A few days later, a small article appeared in The Wall Street Journal’s business section: Harrison Capital Group Under Scrutiny. It was a brief piece about potential investor fraud and financial irregularities. It was enough. The whispers started, and soon, the gilded walls of the Harrison dynasty began to show their cracks.
Ethan showed up at the door of my new apartment in SoHo a week later. He looked like a ghost, his polished composure shattered, replaced by raw desperation.
— You need to stop this, — he said, pushing past me into the apartment. — This has to end.
— This isn’t a negotiation, Ethan. This is the end. It’s called a divorce.
He paced the floor, running a hand through his usually perfect hair. — The SEC has opened a formal investigation. Two members of our board have resigned. My mother had to cancel her foundation’s gala because the biggest donors pulled their support.
— That sounds like a Harrison problem, — I said, my voice cool. — Not a Monroe problem.
— We’re still married, Olivia! My liabilities are your liabilities!
I allowed myself a small, knowing smile. — Not according to my attorney. Not when I have irrefutable proof that you systematically hid assets and committed financial fraud with the express intent of cheating me in a divorce settlement. It’s called ‘dissipation of marital assets,’ and courts take it very seriously.
His entire body seemed to deflate. He sank onto my sofa and put his head in his hands. — I never wanted this.
— What did you want, Ethan? Did you want my professional skills to manage your family’s social life while you rekindled a relationship with your ex-girlfriend? Did you want to use me and then throw me away with a demeaning public spectacle?
— It wasn’t like that at the start, — he mumbled. — I loved you.
— But not enough, — I finished for him. — Not enough to stand up to your mother. Not enough to tell me you were having a child with another woman.
I sat in the armchair opposite him. — When is the baby due?
His head shot up, his eyes wide with shock. — How…
— According to Brooke’s texts, you have about four months left. My congratulations to you both.
A thick, suffocating silence filled the room. Outside my window, the sounds of the city—alive, real, and vibrant—felt like a world away from the silent, airless tomb of their family.
— Name your price, — he finally whispered. — Sign an NDA, give me the documents, and name your price.
And in that moment, I knew for certain that they had never known me at all. They still thought I could be managed, that I could be bought. They believed my motivations were as shallow as their own.
— I don’t want your money, Ethan. I want my name back. I want my life back. I want my freedom.
I stood, signaling the conversation was over. — Those documents will remain with my lawyer as an insurance policy. The divorce will be clean and simple. I walk away, and you deal with the consequences of your own actions.
— And Brooke? The baby? — His voice was barely a whisper.
— That’s a matter for your conscience. I sincerely hope, for her sake, that you’re a better man for her than you were for me.
After he was gone, I watched the city lights begin to sparkle. The Harrison scandal played out in the society pages for months. Their firm was eventually forced into bankruptcy. Catherine became a social pariah. Ethan and Brooke married in a quiet courthouse ceremony two weeks before their daughter was born. I sent nothing.
My own business flourished. In the wake of the scandal, clients seemed to value my integrity and discretion more than ever. The story that quietly made the rounds was not of a vengeful ex-wife, but of a formidable professional who refused to be broken.
Six months later, an email landed in my inbox that made me laugh out loud. It was a formal request for Monroe Events to submit a proposal to plan a “rebranding” event for what was left of the Harrison family’s charitable foundation. Desperation, it seemed, had finally eclipsed pride. I had my assistant send a polite refusal, citing a fully booked calendar.
A year to the day after that night in Rome, I was standing on a cliffside terrace in Positano, overseeing the final touches for a celebrity wedding. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the Mediterranean in hues of orange and gold, I felt a profound sense of peace.
The Harrisons had tried to erase me, to make me an insignificant footnote in their grand, failing dynasty. But in doing so, they had given me the greatest gift of all: the motivation to reclaim my own story. By trying to leave me with nothing, they had inadvertently shown me that I already had everything I needed.
I raised my glass of Prosecco to the setting sun, a silent toast to the empty chair that had, in the end, led me to my rightful place.
