Chapter 19 - Alex
The estate feels haunted. Not by my parents. Their ghosts gave up on this place years ago. No, it's haunted by someone still living.
It’s the morning after Jonah and I went out dancing and I’m standing in the doorway of the blue room, gripping the frame. Mrs. Atkins had the sheets changed, the windows opened, everything aired out and sanitized. But I can still smell him. Honey and vanilla, faint but definitely there.
"Will you be taking lunch, sir?" Mrs. Atkins appears behind me, professional as always.
"No." I don't turn around. Can't stop staring at that perfectly made bed where Jonah slept until he went into heat and was compelled to come find me. "Actually, I'm going away for a bit."
"Very good, sir. Shall I pack for you?"
"I'll do it myself."
She hesitates. It’s probably the first time I've ever refused her help with anything. "Of course. Will Mr. Colborne be joining you?"
Mr. Colborne. Like he still lives here.
"No," I say. "He won't."
I need to get away. Completely away.
Back in my room, I pull out my laptop and search for the Serenity Springs Mountain Retreat. Someone told me about it months ago and I’ve had the invite in my inbox ever since.
It’s five stars, invitation only, hidden in the mountains where cell phones supposedly don't work and the only entertainment is your own thoughts. Perfect. Or perfectly awful. Either way, it's not here.
I book a week starting today, choosing the "executive package" because even running away from my life requires the best thread count.
Ricky answers on the first ring. "How's the sober life treating you?"
"I'm going to a wellness retreat."
Silence. Then: "I'm sorry, what? Did you just say wellness retreat?"
"Serenity Springs. In the mountains. Seven days of digital detox and finding myself or whatever."
"Are you dying? Is this like a Make-A-Wish situation?"
"I'm trying to stay sober," I say, which shuts him up. "Can't do it here. Everything smells like—" I stop. "I just need to get away."
"Want me to come with?"
"No phones allowed. You'd die."
"Fair point." He pauses. "This is about Jonah, isn't it?"
Everything's about Jonah these days. "Just handle things here. I'll be back in a week." I tell Ricky. "Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. I don’t need it leaking to the paparazzi.
I pack light—workout clothes, running shoes. No suits, no designer anything. If I'm going to find myself, might as well look the part.
The drive to Serenity Springs takes three hours, winding up into the mountains where the trees get thicker and my phone signal gets weaker. By the time I reach the retreat, I've got no bars at all.
The place looks exactly like its website: aggressively peaceful. Tibetan prayer flags flutter between pine trees. River rocks are set into spirals beside a koi pond. The main lodge is all sustainable wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, designed to look rustic.
"Welcome to Serenity Springs, Mr. Colborne." The receptionist wears flowing white linen and a smile that suggests she's achieved enlightenment or had excellent Botox. "We're so pleased you've chosen us for your journey of self-discovery."
My journey of self-discovery involves handing over my phone, laptop, tablet, and even my smartwatch. She locks them in a little safe with my name on it, like I'm checking into a psychiatric facility.
"You'll get these back when you check out," she says, handing me a brass key. "The point is complete disconnection from the digital world."
I feel naked without my phone. What if Diana needs me? What if there's an emergency? What if Jonah—
No. Jonah's made it clear he doesn't need me for anything. We left it amicable. He’s on his own healing journey. The last thing he needs is me messing that up.
My cabin is a ten-minute walk from the main lodge, private and pristine. One room with a huge bed, a meditation cushion, a desk with an actual paper journal and fountain pen. The bathroom has a rain shower and a clawfoot tub that overlooks the forest. Everything smells like sage.
I sit on the bed and immediately want a drink. Not because I'm unhappy—well, not just that—but because I have no idea what to do with myself. No phone to scroll, no emails to ignore, no Ricky to coordinate my life. Just me and my thoughts.
Fuck. Maybe this was a dumb idea.
Fortunately, as it turns out, there are plenty of activities.
I sign up for all of them: morning yoga at six (I'm terrible), meditation at eight (my mind won't shut up).
I eat nourishing plant-based meals that leave me hungry.
Then I sit in on workshops on "Finding Your Authentic Self" and "Releasing What No Longer Serves You" led by people who've clearly never had a real problem in their lives.
