8. Jayden
— ? —
Jayden
The house is too quiet.
Every room holds her ghost - the couch where she curled up with her laptop, her feet tucked beneath her and her brow furrowed in concentration.
The kitchen where she used to dance while cooking, swaying to music only she could hear, completely unself-conscious in a way that always made me want to watch.
The bedroom where I used to wake up and find her already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with that soft expression I took for granted.
The back door opens under my hand. The private beach stretches out in front of me, silver and black under the moon. My feet carry me down the steps, across the patio, into the sand.
The ocean roars in the darkness, indifferent to everything. To the accusations. To the chaos. To the fact that my wife packed one suitcase and left while I was in a boardroom explaining to investors that I would handle this.
Her wedding ring is in my pocket. Such a small thing, such a light weight, for something that carries the burden of eight years.
The sand is cold under my bare feet. The salt air burns my lungs. I walk for a long time - an hour, maybe more - letting the rhythm of the waves drown out the noise in my head.
The gala replays behind my eyes whether I want it to or not. Her face when the whispers started. The way she looked at me, waiting for me to defend her, to believe her, to be the husband she needed me to be.
What did you do?
The words echo like a verdict. Not what happened or what’s going on or are you okay. What did you do. Like she was already guilty. Like I’d already decided.
The premiere she wasn’t invited to. The way I looked at my phone instead of her face when she tried to talk to me.
The morning in the kitchen when she asked - begged, really, though neither of us called it that - for me to put the phone down, and I acted like she was the inconvenience.
Like her need for my attention was a problem to be managed rather than a gift to be cherished.
When did she become an inconvenience? When did the woman I loved become background noise in my own life?
The beach curves ahead, private property giving way to public sand. A group of teenagers is building a bonfire further down - laughing, carefree, oblivious to everything except each other. The firelight flickers against their faces as they pass around drinks and tell stories.
My feet stop moving. The scene feels familiar in a way that aches.
That used to be us.
Before the money. Before the studio. Before I forgot what mattered. When we were seventeen and stupid and in love, sitting on a beach exactly like this one, making promises about the future.
“Don’t forget the girl who believed in you when you were nobody.”
“Never. You’re not forgettable, Skye Bennett. Trust me. I’ve tried.”
The memory surfaces with the force of a blow. Her face in the firelight. Her hand in mine. The certainty I felt that night - absolute, unshakeable - that I would never let her down.
I turn and walk back toward the house. The ring is heavy in my pocket. The teenagers’ laughter fades behind me, swallowed by the crash of waves.
The drawer in my study opens with a familiar creak. The photo is where I left it, tucked behind tax documents and old contracts - hidden, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.
We’re wearing cheap formalwear. The corsage on her wrist is already wilting. My boutonniere is crooked, pinned by hands that didn’t quite know what they were doing. We’re grinning at the camera like we’ve won the lottery. Like we’ve discovered something no one else knows. Like we’re invincible.
My thumb traces the edge of the photograph. The Skye in this picture is so young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Full of dreams and opinions and the absolute certainty that she was going to change the world.
“I’m going to write movies that change the world.”
She’d said that to me a hundred times. At bonfires and in cars and lying on her childhood bed with her laptop balanced on her stomach.
She had notebooks full of ideas. She had a screenplay she wouldn’t let me read because it wasn’t perfect yet.
She had this fire in her eyes that made me believe anything was possible.
Where did that fire go?
The answer comes slowly, reluctantly, like pulling a splinter from deep beneath the skin.
I put it out.
Not intentionally. Not maliciously. But every time I dismissed her ideas because I was busy.
Every time I forgot to ask about her projects.
Every time I let her shrink herself to fit into my shadow instead of demanding that she take up space - all of those small neglects adding up to a slow suffocation.
She stopped talking about writing. The screenplay I used to tease her about disappeared into a folder she never opened. Her opinions became softer, more careful, designed not to contradict or challenge. The fire in her eyes dimmed until sometimes, in certain lights, I couldn’t see it at all.
I did that. I did that to her.
And then, when she needed me most - when someone was trying to destroy her, when she was standing in front of everyone we knew, being accused of crimes she didn’t commit - I asked her what she did. I asked her to explain. I treated her like a problem to be managed instead of a wife to be protected.
The ring is in my hand now. The gold is warm from my body heat. The diamond catches the lamp light, throwing small rainbows across the photograph.
I was a fool. For not believing her. For not defending her. For letting her walk out of that gala alone.
The phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to pick it up. Her number is still the first in my favorites. Still labeled with the heart emoji she added years ago as a joke and neither of us ever removed.
