearance, barely registering the news.

"We have a passenger, Jillian Bell, booked on that flight, Mr. Johnston. She listed you as her emergency contact."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering on the hard floor. Jillian. London. Flight 127. Catastrophic incident. The words collided in my mind, forming a horrifying mosaic. No. It couldn't be. She wouldn't. This was another one of her dramatic stunts, another attempt to manipulate me.

A cold dread began to seep into my bones, a terrifying realization blooming in the pit of my stomach. My anger, my frustration, dissolved into pure, unadulterated panic. My wife. Jillian. Gone?

I tried to pick up the phone, my hands shaking so violently I couldn't grasp it. It lay shattered on the floor, its screen dark, mirroring the sudden darkness in my world.

My eyes darted around the room, desperate for something, anything, to make sense of this nightmare. And then I saw them. On my side of the bed.

The neatly folded divorce papers. The sharp edges of the paper, still slightly crumpled from my earlier fury, seemed to mock me. Underneath them, a pristine white envelope. I tore it open, my breath catching in my throat. It was the medical report. Confirmation.

Jillian Bell, patient ID… procedure date…

My head snapped up. On the nightstand, where the framed photo of her parents used to be, there was now an empty space. She had taken only that. Only a memory of a love that was pure.

She had been telling the truth. All of it. The pregnancy. The loss. The divorce. She hadn't been playing games. She had been leaving.

A guttural cry tore from my throat. It was a cry of pure, soul-shattering regret. She was gone. And I, in my arrogance, in my cruelty, had pushed her onto a plane that would never land.

I ripped the divorce papers to shreds, the sound echoing hollowly in the silent room. It was useless. Irreversible.

I stumbled out of the house, my mind a storm of grief and guilt, the chilling truth finally sinking its teeth into my heart. Jillian was gone. And it was all my fault.