The worst part is seeing it all through Jonah’s eyes. Thousands of dollars a week to eat vegetables and sit in silence.
"This is what you do with your money?" I can hear Jonah's voice, that particular mix of disapproval and disappointment. "This is your idea of working on yourself?"
I tell the Jonah in my head to shut up and then I feel guilty. And then I feel stupid for feeling guilty about telling an imaginary voice to be quiet.
On Day Three. I'm returning from a sound bath where a woman played crystal bowls at me for an hour when I see her.
Saskia Scarmetto. At the reception desk in designer leisurewear.
Our eyes meet across the lobby. She smiles, not even pretending to be surprised.
"Alex! What a coincidence!"
It's not. Nothing with Saskia is ever a coincidence.
"Saskia." I don't move toward her, making her come to me.
She air-kisses both my cheeks, enveloping me in a cloud of expensive perfume. "I had no idea you'd be here. I just needed to get away after—" She waves her hand vaguely. "You know."
I don't know, but I can guess. There's always something with Saskia.
"Which cabin are you in?" she asks, signing the registration form without reading it.
"Twelve."
"How perfect! I'm in eleven."
Of course she is.
She looks good. She always looks good. But there's something fragile around her eyes, a tightness to her smile. She's lost weight, her collarbones too sharp under her cashmere sweater.
"How are you?" I ask, because I'm not a complete asshole.
"Fabulous. Terrible. The usual." She laughs, brittle as glass. She links her arm through mine like we're still together, like the last three years haven't happened. "Show me around? I'm dying to see what ten thousand a week buys these days."
I extract myself carefully. "I was just heading back to read."
"God, you have changed. The Alex I knew would never choose a book over me." She's teasing, but there's an edge to it.
"The Alex you knew drank his body weight in champagne weekly."
"And he was magnificent." She touches my cheek, fingers light as moth wings. "I miss him."
"He's gone."
"Is he? Or is he just hiding behind this new sober, married persona?"
Married. The word sits wrong. Am I still married if my omega left me?
"I'll see you at dinner," I say, stepping back.
She lets me go, but her smile says this isn't over. It never is with Saskia.
That night, I'm lying in bed failing to meditate when the knock comes. Soft, hesitant. I know who it is before I open the door.
Saskia stands there in a silk robes, holding a bottle of Macallan 18. My favorite. The bottle we used to keep in my penthouse for special occasions.
She's drunk. Not sloppy drunk, but there's a glassiness to her eyes, an unsteadiness to her stance.
"I missed you," she says, like it's that simple.
"Saskia, I’m married." And as I say it, I’m aware that that it is the first thing that I think. Jonah may not be here but I feel married.
"Barely." She pushes past me into the cabin, the whiskey sloshing.
She sets the bottle on my desk, fingers trailing over the journal I left open. My handwriting, talking about Jonah. She reads a line and her mouth twists.
"The church mouse. That's what you called him, right?"
"Don't."
"He left you." She turns to face me, robe slipping off one shoulder. "After what, a week? Less?"
"Six days."
"Six days." She laughs, pouring whiskey into two glasses I didn't notice her bring. "We lasted a lot longer.”
"And look how that ended."
"At least we had it." She presses a glass into my hand. I set it down without drinking. She notices. "Right. The sobriety thing. How long?"
"Sixteen days."
"Why?"
"Because it was time."
She sips her whiskey, studying me over the rim. "Do you remember Santorini?"
Of course I remember. The yacht, the sunset, the way she looked in that white dress. The last good memory before everything went to shit.
"That was a long time ago."
"Three years." She moves closer, rose and whiskey and that perfume she's worn since we met. "Not that long."
"Saskia—"
"I never got over you." Her hand lands on my chest, fingers spreading over my heartbeat. "I tried. God, I tried."
She presses closer, all soft curves and familiar warmth. Three years ago, I would have been inside her already. Hell, three weeks ago I might have been.
But now all I can think about is honey and vanilla.
"You need to leave," I say gently.
"No, I need you." She tries to kiss me. I turn my head, her lips catching my jaw. "Please, Alex. Just tonight. Your omega left you."