The call goes straight to voicemail.
Again. And again. And again.
The text comes next, thumbs moving faster than my brain: Please. I need to explain.
No response.
Ellen’s number is in my contacts - emergency contact, labeled by Skye back when she still trusted me with the important parts of her life. The phone rings three times before she answers.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Please.” The word comes out raw. Desperate. “I need to explain-”
“You had eight years to explain, Jayden. Eight years to put your wife first. Instead, you let another woman destroy her in front of everyone she knows. So no. You don’t get to explain. You get to live with it.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
The house is too empty. The silence is too loud. Every room I walk through holds another memory of her - her laugh, her scent, the imprint of her presence on every surface.
The car keys are in my hand. The garage door is opening. And suddenly I’m driving, the empty streets sliding past, heading toward the only place she might be.
Ellen’s apartment. Third floor, corner unit. I remember because Skye mentioned it once, casually, in one of those conversations I should have paid more attention to.
My car parks across the street. The engine goes silent. And I sit there, staring up at the building, trying to figure out what comes next.
A light flickers in the corner window. Movement behind the curtain - someone pacing, or sitting up, or maybe just existing in the sleepless dark the same way I am.
Then she appears.
Skye. Standing at the window, silhouetted against the lamplight. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks small. Defeated. Nothing like the woman who used to light up every room she walked into.
I did that, I think. I did that to her.
Our eyes meet.
Just for a second. She’s looking out the window, and I’m looking up, and for one painful heartbeat, we’re looking at each other across all the distance - the street, the mistakes, the accumulation of failures that brought us here.
Her expression doesn’t change. No anger, no relief, no recognition of the man who promised to love her forever. Just… exhaustion. Emptiness.
Then she turns away.
The light goes out.
I sit in my car, staring at the dark window, and my phone buzzes with a news alert. My thumb swipes automatically, expecting another foundation update, another investor concern.
A photo of Adriana entering my house earlier tonight. The headline: “Mystery Woman Spotted at Rowland Mansion.”
The realization hits like ice water. Skye has probably already seen this. She probably thinks I called Adriana. She probably thinks we’re together right now, in our bed, while she cries on her best friend’s couch.
That’s not what happened. Adriana showed up uninvited, with papers she claimed needed signing and food she claimed I needed to eat. She touched my arm too much. Stood too close. And when she tried to kiss me-
“I’m married, Adriana. Whatever problems Skye and I have, we’re still married. And I love my wife.”
The words I said to Adriana echo in my mind. True words. Words I should have said to Skye instead. Words I should have shouted from the stage of that gala instead of dragging her into a service hallway and demanding explanations.
My finger finds her contact again. The call connects, rings once, twice-
Voicemail.
“Skye, please. I know you saw the photo. It’s not what it looks like.
Adriana came over uninvited - I sent her away.
I didn’t - I’m not-” My voice breaks. “I love you. I know I haven’t acted like it.
I know I’ve made mistakes. But I love you, and I believe you, and I’m going to find out who did this to you. Please. Just… please call me back.”
The message sends. The phone goes dark.
The window stays dark too.
She’s never going to answer. She’s never going to believe that the photo was innocent. She’s never going to trust me again, because I gave her no reason to trust me when it mattered most.
The engine starts. The street slides away behind me. And as the city lights blur past, one thought crystallizes with absolute certainty:
Someone framed my wife. Someone orchestrated this entire disaster. And the timing of that photo - Adriana showing up at the house within hours of the accusations - is too convenient to be coincidence.
The gala replays in my mind. Adriana’s perfectly timed shock. The way she summoned me to the board meeting, positioning herself as the helpful colleague while my wife stood alone in a service hallway.
And tonight - the sushi, the wine, the change into something softer before she arrived. She’d shown up within an hour of Skye leaving. Almost like she’d been parked down the street. Almost like someone had told her the exact moment my wife walked out that door.
The way she tried to kiss me tonight, like my wife’s destruction had cleared the path for her.
What if Skye was right all along?
The thought is a key turning in a lock. Suddenly everything looks different. The premiere photos. The foundation leak. The anonymous accusations from a “credible source.”
What if the credible source was sitting at Table 1, wearing red, waiting for her moment?
My foot presses harder on the accelerator. The studio has records. Email logs. Security footage. If Adriana is behind this, there will be evidence.
And I’m going to find it.
Even if it’s too late to save my marriage, I can at least prove that my wife was innocent. I can give her that much. I can clear her name, even if she never forgives me.
Even if she never comes home.