My Love Was Gone

My husband, Rodger Hayes, was a renowned chief negotiator, famous for his integrity and firmness within the circle.

When my son and I were kidnapped, with three hostages at the scene, the kidnappers agreed to release only one.

Among the women and the boy, Rodger should have chosen to save the boy first.

Yet, I heard him saying in Spanish fluently, "Release the woman in white."

His first love, Jolene Chapman, was freed, while my son, Jacob Hayes, died from a gunfire.

Later, Rodger explained the situation flatly. "The kidnappers chose to release Jolene."

I cradled Jacob's ashes and smiled sadly.

Rodger didn't know that I was fluent in Spanish, as I had been a special forces member.

His lies crumbled before me.

My phone vibrated, and I confirmed the encrypted message. "Falcon returns to base."

...

The air in the abandoned factory was mixed with the scent of rust and blood.

A cold gun barrel pressed against my temple.

I was drugged and was almost immobile.

Jacob was terrified. He buried his face in my chest and sobbed softly. "Mom, I'm scared..."

Soon, outside the factory, the sound of police sirens grew closer.

A man's voice came through a loudspeaker, steady and emotionless. "Everyone, listen up. I'm the negotiator, Rodger. You're surrounded."

It was my husband.

Jacob's eyes lit up. He looked up at me, and his sobs were filled with hope. "It's Dad. He's here to save us."

I was relieved a bit. "You are right. Dad's here to save us."

The ringleader of the kidnappers dragged another hostage to the window, pointed a gun at her head, and shouted in Spanish to the outside, "I have three hostages. Release my brother from jail, or I'll kill them!"

The woman held hostage with us was Jolene.

She was Rodger's first love, who vanished abroad, leaving him with a deep-seated hatred.

I had only seen her in photos.

Fate cruelly and coincidentally brought us face-to-face that way.

At this moment, Jolene, wearing a white dress, screamed hoarsely, "Rodger, help me!"

Rodger's voice came through the loudspeaker again. "Your brother is a major criminal in an international terrorist organization, involved with many people. The police require you to release one hostage first as a gesture of your sincerity."

The ringleader sneered, "Fine. Choose one to release first: the boy, the mother, or this woman."

I gritted my teeth.

Rodger chose to save one. I believed he would surely choose Jacob.

As long as Jacob was safe, nothing else mattered to me.

I expected Rodger to answer immediately.

But he fell silent.

Every second that passed heightened the tension. The only sounds in the factory were Jacob's suppressed sobs and Jolene's whimpers.

Each moment of waiting stretched my nerves tighter.

"Choose quickly! Or I won't release any of them!" the kidnapper shouted impatiently.

Soon, Rodger's voice rang out again, emotionless.

He spoke fluent Spanish to the kidnappers. "Release the one in white. The mother and son stay with you."

My eyes widened, and I couldn't believe what I had heard.

I looked up, through the dust-laden air, at the blurred figure outside the factory.

Rodger had said at our wedding, "I will always stand in front of you, keeping you safe forever."

But he was now pushing my son and me into hell.

The ringleader let out a harsh laugh. "I thought you'd choose the boy."

But he let go of Jolene, gesturing for her to leave.

Jolene scrambled out of the factory.

Through the iron window, I saw her rush into Rodger's arms.

He held her tightly and seemed to be afraid that she would vanish in the next moment.

The kidnappers continued yelling outside the factory, "I've shown enough sincerity. Where's my brother?"

The police behind Rodger didn't respond.

The kidnapper finally lost patience and got furious.

The dark muzzle of the gun pointed at Jacob in my arms.

"You lied to me!"

"Bang!" The gunshot rang out.

Jacob's body convulsed violently and then slumped heavily.

Warm liquid splattered across my face, carrying a strong metallic taste.

I looked down and saw the ever-widening blood hole in Jacob's chest.

He looked at me, and his mouth opened. He seemed to want to speak, but only bloody foam came out. "Mom... Mom..."

His eyes slowly lost their light.

At that moment, the police burst in. Gunfire, shouts, and footsteps mingled chaotically.

In the distance, I saw Rodger carrying Jolene in his arms and rushed anxiously towards the ambulance. He didn't even spare a glance back at us.

Holding Jacob, who lay in a pool of blood, I let out a gut-wrenching wail of despair.

Something inside me shattered bit by bit.

Finally, the world faded into silence.

