It was at the lavish birthday dinner for my mother-in-law in Rome that I discovered my place was missing. My husband, Ethan, just let out a small, dismissive chuckle and said, “Whoops, I guess we must have miscounted.” As the rest of the family joined in with faint, polite laughter, a profound calm settled over me. I looked at them all and stated, “It seems I’m not family, then,” before turning and walking out of the restaurant. Precisely thirty minutes later, they would make a horrifying discovery: I had systematically cancelled the entire event. The venue, the catering, every last reservation—all of it was gone. Their expressions, I imagined, had turned a ghostly shade of white.

“It seems I’m not family, then,” I repeated, my voice a steady anchor against the seismic tremor that was shaking my entire being. Those words seemed to hang in the opulent air of the exclusive Roman establishment, suspended before twelve pairs of eyes that now stared at me. Their expressions were a mixture of raw shock and a poorly disguised, venomous satisfaction. The echo of my husband Ethan’s light-hearted quip—»Whoops, I guess we must have miscounted»—still reverberated in my ears as I pivoted on my heel and strode away from the beautifully set table that had no chair reserved for me.

A fire of pure humiliation coursed through my veins as I pushed through the restaurant’s heavy doors and onto the cobblestone street, yet not a single tear escaped my eyes. In its place, an almost supernatural sense of tranquility descended upon me. I retrieved my smartphone, my fingers deftly navigating to the proprietary event management application that had been the cornerstone of my career. I calculated that I had a thirty-minute window before they would even begin to suspect what I was doing. That was far more time than I needed.

My name is Jessica Monroe Richardson. And before we delve into the story of how a woman once celebrated as Chicago’s foremost event planner found herself reclaiming her very soul in Rome, I want to extend a thank you. The most transformative moments in our lives often arrive when we are forced to finally acknowledge our own worth. If you have ever felt like an outsider, perpetually peering in on a life you were meant to be a part of, then this narrative may strike a familiar chord.

Five years prior, I was simply Jessica Monroe, the ambitious founder of Pinnacle Events, the most sought-after event planning firm in all of Chicago. I had bootstrapped the company from nothing, a direct result of putting myself through a grueling business school program. Every sophisticated gala held at the Art Institute, every flawlessly executed corporate summit in the Loop, every high-society wedding along the North Shore—they all bore the invisible, meticulous signature of my work.

My reputation for unwavering discretion, an obsessive attention to detail, and a unique talent for making the impossible happen had cemented my status as the essential planner for the city’s wealthiest and most influential figures. It was through this work that I first crossed paths with Ethan Richardson. The occasion was a massive charity fundraiser I had orchestrated for the Lurie Children’s Hospital. Ethan, tall and possessing a mane of perfectly styled dark hair, had a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and carried the effortless confidence of a man who had never once had to contemplate the cost of anything.

He possessed a practiced charm, the kind inherent in men born to a life of immense privilege, yet there seemed to be a genuine curiosity in his eyes when he spoke of my profession.

— “So, you’re the magician responsible for all of this?” he had asked, his gesture encompassing the grand ballroom of the Peninsula Chicago, which I had transformed into a celestial wonderland. “My mother has been struggling to find someone to hire for her own charity function next month. I believe I’ve just discovered her solution.”

That single engagement for his mother led to another, and soon I found myself as the de facto event coordinator for the entire Richardson clan. The Richardsons were the epitome of Chicago aristocracy, their lineage built on old money that stretched back to the era of shipping magnates and railroad tycoons. Theirs was a particular brand of wealth that had no need for ostentatious displays; it was communicated instead through the subtle, impeccable quality of their possessions and the seamless ease with which they moved through their world. Our romance ignited about six months after I began my professional association with his family.