"I'm not free. I'm married."
"You keep saying that. Where is he then?"
"That doesn't matter."
"Doesn't it?" She pulls back, eyes bright with tears and fury. "You're going to pine over some religious fanatic?"
"I made vows," I say.
"Vows are just words, Alex."
Not to Jonah. To him, they're everything. Sacred. Unbreakable. Even if he hates me, even if he never comes back, he'll consider himself married until the day he dies.
The thought makes my chest tight.
Saskia sees something in my face and crumbles. She sinks onto my bed, tears streaming down her cheeks, ruining her perfect makeup.
"I'm so fucking lonely," she whispers.
I sit beside her, careful not to touch. "Yeah, actually, I do."
She laughs through her tears. "No, you don't. Your omega wanted you. God, the way he looked at you at your wedding—like you hung the moon and broke his heart at the same time."
"He looked at me like I was everything wrong with the world."
"Same thing, sometimes." She wipes her face, mascara smearing. "I used to look at you like that."
We sit in silence while she drinks and talks.
"Remember when we used to dance until sunrise?" she asks. "That club in Barcelona where they played nothing but techno and we invented that ridiculous cocktail?"
"The one with absinthe and champagne?"
"God, we were idiots." She's leaning against me now, heavy with exhaustion and whiskey. "Happy idiots, though."
"Sometimes."
"Better than now."
I think about the last two weeks. Sober, miserable, doing hot yoga at dawn like some sort of wellness cliché. But I’m also... clearer. More aware. Feeling things instead of drowning them.
"Different than now," I correct.
She yawns, curling into my side. "I should go."
"Yeah."
But she's already closing her eyes. Within minutes, she's snoring softly, still in her silk robe, still beautiful and broken.
I cover her with the cashmere throw from the foot of the bed, then grab a cushion and settle on the rattan sofa. It's uncomfortable as hell, the wicker digging into my back, but I've slept in worse places.
I lie there thinking about Jonah and wondering whether he's okay. It takes a long time for sleep to come.
Morning comes too bright through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Saskia's already up, gathering her things, robe properly tied, face washed clean of last night's tears.
"I'm sorry," she says, not meeting my eyes. "That was... inappropriate."
"We've all been there."
"Have we?" She looks at me then, something searching in her expression. "You seem different. More... I don't know. Solid."
"I'm trying."
She crosses to me, cups my face in her hands. "I'm sorry about what I'm about to do."
Before I can ask what she means, she kisses me. I turn my head so she gets my cheek, but she adjusts, lips brushing the corner of my mouth. Not a real kiss, but close enough to look like one.
"Saskia—"
"I know. I'm sorry." She pulls back, straightens her robe, walks to the door.
Opens it.
The morning sun hits her perfectly, backlighting the silk.
That's when I see it. Movement in the bushes outside. The quick shift of shadow that means someone's there, watching.
The click of a camera shutter.
"Saskia, what did you do?"
"I'm sorry, Alex." She steps outside, not bothering to hide her disheveled appearance.
"You set this up."
"I'm sorry," she says again, and maybe she even means it. "I need the story. You understand, right? It's all about the narrative."
"Get out," I say quietly.
She leaves without another word.
I'm packed in five minutes. Fuck the seven-day minimum. Fuck the finding myself. Fuck all of it.
The receptionist tries to stop me. "Mr. Colborne, you're booked through Sunday—"
"I've paid the full week. Just give me my devices."
She unlocks the safe, hands me my phone and laptop.
"I hope you found what you were looking for," she says.
I sit on a bench outside, waiting for the valet to return my car and watch the morning mist burn off the mountains while I wait for my phone to power on. It explodes with notifications.
I only have eyes for the messages from one person.
Pregnant.
Jonah is pregnant.
With my child.
Four days. This message has been sitting for four days while I've been doing sun salutations and drinking green juice and letting Saskia cry on my shoulder.
The car pulls up and the valet hands over my keys.
I stare at the message reading it again. So formal. So careful. "I don't expect anything from you."
It’s like he's already written me off. He's already accepted he's doing this alone.
But I get in the car anyway, phone clutched in my hand, that one word echoing in my head with every heartbeat.
Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.