I passed out.

When I woke up again, I found myself lying in a hospital bed.

Rodger sat on my bedside and said in a low voice, "During the negotiations, the kidnappers said they would only release one hostage. They chose to release Jolene. I'm sorry. I failed to protect Jacob."

A sharp pain pierced my heart as I stared intently at his face.

He could actually lie so calmly, without a trace of panic or guilt.

He thought I didn't understand Spanish.

Throughout our five-year marriage, I had only spoken English in front of him.

He had no idea that I was a retired special forces operative, fluent in eight languages, with Spanish being my most proficient.

Every word he exchanged with the kidnappers was etched into my mind.

He added, "And we must consider the bigger picture. Even if the kidnappers hadn't chosen Jolene, you and Jacob must still be secondary, as you are my family. I believe Jacob would understand and accept my decision."

I silently hugged my arms, and my arms became increasingly tight.

Jacob's gradually cold body was still in my arms.

I recalled the time Rodger, Jacob, and I went to see a movie one day. We were caught in a downpour after the movie finished.

Rodger took off his jacket to shield Jacob and me, holding us close as the rain soaked his back.

Yet, he smiled and said, "Don't worry. I'll always protect you."

But he was now shielding another woman.

And Jacob and I had become expendable sacrifices.

I didn't cry.

My tears seemed to have already dried up with the sound of the gunshot.

After returning home, I became unusually quiet.

I neither cried nor caused a scene, resembling a soulless shell. I just quietly sorted through Jacob's belongings.

Rodger assumed I was traumatized and mentally unstable, so he called in a psychologist.

I cooperated with every question, only to see the words "post-traumatic stress disorder" on the diagnosis.

Late at night, while Rodger slept deeply, my phone vibrated.

It was an encrypted message that self-destructed after being read.

The message contained just one sentence.

"Falcon, your reenlistment has been approved."

I went to the study and opened a long-forgotten safe.

With practiced hands, I dismantled, assembled, and cleaned the sniper rifle hidden in the secret corner.

The cold metal felt like a rare comfort to my chaotic mind.

Standing by the window, I gazed into the heavy darkness outside.

Dawn was approaching.

...

Jacob's funeral was exceedingly simple.

Rodger told me that the case was sensitive and we had to deal with it secretly, so he didn't notify any relatives or friends of ours.

I knew he just wanted to protect Jolene from criticism.

Standing alone in the empty mourning hall, I looked at the small photo at the center.

Jacob smiled in the photo. With his tiny canine teeth shown, he looked so adorable.

It felt like a massive stone was lodged in my chest, suffocating me.

I suddenly remembered his hundred-day celebration.

Back then, Rodger had thrown a lavish banquet at the city's finest hotel and invited all our relatives and friends.

He couldn't wait to announce to the world that he had an adorable son.

Holding Jacob in his arms, he proudly said to everyone, "This is my son. He'll grow up healthy and become a top negotiator, too."

Those words still echoed in my ears.

Now, Jacob was dead, and Rodger couldn't even have a dignified farewell.

The mourning hall was silent, with only me there.

I stood there in black and gazed at Jacob's photo.

Then I heard the sound of high heels approaching.

Jolene arrived.

She wore a plain long dress, and her face was adorned with delicate makeup. As soon as she entered, she threw herself in front of the table and cried fake tears. "Poor Jacob..."

She wept while glancing at me with eyes full of triumph and provocation.

Rodger had just entered when Jolene staggered. She let out a soft cry and fell straight toward him.

Rodger swiftly stepped forward and caught her securely.

"Jolene, what's wrong?" His voice carried a tension he didn't seem to notice himself.

"I'm...fine." Jolene weakly leaned against him and said, "It breaks my heart to see Jacob..."

Rodger's parents followed closely behind.

As soon as Rodger's mother saw me, she rushed over, pointed at my nose, and cursed, "You bad luck charm! You killed my grandson! I won't let you off!"

Rodger held Jolene and furrowed his brows tightly. He ignored his mother's insults without a word of defense for me.

I stood there and watched the farce unfold. My hands were in my pockets, and my fingers tightly gripped a cold metal object.

It was the bullet that had struck Jacob's body in the abandoned factory.

Soon, Rodger took Jolene, who was "palpitating", to the hospital.

I stood alone before the crematorium, watching through a small window as the roaring flames consumed Jacob, whom I had carried for ten months and nearly died to give birth to.

