Despite this discovery, I pressed on, using my own company’s credit to front the deposits and secure the bookings. I rationalized it as a temporary cash-flow issue, a problem Ethan would surely explain and rectify after his mother’s birthday was flawlessly executed.
Then came the morning we were due to fly to Rome. Ethan was in the shower when his phone, lying on the bedside table, lit up with a notification. It was against my nature to snoop—I had always believed in mutual privacy. Yet, an instinct I couldn’t ignore compelled me to glance at the screen. The message preview was from a name I hadn’t seen in years: Brooke.
Can’t wait for you in Rome. Have you told her yet?
My fingers felt detached from my body as I unlocked the phone and opened the message thread with Brooke Chandler—Ethan’s high school sweetheart, the woman his parents had always wanted for him. The texts were a devastating chronicle stretching back months. They had mapped out a life together. They had discussed a future. And they had discussed a baby—their baby—due in four months.
Methodically, I took screenshots of everything, emailed them to a secure personal account, and then meticulously deleted the thread and the email from his phone’s sent folder. I finished packing my suitcase, painted a serene smile on my face, and boarded the private jet to Rome with my husband and the family who had already discarded me.
Now, standing on a cobblestone street outside that restaurant, the choice was clear. There would be no tearful confrontation. I would allow their little drama to play out. And when the curtain rose on their final act of humiliation, I would be ready to burn the whole theater down.
Our arrival at Fiumicino Airport coincided with the magnificent wash of an Italian sunset. I had arranged for a fleet of private cars to transport the Harrison contingent: Ethan’s parents, Catherine and Richard; his sister, Jess, and her husband, Mark; his brother, David, and his wife, Emily; plus two sets of aunts and uncles. The line of immaculate black Mercedes sedans waiting on the tarmac should have been a seamless start.
— I specifically requested the hotel’s house cars, Olivia, — were Catherine’s first words as she stepped onto the tarmac. — These feel a bit… outsourced.
I swallowed the sharp retort that rose in my throat. — The hotel had a last-minute conflict. This is Lux Transport, the preferred service for the American embassy.
My explanation was wasted. She was already in a hushed, conspiratorial conference with Richard, their posture a familiar wall that shut me out.
At the Hotel de la Ville, the five-star welcome I had spent weeks arranging was in full swing. Champagne was poured in a private check-in lounge as our luggage was silently spirited away to our suites. I had agonized over every detail: securing rooms with the best views of the Spanish Steps, curating welcome baskets filled with artisanal Roman treats, and creating personalized daily itineraries. Catherine gave her schedule a cursory glance before setting it aside on a marble table.
— We’ll likely just improvise, dear, — she announced, a dismissive wave of her hand negating my work. — The family is quite familiar with Rome.
Our suite was breathtaking, with a sprawling terrace, vases of fresh tuberoses perfuming the air, and a decanter of Ethan’s favorite Brunello waiting for us. But the moment the door closed, Ethan’s phone buzzed. He immediately stepped out onto the terrace, his voice a low murmur.
— Work call? — I asked when he came back inside.
— Just the office. A few things to iron out, — he said, his gaze avoiding mine as he loosened his tie. — Let’s get ready for dinner.
The welcome dinner I had booked at a coveted, intimate restaurant in a quiet piazza was the first overt act of my exclusion. Upon our arrival, I discovered the seating arrangement had been mysteriously altered. I was placed at the very end of the long table, separated from Ethan by his brother and an aunt. The conversation was a whirlwind of shared memories and inside jokes about past family trips to Italy—trips that predated me. When I tried to contribute to a discussion about the week’s schedule, Jess cut me off.
— Oh, Olivia, we actually decided we’re going to do a family shopping day on Via Condotti tomorrow instead of the Borghese Gallery tour.
— A family shopping day? — I asked, keeping my tone light.
— You know, — Catherine interjected, her smile smooth as silk. — A little tradition we have. You would be utterly bored. Why don’t you use that time to double-check the final arrangements for my party? That is your area of expertise, after all.
This became the pattern for the next several days. I would wake up to find Ethan already gone, a note on his pillow about an early breakfast with his father. The family would vanish for hours on “spontaneous” outings that I was never informed about. Conversations would cease the moment I entered a room. Dinner reservations I had made were suddenly changed to accommodate “old family friends” who just happened to be passing through Rome—friends who would give me looks of pity and thinly veiled curiosity.
On the third day, my opportunity arrived. Ethan, rushing off to meet David, left his briefcase unlatched on the bed. Inside, nestled among financial reports, was a folder from the Harrison family’s law firm. The documents inside confirmed my deepest fears: drafted separation papers, dated two months prior. The proposed settlement was insulting, a fraction of what I was legally entitled to. And then, the most chilling discovery of all: a typed script. It was a detailed outline of how Ethan was to announce our «amicable» separation at his mother’s birthday dinner, positioning it as a mutual, sorrowful decision.
My hands shook as I used my phone to photograph every single page. It was all there, a perfectly stage-managed character assassination designed for maximum emotional impact on me and minimum social fallout for them. Catherine’s 70th birthday party wasn’t just a celebration; it was intended to be the public execution of my role as a Harrison.
Instead of confronting him, I channeled my rage into quiet, methodical action. I made excuses to return to our suite alone each day, searching for more. I found printed bank statements detailing enormous wire transfers to accounts in the Cayman Islands. I found emails between Ethan and his father discussing the strategic offloading of assets before “the situation becomes public.” And I found a handwritten note from Catherine to her son: Once this unpleasantness with Olivia is finally behind us, we can welcome Brooke back into the family properly.
All the while, my professional facade remained immaculate. I confirmed the floral designs, finalized logistics with the restaurant, and approved the custom-printed menus, all while my phone was secretly accumulating a devastating digital archive of the Harrisons’ impending financial implosion. If anyone commented on my distant demeanor, I blamed the stress of managing the event. In truth, I was building a war chest.
The morning of Catherine’s birthday arrived, bright and painfully beautiful. I slipped out of bed while Ethan was still asleep. The day was meticulously planned: a private viewing at a palazzo, a long lunch at a countryside estate, and then back to the hotel to prepare for the grand finale. As the event planner, I had a built-in excuse to arrive at the restaurant early.
I was in the hotel’s business center, printing the final place cards, when I heard Catherine’s voice from the concierge desk around the corner. The wall was thin, and her imperious tone was unmistakable.
— There will be twelve place settings at the main table, not thirteen, — she was saying into her phone. — I don’t care what the initial booking stated. The seating chart I provided is the final one.
There was a pause.
— No, that won’t be an issue. The matter has been discussed with my son. His wife will not be staying for the duration of the dinner. It’s a private family issue, you understand. There’s no need to make a fuss when she departs.
