That was the moment I fully understood that the Richardsons still didn’t comprehend me at all. After five years, they still perceived me as someone who could be bought, a person motivated by the same shallow, material concerns that governed their entire existence.
— “I don’t want your money, Ethan. I want my freedom. And I want the truth to be acknowledged.”
I stood up, a clear signal that our conversation was over.
— “The documents will remain with my lawyer, as an insurance policy, unless you or your family attempt to drag me down with you. The terms of the divorce are simple: I will walk away with what is rightfully mine, and you will be left with what is yours.”
— “And Brooke? The baby?” his voice was barely audible.
— “That is a matter for you and your conscience. I sincerely hope you’ll be a better husband to her than you were to me.”
After he had gone, I stood by the window for a long time, watching as the rain intensified, washing the city clean.
The scandal unraveled gradually over the subsequent weeks. The Tribune ran a more extensive, detailed piece on the Richardson Investment Group’s financial malfeasance. Longtime, loyal clients quietly began to withdraw their portfolios. Catherine’s prestigious positions on three different charity boards were suddenly reclassified as “emeritus” rather than “active.” Brooke Hayes’s pregnancy became public knowledge when she was photographed leaving her obstetrician’s office on the Gold Coast, conspicuously wearing an engagement ring. The timeline of their affair made it abundantly clear that their relationship had resumed long before our marriage had officially ended. In Chicago’s high society, infidelity might be tolerated if handled with discretion, but such a blatant and clumsy misconduct was a flagrant violation of their unspoken code.
My business, Pinnacle Events, thrived in the wake of the scandal. Clients who had once looked down upon me as a social climber now seemed to appreciate my unwavering discretion and integrity. The story that circulated through the city’s elite circles wasn’t one of a woman scorned, but of a consummate professional who refused to be used and then casually discarded.
Six months later, an invitation arrived in my office mail that made me laugh out loud. It was a formal request to submit a bid for the planning of Catherine Richardson’s next charity event. Apparently, their desperation had finally overcome their pride. I had my assistant decline politely, citing a fully booked schedule.
The divorce was finalized without any drama. The Richardsons, now wholly consumed with salvaging what little remained of their reputation and finances, agreed to my terms without a single argument. Ethan and Brooke were married in a quiet ceremony. Their daughter was born two weeks later. I sent no gift.
On the one-year anniversary of that fateful night in Rome, I found myself in Italy once again, this time planning a celebrity wedding on the breathtaking Amalfi Coast. As I stood on a sun-drenched terrace overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, my phone in one hand and a team of vendors awaiting my command, I was struck by an unexpected realization.
I was happy.
Not in spite of the collapse of my marriage, but because of it. The Richardsons had tried their very best to make me feel small, to diminish me, to reduce my identity to that of a mere accessory in their grand family narrative. Instead, they had inadvertently given me the greatest gift of all: the freedom to reclaim my own story. In losing the life I thought I wanted, I had finally discovered the one I actually needed. It was not about gaining acceptance from a family that was determined to reject me, but about finding the courage to reject a life that was built on nothing more than hollow appearances.
I raised my glass of prosecco to the setting sun, offering a silent toast to the missing chair that had, in the end, shown me exactly where I belonged.