During Jacob's birth, I suffered severe bleeding and narrowly escaped death.

The doctor said I might never be able to get pregnant again.

Jacob was my only child.

Finally, the staff member placed Jacob's ashes in a small box and handed it to me.

Jacob felt so light.

I carried the urn home alone.

The streetlights stretched my shadow long.

Returning home, I found Rodger already there.

He was sitting on the couch. When he saw the urn in my hands, his eyes flickered with unease.

Yet, in the next moment, he had regained his icy composure.

He didn't comfort or embrace me. He simply stood up and said lightly, "Nicole, Jacob is dead, and he cannot come back to life. But we must carry on. You have to find a way to move on."

He asked me to move on.

I lifted my gaze to him.

I remembered three years ago when Jacob had a sudden high fever at midnight, convulsing and twitching.

At that time, Rodger was in another city dealing with a complicated international negotiation worth billions.

In a panic, I called him and cried, "Jacob is gravely ill."

Without hesitation, he canceled the negotiation and flew back overnight.

He rushed into the hospital room and pulled me into his embrace. He said in a hoarse voice, "Don't be afraid. I'm back. Nothing is more important than you and Jacob."

The warmth of his embrace still haunted my memory, but the air felt bitterly cold now.

I forced a faint smile and replied in a low voice, "Alright. I'll try to find a way to move on."

Rodger assumed I had come to terms with things and visibly relaxed. The tension between his eyebrows eased a bit.

A few days later, Jolene moved into our home under the pretext that she needed company for her trauma.

Rodger didn't ask for my opinion.

But what difference would it make?

I no longer had the energy to question it.

He had often ranted about Jolene after he was drunk.

He condemned that she had left him without hesitation. He complained that she was brutal and heartless.

Now I realized that his "hatred" for Jolene was merely another form of lingering attachment.

One day, when I returned home and opened the door, I was stunned.

Jacob's room had been completely different.

His favorite dolls, Legos, and toy cars were all gone.

The starry wall mural I painted was covered by a giant white canvas.

In the center of the room stood an easel.

Jolene was sitting in front of it, humming as she mixed paints.

When she saw me, she wasn't surprised at all and even smiled. "Nicole, hi. Look! I tidied up the place a bit. Isn't it much neater now? Since it was just a spare room, I figured it would make a good art studio for me."

A surge of anger clouded my vision and blurred everything before me. "Who gave you permission to touch Jacob's things?" My voice trembled.

"I..." Jolene feigned innocence. "I saw those things were old and taking up space, so I helped you get rid of them."

"Bring them back to me." I forced out each word.

"They're all thrown away." Jolene spread her hands. "The garbage truck took them this morning."

"I said bring them back to me!" I screamed, lunging at her.

Rodger burst in at that moment.

He grabbed my arm and pushed me away. "Nicole, what's gotten into you?"

His shove sent me reeling, and my back slammed against the doorframe as I collapsed to the floor.

He didn't even glance at me. Instead, he anxiously checked on Jolene. "Are you alright? Did you get injured?"

"I'm fine, Rodger." Jolene immediately nestled into his embrace. She trembled slightly, and her voice was perfectly tinged with grievance. "I just wanted to tidy up the room and make a memorial painting for Jacob... I didn't expect such a strong reaction from her..."

As she spoke, she sneaked a provocative glance at me.

Did she want to make a memorial painting?

I propped up my weakened body and looked at the enormous white canvas.

On it were swirling shades of gray, like dense fog or the ashes of something burned out.

My gaze froze suddenly.

I stared fixedly at the palette beside the easel.

Among the paints, there was some gritty, bone-like grayish-white powder not fully mixed.

A chilling realization shot up my spine and seized my mind.

My eyes darted frantically around the room.

It finally landed on the nightstand where Jacob's urn should have been.

It was empty.

The small black velvet box that held my entire world was gone.

A jolt of horror struck me and split my sanity instantly.

I raised my head, and my eyes turned bloodshot as I locked onto Jolene. I asked in a trembling voice, "What did you use to paint this?"

Jolene peeked out from Rodger's arms as she smiled innocently.

She pointed at the gray painting. "Of course, I used Jacob's ash. Rodger said you wouldn't let go of that box, so you couldn't move on. So I thought I could turn him into art. So he'll always be here with us in another way. Look! The hues of his ash are hauntingly beautiful."