One week before everything imploded, I stood in our minimalist, glass-walled living room in Los Angeles. The sunset was painting the sky in bruises of violet and orange, reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows I had personally designed. I was trembling, not with fear, but with the fragile, suffocating hope that I could still save us.
In my hand was a sleek, matte-black envelope. Inside sat a gold-embossed flight itinerary.
To celebrate our fifth anniversary, I had pulled a significant sum from my private equity—money Julian didn’t even know I had liquid—to book a $150,000 retreat. It was a private island in the Bahamas, fully staffed, accessible only by a chartered Gulfstream G650. No zoning board meetings. No contractor emergencies. Just us.
“Julian,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I handed him the envelope. “Happy anniversary.”
He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to his phone, his thumb flicking rhythmically through a luxury watch forum. When he finally took the card, he didn’t savor the moment. He didn’t look at me. He glanced at the heavy cardstock, tossed it onto the white marble kitchen island, and took a slow, deliberate sip of his twenty-year-old scotch—a bottle bought with my corporate card.
“An island? Honestly, Victoria, it sounds dreadfully isolated, don’t you think?” he muttered, his voice dripping with casual, biting disinterest. “I hope the Wi-Fi is top-tier. I have several high-stakes hotel acquisitions maturing next week. I can’t be off the grid just because you’re feeling sentimental.”
My chest tightened as if caught in a vice. His acquisitions. Every property his hospitality group bought was subsidized by a silent mezzanine loan I had arranged behind the scenes to keep his fragile ego from bruising.
“It’s for us, Julian,” I pleaded, fighting the hot sting of tears behind my eyes. “You’ve spent months telling me my development projects make me neglectful. I’m stepping away. I’m giving you everything I have. I want us to find the people we were before the company took over.”
