Chapter 3 — The Crash
550 Words
Juliette counted every second as the jet lifted off the tarmac, the vibration humming beneath her feet like a ticking clock. She sat alone in the sleek leather seat, her suitcase tucked away, the divorce papers signed and sealed in her bag. The cabin crew offered her champagne. She declined.
There was nothing to celebrate.
The city lights of Houston vanished beneath her, swallowed by clouds. She stared out the window, wondering if Dominic was already gone. Probably. He wasn’t the type to linger. He’d drive back to the city, pour himself a drink, and forget her by morning.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
What he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Juliette wasn’t flying to Italy.
This plane wasn’t going anywhere near it.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, silver recorder. Pressed play. Her own voice echoed in the quiet cabin.
“Dominic—please! Something’s wrong—there’s smoke—oh God, the engine—”
She stopped the tape. The rest was chaos—screaming, static, the sounds of a crash carefully edited to sound real.
She slipped the recorder back into her bag and exhaled. The hardest part was done.
Now, she had to disappear.
The plan had been in motion for months. A woman like her, trained in performance, could pull it off. Fake identities, bribed pilots, altered flight plans—it had taken every dime of her savings and every favor she was owed.
But it would all be worth it.
Because now, Juliette Ward no longer existed.
Meanwhile…
Dominic Voss sat in his penthouse, a glass of scotch in his hand, the city skyline silent through the window. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. It had been just under two hours since he watched Juliette board the jet.
He told himself he felt nothing.
But his hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.
The kiss had meant nothing.
It wasn’t real.
None of it had ever been real.
So why did it feel like something was tearing apart inside his chest?
His phone rang.
He stared at the unknown number for a second before answering.
Then everything shifted.
“Mr. Voss?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m calling from AirNova Private Aviation. I’m so sorry to inform you… the plane carrying your wife—Ms. Ward—it’s gone. We’ve lost contact. There’s been an explosion. No survivors.”
Dominic didn’t speak.
He didn’t breathe.
He didn’t move.
His world simply... stopped.
The next morning...
News broke fast. Billionaire Dominic Voss’s estranged wife dead in a tragic mid-air explosion. Private jet presumed destroyed over the Atlantic. No bodies recovered.
The media swarmed the Voss estate. Headlines poured in.
“Dream Wife Dies in Tragic Crash.”
“Juliette Voss: Icon, Beauty, Mystery.”
“Is Dominic Voss Cursed?”
Dominic made no statements. No appearances. No public mourning.
Instead, he played the voicemail again and again.
“Dominic, please! Something’s wrong—there’s smoke—oh God—”
Her voice.
Her panic.
Her final words.
But something felt off.
Too rehearsed. Too clean.
And in the back of his mind, a seed of doubt was planted.
Had he just been played?
End of Chapter 3.
- Writer
