He sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound of a man burdened by a hysterical wife. “You are neglectful, Victoria. You’re obsessed with pouring concrete and playing with blueprints. But fine. If you’ve already spent the money, I suppose I’ll make time in my schedule to accommodate your needs.”
It was a classic Julian move. Gaslighting disguised as dominance. He made my success feel like a character flaw while simultaneously reaping every single benefit it provided. But as I watched him return to his phone, I didn’t realize that the depth of his delusion had a basement I hadn’t yet explored.
Just as he turned his back to pour another drink, the screen of his phone lit up on the marble counter. It was a text message. It didn’t just read a name; it read: Serena 🤍 Can’t wait for the sun, baby. Have you told the architect you’re busy yet?
He snatched the phone up, shoving it into his pocket before I could blink, his back stiffening. “I’m going to my study,” he clipped, vanishing down the hall.
I stood in the quiet kitchen, the ice clinking in his abandoned glass, the world slowly tilting off its axis.
The Miami sun was a physical weight, blindingly bright as my driver pulled the SUV onto the private tarmac of the VIP aviation terminal. I was thirty minutes late, delayed by a mandatory emergency board call regarding our European expansion. I expected to find Julian waiting in the private lounge, perhaps pacing, annoyed, but alone.
Instead, I stepped out onto the hot asphalt, the smell of jet fuel heavy in the humid air, and stopped dead in my tracks.
The heavy cabin door of my chartered Gulfstream was open, the stairs deployed. I walked toward it, climbing the steps, only to hear the unmistakable sound of clinking crystal and roaring laughter coming from inside the luxurious cabin.
I stepped into the aircraft. The air-conditioning washed over me, chilling the sudden cold sweat on my skin.
Sitting in the plush, cream-leather club seats, surrounded by a mountain of Louis Vuitton luggage, were four people.
