Left To Burn: My Husband's Betrayal

For ten years, I loved Holden Jackson, even marrying him knowing I was just a stand-in for his true love, Isabelle. I played the part of the perfect, predictable wife, hoping one day he' d finally see me. That hope died the night our mansion caught fire.

He burst into our smoke-filled bedroom, looked right at me, then scooped up our dog and ran, leaving me to burn.

It was a chilling echo of the day I miscarried our child, screaming for him while he comforted Isabelle next door. He never came for me then, and he didn't come for me now.

In that inferno, watching him save the dog over his own wife, I didn't feel pain or anger. I felt nothing. The naive girl who loved him was finally dead, incinerated along with my last shred of hope.

So when I woke up in the hospital to a text confirming my divorce was final, I didn't cry. I booked a one-way ticket to Geneva.

This time, I was choosing to save myself.

Here we go.

Chapter 1

Celeste Sparks POV:

The world blurred, a cold, clinical haze, as the nurse finally unstrapped my wrist from the hospital bed. I was free, technically, but freedom felt like a joke. My chest ached, a hollow echo where a life used to be, and I didn't bother to hide the tremor in my hands. The doctor had been talking, explaining discharge procedures, but his words just bounced off the invisible shield I'd erected around myself.

Holden stepped into the room.

His footsteps were heavy, urgent, but I didn't look up. He said my name, his voice tight with a concern that tasted like ash in my mouth. I just nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and continued to stare at the sterile white wall.

"Celeste, are you okay? God, I was so worried," he pleaded, his voice cracking slightly.

A bitter laugh almost escaped me. "Worried?" I finally met his eyes, my own devoid of any warmth. "Where were you, Holden?"

He flinched. "Isabelle… she had an emergency. A panic attack. She called me, Celeste, I had to go." His explanation tumbled out, a flimsy dam against the ocean of my pain.

I just watched him, my face a mask. There was no rage, no tears left. Only a vast, empty space.

He reached for my hand, his touch hesitant. I pulled it back before he could make contact, a reflex born of instinct. "I'm tired, Holden. I just want to go home."

His gaze dropped to my stomach, then back to my face. A flicker of something-pity? Guilt?-crossed his features. He remembered me before, easily bruised, prone to tears, always demanding his attention. The old Celeste would have clung to him, weeping. This new Celeste was a ghost, and it unsettled him more than any outburst.

The drive home was silent. He kept glancing at me, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He wanted to ask. He wanted to