Ethan pursued me with the same focused determination he applied to his position at the family’s investment firm on LaSalle Street. There were, of course, subtle omens I chose to overlook. The way his mother, Catherine, would appraise me with a look of barely veiled disapproval whenever Ethan introduced me as something more than his event planner. The offhand remarks about my more modest origins in a working-class suburb. The audible notes of surprise in people’s voices when they learned a Richardson was dating me.
— “You’ve certainly done well for yourself,” Catherine had remarked during our first dinner as a couple, her smile a frigid curve that never reached her eyes. “Self-made success is so… American.”
I willfully ignored these warning signs, blinded by the fact that I was falling deeply in love with Ethan. He seemed to be an exception within his family—more progressive, less preoccupied with pedigree and social standing. When he proposed, a mere eleven months after our first date, I accepted without hesitation, pushing down the persistent, nagging feeling that I was about to step into a gilded cage, a world that would never truly see me as one of its own.
The wedding, as one might expect, was the definitive social event of the season. I found myself planning the majority of it, incapable of entrusting the details of my own nuptials to another planner. Catherine, naturally, had a strong opinion on every single element. The chosen venue wasn’t traditional enough for a Richardson wedding, the culinary offerings were far too adventurous, and the guest list was conspicuously missing certain key figures from the city’s social register.
I compromised where it was feasible and stood my ground on the matters that were most important to me. Ethan assumed the role of a peacemaker, though I couldn’t help but notice that he seldom, if ever, directly contradicted his mother. Once the wedding was behind us, the campaign of undermining me became more deliberate and systematic.
Despite continuing to employ my company for their functions, the Richardsons constantly second-guessed my professional judgments, made last-minute alterations to established plans, and brazenly took credit for my most innovative ideas. During family gatherings, my opinions would be solicited and then summarily dismissed. My thriving career in event planning was reframed as a quaint little hobby rather than the successful enterprise it was.
— “Jessica has such a wonderful eye for these things,” Catherine would coo to her circle of friends, patting my hand with a condescending air. “It’s almost like having a personal party planner right here in the family.”
Ethan never once came to my defense. He would simply shrug his shoulders and explain to me later, in private, that this was just his mother’s way and that I shouldn’t take it to heart. But it was deeply personal, and the situation only deteriorated as the years went by. The commission to plan Catherine’s 70th birthday celebration in Rome should have represented the pinnacle of my career.
It was to be a week-long extravaganza in the Eternal City, with the grand finale being an exclusive dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant with a direct view of the Colosseum. I poured every ounce of my professional energy into crafting the perfect event, calling upon every high-level contact I had cultivated within the industry. It was in the midst of this intense planning that I began to notice the first significant cracks in the polished Richardson facade.
The deposits for the Italian venues were consistently late. My vendors started calling, their voices tinged with concern, inquiring about overdue payments. When I broached the subject with Ethan, he was dismissive, attributing the delays to the family’s accountant being overly cautious with international wire transfers. But then I saw the bank statements, accidentally left open on his laptop screen one evening. I saw investments that had soured catastrophically, prestigious properties mortgaged to their absolute limit, and lines of credit that had been completely maxed out. The great Richardson fortune was hemorrhaging, and fast.
Even with this knowledge, I continued with the planning, leveraging my own company’s credit line to secure the necessary deposits when the Richardsons’ funds failed to materialize. I convinced myself it was a temporary cash-flow problem, that Ethan would provide a full explanation once the stress of his mother’s birthday celebration was over.
Then came the morning of our departure for Rome. Ethan was in the shower when his phone, lying on the nightstand, pinged with an incoming message. I had never invaded his privacy; I had always respected the sanctity of his personal correspondence. But on that particular morning, an instinct I couldn’t explain compelled me to look.
The message preview, from a contact simply labeled ‘B,’ was starkly clear on the lock screen: Can’t wait to see you in Rome. Have you told her yet?
My fingers seemed to move of their own accord, unlocking the phone and opening the message thread with Brooke Hayes—Ethan’s girlfriend from his college days. The woman his parents had always adored. The woman everyone in their circle had assumed he would marry, long before I ever entered the picture. The text messages stretched back for months. They contained shared plans. Discussions of a future together. And then, the final blow: a baby. Their baby, due in four months.
I methodically took screenshots of the entire conversation, forwarded them to my own private email, and then meticulously deleted all traces of my intrusion from his phone. I finished packing my suitcase, affixed a placid smile to my face, and boarded the transatlantic flight to Rome alongside my husband and his family. And now, standing on that Roman street outside the restaurant, I had made my decision. I would not confront Ethan before the dinner. I would allow the evening’s events to play out just as they had intended. And when they did, I would be ready.
Our plane touched down at Fiumicino Airport just as a magnificent golden sunset was washing over the ancient skyline of Rome. I had arranged for private, chauffeured transport for the entire Richardson entourage: Ethan’s parents, Catherine and William; his sister, Charlotte, with her husband, Mark; his brother, David, with his wife, Emily; and two additional sets of aunts and uncles. The convoy of immaculate black Mercedes vans parked at the curb should have been an impressive sight.
Instead, Catherine’s very first words upon stepping out of the terminal were, “I thought I specifically requested the hotel’s official cars, Jessica. These feel rather… generic.”
I bit back a sharp retort, a reflex I had honed to perfection over the years.
— “The hotel had a last-minute scheduling conflict. These are actually from Lux Transport, the preferred service for most of the diplomats stationed in Rome.”
My carefully researched explanation was utterly wasted on her; she was already deep in conversation with William, their heads bowed together in that familiar, conspiratorial manner that always seemed designed to exclude me. The Hotel de Russi greeted our arrival with the impeccable five-star service I had so meticulously orchestrated. Champagne was poured in a private reception lounge as attentive bellhops whisked our luggage away to the suites.
