Chapter 7: When the Past Comes Calling

Later that night, I slept deeply. The chirp of crickets and Jackson’s steady breathing soothed me. The tent was cramped but cozy, and I felt safe in a way I hadn’t in years. I woke once in the night, the sound of rain on nylon a gentle lullaby. I smiled and went right back to sleep.

In the morning, I stumbled out of the tent. Jackson had already set up his easel, focused and intent. He hummed as he mixed his paints, eyes locked on the horizon, lost in his own world. The air smelled of wet grass and brewing coffee.

The sun rose slowly, bathing everything in gentle warmth. Gold spilled over the trees, painting the world brand new. I hugged my knees to my chest, breathing it in. I whispered a silent promise to myself: I would make the most of this second chance.

“Don’t move!” Jackson’s voice startled me. I froze mid-sip of coffee, almost dropping my mug. His brush flew across the canvas, capturing the morning light and the sleepy curve of my smile.

I blushed, awkward but flattered. "You sure you want this bedhead in your masterpiece?" I joked.

When he finished painting, I rubbed my sore neck. Modeling wasn’t easy. My back ached, but my heart felt lighter.

“Let me give you a massage, to thank you for being my model.” He flexed his fingers, then gently kneaded the tension from my shoulders. The gesture was innocent, but something electric lingered between us.

Jackson’s hands were strong and sure. I closed my eyes, letting myself enjoy the comfort. His touch was kind, never demanding. I melted into the moment, grateful for the simple kindness.

On the way down the hill, Jackson kept talking about his inspiration, describing each brushstroke, each burst of color. His joy was infectious. I studied the swirls of orange and blue, trying to see what he saw. “Maybe it’ll grow on me,” I teased, and he laughed.

When we got back, Jackson went straight into his own cottage. He waved, promising to show me his latest sketches when I had time. I lingered outside, reluctant to return to my own company.

I turned on the TV, and Derek’s face suddenly appeared on the screen, making my stomach drop. My fingers tightened around the remote, considering turning it off, but I couldn’t look away.

The news anchor’s voice boomed through the cottage, Derek’s perfect smile frozen mid-interview. I watched, heart in my throat, wondering what new spin he’d put on my absence.

He was everywhere—his face, his name, his brand. It used to make me proud. Now, it just made me tired. I couldn’t avoid him forever. But I could control how much of my life he took up from now on.

In the news interview, Derek wore his poker face, the same one he used at board meetings and family functions. Unflappable, unreadable.

Asked about the recent rumors of marital problems, he just looked indifferent. He smirked, deflecting with a practiced charm. "My wife’s just blowing off steam. She’ll come back eventually."

His confidence was infuriating. He truly believed I’d crawl back, that he was the only thing I’d ever need.

Everyone envied me—an orphan girl with no one to rely on, raised by the Langley family matriarch, finally marrying Derek. They said it was a blessing. But only those involved knew: ignored by everyone, resented by Derek, holding only the title of Mrs. Langley, yet still rootless in the Langley family.

I remembered holidays spent at the edge of every photo, never quite belonging. Every year, when the yellow roses bloomed, Derek would have the staff cut them and fill the house’s vases. The scent haunted every room, a constant reminder of what—and who—I could never be.

The piano in the glass sunroom was wiped daily by the staff, gleaming in the afternoon light, untouched except for the careful hands of the cleaners. Even the music was gone from that house.

Lila was gone, but Derek made sure I felt her presence in every way. Her memory lingered in photos on the mantle, the playlist Derek refused to change, the perfume that still scented the guest bath.

The reporter’s question hung in the air, tension thickening the studio. Derek frowned, reaching for his wedding ring. His hand fumbled at his finger, finding only bare skin. His face tightened, just for a split second.

But there was nothing there. The empty spot on his hand glared like a scar. Only then did he remember that Natalie had been serious this time—she’d given back his ring and even dared to disappear. The shock was visible, even if he tried to hide it. The world could see it now—Mrs. Langley was truly gone.

He remembered the house manager’s panicked call that day, saying Ma’am was missing. I imagined Jeff’s voice, shaky for once, telling Derek I’d left for real. No warning, no second thoughts. He came home to find Natalie’s half of the closet empty—only his suits hung there.

My shoes, my scarves, my favorite raincoat—all gone. It was as if I’d never been there at all. He probably convinced himself it was a bluff, a manipulation. He never understood that I didn’t care about the new woman—I just couldn’t compete with a ghost.

The roses, the piano, the locked memories—those were my true rivals, and I’d finally walked away. But so what? He’d won, but it didn’t feel like victory. He didn’t even know what he’d lost.

For years, he believed that was enough—that I was too alone to ever leave. When I was upset as a kid, I’d go hide alone—crawl into closets, tuck myself under the stairs, and wait for the storm to pass. No one ever came looking for me—not until Carol.

She brushed my hair at night, made my favorite pancakes on bad days. For a while, I believed I mattered. Now, he didn’t have the patience to go looking for me. He waited, sure I’d return on my own, never bothering to search. I realized then: I’d outgrown him, and his indifference set me free.

But this time, I was the one making the rules. I was never going back. So he told the house manager, "An orphan girl—where else can she go after leaving the Langley family?" His words echoed in the empty halls, pride masking his loneliness. He never realized I’d already found where I belonged.

And so, the world waited for a return that would never come. For the first time in my life, I was free to decide what came next.