“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.”
Tristan stood in stunned silence, the phone cold against his ear. The gentle hum of the hotel’s heater buzzed in the background, but his thoughts had gone utterly still.
“She left?” he repeated numbly.
“Yes, sir. All her clothes. Her paintings. Gone. Even her passport.”
Tristan didn’t respond. He just lowered the phone slowly, his thoughts spiraling. The air in the suite felt thinner. Tighter. His gaze drifted to the large window overlooking the snowy streets of Helsinki.
Below, tourists were laughing, families were taking pictures, a little girl bundled in red was holding her father’s hand.
And yet here he was—suddenly alone in the middle of everything.
Without her.
He turned and strode into the bedroom, yanking open drawers and grabbing his suitcase. His movements were sharp, clumsy. He started packing, mind racing.
“Tristan? What are you doing? What did they say?” Alyssa asked, confused. “Where is she?”
“Packing.”
She laughed, disbelieving. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“What?” she walked closer. “Why are you packing?!”
Tristan zipped the case shut and looked up. “Because Celine’s gone.”
“She’s what?”
“She’s not home. She left. The butler said she packed everything and left the day we flew out. And no one’s heard from her since.”
Alyssa blinked rapidly. “Okay? Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she just… needed space.”
“She can’t just leave without telling me.”
“She can and she did,” Alyssa snapped. “Why are you acting like you care now?! We’ve been cheating on her for years, Tristan. You’re acting like some loyal husband—newsflash: you’re not.”
“I told you to buy her that ticket,” Tristan said through clenched teeth. “She was supposed to come. If you just bought it, like I asked, she wouldn’t have left.”
“Well, I didn’t!” Alyssa shouted. “I lied. I didn’t want her there! I wanted you! And I thought that’s what you wanted too. So why are you suddenly spiraling over her disappearance?”
Tristan’s voice dropped, dark and shaken. “Because this isn’t how it was supposed to happen.”
Alyssa’s expression faltered. “What?”
“I was supposed to control how this ended. I was supposed to decide when to let her go. Not like this. Not by her walking out. Not before I could—”
He trailed off, jaw clenching. He couldn’t even finish the thought. He didn’t know why it stung so badly. Why it burned that she left so quietly, without a fight. Without yelling. Without even a note.
She just vanished. As if he was nothing worth confronting.
As if he didn’t deserve an ending.
“You don’t want her,” Alyssa said, voice wavering between anger and fear. “You’ve told me that for years.”
“I don’t—” Tristan stopped. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“She was just your maid!” Alyssa shrieked. “You called her disposable! You said once she served her purpose, she was gone. This—this was what we wanted!”
Tristan’s hands balled into fists. “I was supposed to dispose of her. Not the other way around!”
And that was the truth of it.
He had convinced himself for so long that Celine was just a convenience. A comfort. A background character in his affair with Alyssa. But now that she was gone—truly gone—something inside him cracked. A strange emptiness was growing in his chest. Not just guilt. Not just confusion.
Loss. Unfinished loss.
Noah peeked into the room, brow furrowed. “What’s going on?”
Alyssa turned to him quickly. “Your dad is ruining our vacation. Again.”
Tristan snapped his gaze to his son. “Did you talk to your mother before we left?”
Noah shrugged. “No. She didn’t say anything.”
Tristan walked toward him. “Well, she left us!”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “So, what? Like I said—she’s just being dramatic. She did this before, remember? Packed her bags, locked herself in that hotel in Paris. Then what? She came back and made dinner like nothing happened. She was probably sulking wanting us to give her attention.”
Tristan didn’t respond.
“Dad, come on,” Noah added. “Don’t let her ruin this trip. She’s just doing this so we argue and she wins.”
Just then, Tristan’s phone buzzed.
An unknown number. His chest tightened. Hope and dread churned in his gut.
He answered quickly. “Where the hell are you?!”
But the voice on the other end wasn’t Celine’s.
“Mr. Tristan Hale?” a firm, calm voice responded. “This is Officer Marquez from the Central District Police Department.”
There was a pause. A weight in the silence.
“We’re very sorry to inform you, sir… we identified a vehicle registered under Mrs. Celine Hale that was involved in a car crash.”
Tristan’s breath caught.
“A crash?” he repeated.
“The vehicle was discovered totaled—completely destroyed. It appears to have gone off the road and rolled down an embankment. We found her ID… and you were listed as her emergency contact. I’m… very sorry, sir.”
