Saving Him, Losing My Love

The first thing I felt when Jackson's eyes opened was relief so overwhelming it nearly brought me to my knees. After three months of watching him lie motionless in that hospital bed, after sacrificing the Celestial Fortune that had protected my family for generations, after giving him the sacred amulet that now hung around his neck—he was finally awake.

"Jackson," I whispered, reaching for his hand. "Thank God, you're—"

He pulled away before our fingers could touch, his gaze sliding past me as if I were invisible. "Where's my phone?"

Not 'thank you.' Not 'I love you.' Not even acknowledgment of the three months I'd spent by his side, holding vigil while he fought death itself.

"The doctors said you need rest," I managed, my voice catching. "Maybe we could—"

"I said where's my phone, Maia." His tone was sharp, dismissive. The same voice that used to whisper sweet promises now cut through me like glass.

Four days later, I sat alone at Lumière, our favorite restaurant where we'd shared our first anniversary dinner. The reservation was for seven—I'd booked it the moment the doctors confirmed Jackson was fully recovered. I'd imagined this moment countless times: him taking my hands across the candlelit table, tears in his eyes as he thanked me for saving his life, maybe even proposing properly this time.

The champagne I'd ordered sat warming in its bucket. Eight-fifteen. Eight-thirty. I checked my phone obsessively, each passing minute feeling like another small death.

At nine-twenty, the maître d' approached with practiced sympathy. "Miss Foster, perhaps—"

"He's coming," I said firmly, though my hands trembled as I smoothed my dress—the blue one Jackson always said brought out my eyes. "He's just... traffic."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

At nine-forty-five, Jackson finally appeared in the doorway. But he wasn't alone.

Charleigh Stone clung to his arm like a second skin, her platinum hair cascading in perfect waves, her red dress so tight it looked painted on. I recognized her immediately—the Instagram influencer with two million followers who posted daily about her "blessed life" and designer everything.

Jackson's eyes found mine across the restaurant, and for a split second, I thought I saw something flicker there. Guilt, maybe. Or recognition of what this moment should have been.

Then Charleigh laughed, a tinkling sound that carried across the dining room, and whatever I'd glimpsed vanished.

They approached our table—my table, the one I'd reserved for our reunion—and Jackson pulled out a chair. Not for me. For her.

"Maia," he said casually, as if we'd run into each other at a coffee shop instead of this being our first dinner since he'd nearly died. "You remember Charleigh."

I stared at him, my mouth dry as desert sand. "Jackson, what—"

"Dom Pérignon 2012," he told the hovering sommelier, not even glancing at the champagne I'd already ordered. "Your best bottle."

Charleigh giggled, pressing closer to him. "You're so generous, baby. I don't deserve all this."

Baby. The pet name he'd never