The Wife He Never Chose

The Billboard Encounter

Alan Halberg gripped the steering wheel, his mind a chaotic storm of unresolved anger and suffocating guilt. He had been driving aimlessly for over an hour, escaping the suffocating perfume and calculated whispers of Vivienne back at the penthouse.

The sports car glided to a halt as the traffic light at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street turned a sharp, bleeding red.

Alan leaned his head back against the leather headrest, closing his eyes to rub his throbbing temples. But a sudden, brilliant flash of amber light pierced through the rain-streaked windshield, illuminating the dark interior of his car.

Alan opened his eyes and looked up.

High above the luxury boutiques of the elite shopping district, a massive, towering digital billboard was shifting its display. The corporate advertisements faded away, replaced by a stunning, cinematic teaser poster for an upcoming independent drama.

Alan froze. His breath caught in his throat, his hands locking onto the steering wheel with terrifying force.

It was Elena.

Her face was projected across the towering screen, larger than life, bathed in a haunting mix of shadow and golden light. She was dressed in a dark, high-collared vintage gown, her hair swept up elegantly, exposing the sharp, aristocratic line of her jaw. But it was her eyes that paralyzed him. They were wide, vacant, yet piercingly sharp—radiating a profound, heartbreaking sorrow mixed with an unbreakable, dangerous dignity.

Beneath her image, the elegant typography read: LENA VALE in THE COURTYARD OF ASHES. Directed by MARCO REYES.

Alan stared, completely spellbound, as the freezing rain lashed against his car. This wasn't the Elena he remembered. This wasn't the quiet, fragile woman who used to sit on the edge of their sofa in New York, her eyes anxious, waiting up until two in the morning just to see if he would eat the dinner she had prepared. This woman on the billboard was ethereal. She was mysterious, completely self-assured, and utterly untouchable. She looked like a star that belonged to the universe—not a lonely wife trapped in his gilded cage.

A horn honked loudly behind him, shattering the spell. The traffic light had turned green, but Alan couldn't bring his foot to press the accelerator. He was completely paralyzed by the ghost of the woman he had pushed away.

Suddenly, his personal phone—the one sitting on the passenger seat—vibrated violently, its screen lighting up the dark cabin.

Alan snatched it up without looking, his eyes still glued to the towering billboard above. "Halberg," he barked into the receiver, his voice raw and strained.

There was a brief moment of static, followed by a soft, sharp intake of breath.

"Alan," a voice spoke.

Alan’s entire body went completely rigid. The air in his lungs vanished. It was a voice he hadn't heard in weeks—a voice he had tried to summon through a hundred unread text messages.

"Elena?" Alan whispered, his voice cracking slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. "Elena, is that really you? Where are you? I’ve been trying to—"

"Alan, please, keep your voice down," she interrupted him cleanly, her tone completely devoid of any emotion. It was cold, professional, and entirely detached. "I am calling from a temporary production line. I don't have much time."

"Elena, listen to me," Alan demanded, leaning forward, his eyes darting between her massive digital face on the billboard and the phone in his hand. "We need to talk. The media, the tabloids this morning—I had them wiped. I didn't want you to be harmed by—"

"I didn't call to discuss the tabloids, Alan," Elena said, cutting him off with a chilling calmness. "Marco’s legal team is already handling the source of that leak. I am calling because your corporate attorney, Mr. Harrison, contacted my representation yesterday."

Alan blinked, trying to clear the fog in his brain. "Harrison? Why did he contact you?"

"He says there are several legacy insurance policies and asset disclosures from our marriage that still require my physical signature before the legal separation can be finalized in the state of New York," Elena explained, her voice sounding as if she were reading a business contract. "Apparently, the dewan direksi cannot close the quarterly audit until those files are cleared."

"I don't care about the audit, Elena," Alan said fiercely, his hand tightening around the phone until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. "I care about where you are. Why haven't you touched the compensation fund? Ten million dollars is sitting in your account, and my bank managers say you haven't withdrawn a single cent! How are you surviving out there? Are you really living off that director's pocket?"

There was a long, suffocating pause on the line. When Elena spoke again, her voice possessed a quiet, lethal edge that cut deeper than any insult.

"My living arrangements and my finances are no longer your concern, Mr. Halberg. I survived five years of silence in your home; I can survive a few weeks of hard work in California on my own dime."

"Elena—"

"If you want those insurance documents signed so your corporate perimeter remains secure, you will meet me tomorrow," Elena stated flatly, ignoring his desperation. "There is a small cafe called The Willow Tree just two blocks away from my studio set in Burbank. I have a thirty-minute break at one o'clock in the afternoon. Bring the papers."

"Tomorrow? In Los Angeles?" Alan asked, his chest heaving as a strange, overwhelming rush of adrenaline flooded his veins.

"One o'clock sharp, Alan," Elena said, her tone final. "If you are late, I will not wait. Goodbye."

"Elena, wait! Don't hang up—"

Click.

The line went dead.