To celebrate our fifth anniversary, I had liquidated a significant portion of my personal stock—money Marcus didn’t even know I had moved—to book a $150,000 retreat. It was a private island in the Bahamas, fully staffed, accessible only by seaplane. No board meetings. No Slack notifications. Just us.
“Marcus,” 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 stock-trading app. When he finally took the card, he didn’t savor the moment. He didn’t look at me. He glanced at the luxurious cardstock, tossed it onto the white marble kitchen island, and took a slow, deliberate sip of his twenty-year-old scotch—bought with my credit card.
“An island? Honestly, Eleanor, it sounds a bit isolated, don’t you think?” he muttered, his voice dripping with a casual, biting disinterest. “I hope the Wi-Fi is top-tier. I have several high-stakes investments 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 investments. Every penny he traded was an allowance I had deposited into our joint account to keep his ego from bruising.
“It’s for us, Marcus,” I pleaded, fighting the hot sting of tears. “You’ve spent months telling me my work makes 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.”
He sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound of a man burdened by a hysterical wife. “You are neglectful, Eleanor. You’re obsessed with your little computer empire. 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 move. Gaslighting disguised as dominance. He made my success feel like a character flaw while simultaneously reaping every 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.
