Holden was hospitalized, of course. Major surgery, a lot of pain. But I didn't visit. I didn't send flowers. I just stayed home, packing the last of my things, pruning the rose bushes in the garden, and relishing the quiet. The silence was no longer heavy; it was liberating.

A few days later, Mrs. Davies, our housekeeper, called me, her voice trembling. "Mrs. Jackson, Mr. Jackson's stomach ulcer has flared up again. He's refusing food, and the doctors are worried."

I paused, snipping a dead rosebud. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Davies."

"But, Mrs. Jackson," she pleaded, "you always knew how to calm him, how to get him to eat. You always made him that special broth..." Her voice trailed off, a desperate plea in her tone.

I remembered. The countless nights I' d spent by his bedside, coaxing him to eat, wiping his feverish brow. The old Celeste would have dropped everything, rushed to him, a loyal dog to its master.

"It's raining, Mrs. Davies," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "I don't think I'll be going out tonight."

A shocked silence met my words. Mrs. Davies stuttered, "But... but Mrs. Jackson! He's really in a bad way!"

"I'm sure he has excellent care," I replied, then, without another word, I hung up. I switched off my phone and went to bed, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. My past self, the one who cared, was finally dead.

Holden, stubborn as ever, discharged himself against medical advice and returned home a day later. I found him in the living room, pale and gaunt, waiting for me.

"Celeste," he said, his voice weak. "Why didn't you come?"

I looked at him, my gaze unwavering. "Why should I have, Holden?"

He flinched. "But... you always did. You always cared."

"People change, Holden," I stated simply. "I changed."

He stared at me, a flicker of panic in his eyes. He still didn't understand the depth of my detachment. "Celeste, I want to celebrate our wedding anniversary. It's coming up. I know I haven't been the best husband, but I want to make it up to you. You always loved our anniversary."

He was right. I used to pore over details, plan romantic dinners, choose perfect gifts. It had been my one day to feel like a real wife, not a stand-in.

"Do whatever you want, Holden," I said with a shrug. "It doesn't matter to me."

He looked bewildered, but forged ahead with his plans. He booked the city's grandest ballroom, invited hundreds of guests, ordered the most expensive champagne, and arranged for a famous band to play. The entire event was a dazzling spectacle of wealth and extravagance, a desperate attempt to impress the woman who no longer cared.

I attended, of course, a beautiful, empty doll on his arm. Everyone whispered about how radiant I looked, how lucky Holden was. I smiled, nodded, and floated through the crowd, my heart utterly disengaged. The music, the laughter, the glittering jewels-it was all a distant hum, a meaningless spectacle.

Feeling a sudden need for fresh air, I slipped out onto the balcony, seeking refuge from the suffocating pretense. The city lights twinkled below, a sea of distant stars.

"Well, well, if it isn't the happy couple's anniversary," a familiar voice purred. Isabelle.

She stood beside me, a malicious glint in her eyes. "Holden invited me, you know. He said he needed me here. For moral support."

I didn't dignify that with a response.

"Are you happy, Celeste?" she pressed, her voice dripping with venom. "Truly happy? Because I know Holden. His heart has always belonged to me."

"You know, Isabelle," I said, turning to face her, a cool, indifferent smile playing on my lips. "You're a very loud, very pathetic woman."

Her eyes widened in shock. She hadn't expected me to speak, much less to insult her.

"You're like a broken record," I continued, my voice calm, but with an underlying steel. "Always repeating the same sad, desperate tune. Crying for attention from a man who clearly doesn't want you. You're a failure, Isabelle. A sad, little failure living in the past."

Her face flushed crimson, her eyes blazing with fury. "You bitch! How dare you-"

"I dare because you mean absolutely nothing to me," I interrupted, my voice cutting through hers. "You're not even worth the emotional energy it would take to be angry at you. You're just... background noise."

Chapter 7

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