Tristan tossed his coat onto the hotel chair, brows furrowed as he scanned the suite.
“Where the hell is Celine?” he asked, tone sharp and impatient. “She should’ve been here by now.”
Alyssa looked up from where she sat on the couch, a glass of wine in hand, her legs curled beneath her. She rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. “Why are you looking for her? Isn’t this what you wanted? Us. Together. No interruptions.”
Tristan scratched the back of his neck, glancing around again. Toys were scattered across the carpet. The TV blared cartoons while little Tina drew on the wall with a crayon. The sight made him wince.
“I’m just saying,” he said, gesturing toward the chaos, “we don’t have a nanny. Tina’s a mess. It would’ve been nice if she were here to clean up, help out.”
Alyssa smirked, rising from the couch and stepping closer, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t worry. I can clean. I can handle it. You’re free of her now.”
Tristan blinked. “Free?”
She stepped back, swirling her wine. “I mean... I never bought her a ticket.”
Silence.
His brows drew together. “What?”
Alyssa shrugged, unbothered. “I never booked her flight. I said I would, but… I didn’t. I lied.”
“You what?” Tristan’s voice rose sharply. “Are you insane? Didn’t I tell you to buy her the damn ticket? That money was hers! We were using her savings—!”
“Relax,” Alyssa cut in with an airy laugh. “Don’t act like you care. You were glad she wasn’t here. You wanted this. Us. You didn’t complain.”
Tristan stared at her, something twisting in his chest. He didn’t know what it was—guilt? Regret?
“I just thought—” He hesitated, struggling for words. “It was good to have a maid around. That’s all. I was asking because things are messy.”
He nodded stiffly. “We’ll manage.”
But something about the words caught in his throat.
He glanced around the hotel suite again.
The table was cluttered with used paper cups, cookie crumbs, and empty juice boxes. The floor was littered with Tina’s toys—plastic spoons, a hairbrush, a coloring book she’d scribbled on then tossed aside. There were smudges on the mirror. A pile of laundry sat untouched in the corner, and for the third time today, he noticed that Tina’s sippy cup was missing its lid and leaking across the kitchen counter.
He swallowed hard.
They’d been in Finland for barely three days, and the suite already looked like it had been hit by a toddler tornado.
And Celine… Celine wasn’t here to pick it all up.
For years, she had been part of their everyday life. Quiet. Efficient. Predictable. She had known exactly how Noah liked his morning cereal—no milk, just dry flakes in a yellow bowl. She knew how to braid Tina’s hair so she wouldn’t cry. She remembered every allergy, every doctor’s appointment, every lost shoe under the couch.
And now?
Now Tristan had to guess which drawer held Tina’s socks.
He walked toward the counter, picked up a napkin, and half-heartedly wiped up the juice spill. The sticky mess clung to his fingers.
He sighed and tossed the napkin into the bin, then stood still, staring blankly out the window at the snowy view outside. The fjords glistened under soft moonlight, but the beauty didn’t distract him.
Instead, a strange hollowness sat in his chest. A gnawing ache.
Alyssa walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You’re quiet,” she murmured.
“I’m tired,” Tristan said flatly.
She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re actually worried about Celine.”
“I’m not,” he lied quickly. “I just thought—”
“What?”
He turned around, brushing her off gently. “Nothing. Forget it.”
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t understand it. He should’ve been relieved. No Celine meant no one hovering behind him. No one judging the subtle way he leaned closer to Alyssa when Celine was in the room. No one looking at him with unreadable eyes.
Still…
That unreadable gaze was haunting him now. Why did it suddenly feel like something was missing?
He ignored it though. They continued their vacation in Finland, touring snowy towns, drinking hot cocoa in glass igloos, riding sleighs beneath the northern lights. And for a while, Tristan did forget about Celine. The noise of Alyssa’s laughter, the kids’ excitement, the endless activities—it filled his hours.
Until the quiet crept in.
Late one night, long after the others had gone to sleep, Tristan lay awake in bed. Something tugged at him. A strange emptiness. An absence.
He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message:
Sorry you didn’t make the flight. I didn’t know. I’ll buy you something nice from here.
He hit send.
Nothing.
No “delivered.” No “read.”
He frowned. Checked the signal. Full bars.
He tried again. Still nothing.
With an uneasy sigh, he tapped her contact and hit call.
No ring. No connection. Blocked.
“What the hell?” he muttered, sitting up. He stormed into the next room, where Noah was still scrolling on his phone.
“Call your mother,” Tristan said.
Noah blinked. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
Noah frowned and tapped the screen. After a few seconds, he looked up. “It won’t go through.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. “She blocked us.”
From behind, Alyssa’s sleepy voice echoed, “What’s going on?”
“She blocked us,” Tristan repeated, disbelief heavy in his voice. “I can’t text her. I can’t call her.”
Alyssa narrowed her eyes. “Why are you even trying? Seriously? She’s probably sulking. She’ll get over it.”
Tristan ignored her and grabbed the hotel phone. “Get me a line to the house,” he told the receptionist.
When the line clicked and one of the butlers answered, he barked, “Where is Celine? Put her on the phone.”
The butler hesitated. “Sir… didn’t Miss Celine travel with you?”
Tristan stiffened. “No. She didn’t. She never got on the flight.”
A pause.
“Sir,” the butler said slowly, “she left the house the same day you did. She packed everything. She hasn’t returned. We assumed she was with you.”
