Reclaiming His Wife

Chapter Nine: The Arrival

The rest of the flight was a muted affair, thick with unsaid words and simmering tension. Jessica sat rigid in her seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed outside the window as if the clouds held the answers she desperately needed. Beside her, Mark busied himself with emails, pretending to work while occasionally glancing her way, as though trying to decipher the sudden cold front he hadn't seen coming. Neither of them spoke.

The only person who seemed remotely pleased with the situation was Veronica.

She glided through the cabin like a queen on a throne she didn’t need to earn. With her snow-white complexion, platinum-blonde hair in a perfectly styled twist, and a body that knew how to own designer labels, she exuded an air of polished superiority. In a country as richly diverse as Guyana—home to six major ethnic groups—Veronica’s appearance was enough to draw stares. She knew it, and she fed off it like sunlight.

Jessica tuned her out entirely.

By the time they arrived at one of the few five-star hotels in Georgetown, Jessica felt like she'd been dragging her soul behind her. Her silence wasn't just about Mark anymore—it had metastasized into something deeper. A refusal to engage. A retreat into herself.

The doorman greeted her with a warm smile as she stepped under the grand stone archway and into the lobby, but she barely noticed. She returned the smile mechanically, not stopping to admire the intricate tile work or the way the lobby buzzed with life. It was peak season—August—and the hotel teemed with activity. Laughter and conversation rippled through the air, bouncing off the high ceilings and polished marble floors.

She passed a young couple curled into each other’s arms, lost in a world of their own. Another pair laughed as they walked hand-in-hand toward the hotel restaurant. Groups of friends sipped tropical cocktails, toasting something that wasn’t her business.

All around her was the kind of connection she no longer believed she could have.

Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with jet lag, Jessica checked into her room and disappeared into it like a ghost. She shed her clothes, slid into a steaming bath, and then into bed—seeking refuge in sleep, the only place where her heart didn’t ache so loudly.

The next morning greeted her with the kind of sunlight that demanded cheerfulness—warm, bright, and annoyingly persistent. Jessica, however, wasn’t in the mood to play along.

Clad in crisp white shorts, a lime-green tank top, and flip-flops that slapped the floor with every step, she wandered down to the hotel’s casual eatery just off the lobby. She looked like a woman on vacation, but inside, she was still tangled in yesterday.

The breakfast buffet smelled of syrup, scrambled eggs, and overly strong coffee. She bypassed the country’s traditional ‘salt fish and bake’—a dish she normally loved—and instead opted for comfort: scrambled eggs, bacon, and a small fruit salad. She poured herself a cup of black coffee and surveyed the room before choosing a table by the window.

The place was bustling, but she felt alone.

She hoped—ridiculously—that a change of scenery, a bit of people-watching, might lift the heaviness pressing on her chest. But her mood had barely budged from where she'd left it the night before: somewhere between numb and disappointed.

She had no clue where Mark had disappeared to after check-in, and frankly, she didn’t care. He was in the room next door, but it might as well have been across the world. She hadn’t heard a word from him since they’d parted ways in the lobby. She imagined him now, glued to a laptop, his voice booming on some conference call. Always chasing deals. Always chasing something—never her.

It was ironic, really.

Mark used to talk with disdain about his father, a man who buried himself in business and ignored his family like they were just another expense on a balance sheet. But the truth was undeniable: Mark had become him. A carbon copy. Jessica could’ve told him so—but she’d run out of energy for honesty that fell on deaf ears.

Sighing, she pushed the thoughts away. Today wasn’t about him.

It was about her.

She considered staying a couple more days before heading to Berbice, the ancient county that had always felt more like home. Maybe she’d even go on a date, meet someone interesting. Someone who’d see her—not her potential, not her beauty, not her usefulness—but her.

With a wry smile, she scanned the dining room. There were a few solo diners, each lost in their own morning rituals. Some scrolled through phones. Others read newspapers. A few looked as tired as she felt. None sparked the tiniest flicker of interest.

“Not even one attractive man in sight?” she muttered under her breath.

Was it too much to ask for fate to toss her a bone? A small distraction? Maybe a spark?

She laughed softly at her own hopelessness. The sound was short, self-deprecating. Even her fantasies felt tired.

Shaking her head, Jessica turned back to her breakfast, fork in hand, appetite still missing.

At least the coffee was hot.

Jessica stirred her coffee absentmindedly, the steam curling up like memory. Her mind drifted—not by choice, but because grief had a way of yanking you into the past when the present felt too sharp.

She remembered her first winter in New York. The cold had been biting, unforgiving, the kind that crawled under your skin no matter how many layers you wore. Her gloves had holes. Her boots had leaks. And Mark… Mark had shown up outside her grad school dorm, holding a paper bag that smelled of home.

“Spicy enough to make you forget the wind,” he’d said with a grin, passing it to her like it was nothing. Like he hadn't taken three subways and called six Caribbean caterers just to find someone who could make roti the way she liked it.

She’d laughed. She’d let him in.

Back then, he’d been warm in all the ways that mattered.

Not flashy. Not rich. Not the empire-building, suit-wearing CEO he was now. Just Mark. Kind, quiet, careful. The one person who asked how she was doing and waited for the real answer.

She hadn’t fallen in love with the man who gave her diamonds.

She’d fallen in love with the man who brought her roti in a snowstorm.

Jessica blinked hard, willing the sting in her eyes to subside. What good were memories if they only bruised?

She looked down at her breakfast. The scrambled eggs were going cold. The fruit had lost its sweetness.

Across the room, a young man dipped a spoon into a mango parfait and laughed at something on his phone. His companion leaned onto his shoulder, giggling. Jessica turned away. She didn’t begrudge them the moment—but she couldn’t watch it, either.

She picked up her coffee, her fingers curling tightly around the warmth of the mug like it was a lifeline.

Beginnings were easy, she thought. It was everything after that cost you.