I left the country after our divorce, ready to close that chapter forever. But on the day of his extravagant wedding, everything collapsed — and suddenly his bride was calling me, her voice trembling as she begged me to listen
I understood that completely. The revenge fantasy versus the reality of watching someone’s life implode in real time. They felt very different.
«How’s Silas handling all this?» I asked, though I wasn’t sure why I cared.
«Not well. He called me yesterday. Asked if there was any way to make this go away quietly, to protect Victoria from the worst of the legal consequences. I told him that ship sailed when she tried to commit bigamy in front of 150 witnesses.» Robert’s voice hardened slightly. «He’s still trying to save her, even after everything she did. Part of me respects that loyalty. Part of me thinks he’s an idiot.»
After we hung up, I sat at my dining table looking at the half-finished painting. The door I’d been working on represented Barcelona to me. Beautiful, detailed, with a history I didn’t fully know but could appreciate anyway. Unlike Seattle, where I knew too much history, where every street corner held a memory of becoming smaller.
My phone buzzed with a text from Jenna.
«Are you seeing what’s happening with Victoria? It’s everywhere. Seattle’s legal community is in full gossip mode.»
I hadn’t been checking. Hadn’t opened Twitter or Instagram in days. Hadn’t searched Victoria’s name to see what new information had emerged. The distance I’d felt earlier in the week had solidified into genuine disinterest. But curiosity made me open Twitter.
The hashtag #SeattleWeddingScandal was still trending locally. New information had emerged throughout the week, each revelation worse than the last. A leaked resignation letter from Meridian Development, carefully worded but clearly negotiated through lawyers. Victoria, pursuing other opportunities, and focusing on personal matters—corporate speak for «leave before we fire you and make it worse.»
Her LinkedIn profile had vanished completely. The Instagram account that had been her carefully curated showcase of success—gone. Not private, deleted. The digital erasure of a life she’d spent years constructing.
Someone had posted screenshots of legal filings. Meridian’s lawsuit against Victoria for misrepresentation. The Bar Association opening an investigation into Silas’s conflict of interest—dating a client’s CFO while his firm represented that client. Victoria’s landlord filing eviction proceedings.
The comments were vicious. People who’d worked with Victoria came forward with stories I recognized too well. Colleagues she’d undermined, projects she’d sabotaged, reputations she’d destroyed while maintaining her own image as the competent professional everyone could trust.
A former Meridian employee had created a Twitter thread that had gone semi-viral.
Thread: Working with Victoria Ashford taught me everything about professional manipulation. Here’s what I learned.
I scrolled through it, reading descriptions of Victoria’s tactics. How she’d identify ambitious colleagues and position herself as their mentor, then slowly sabotage them while seeming helpful. How she’d take credit for team successes and blame team members for failures. How she’d manufacture conflicts between co-workers to prevent them from comparing notes about her behavior.
It was the same playbook she’d used in personal relationships, applied to professional settings. Victoria had one strategy that she deployed everywhere: identify what people wanted, become the person who could provide it, then use that dependency to control and eventually betray them.
My phone rang. Jenna, this time not texting.
«Have you been watching this unfold?» she asked without preamble.
«I’m looking at Twitter now. It’s insane. Everyone who ever worked with Victoria is coming forward with stories. It’s like the wedding disaster gave people permission to finally talk about what she was really like.»
«Why are you calling me about this?» I asked, not unkindly.
Jenna was quiet for a moment. «Because I wanted to make sure you’re okay. This is a lot of vindication happening very publicly and I know that can be complicated to process.»
«I’m fine,» I said and realized I meant it. «I’m actually painting. Working on pieces for a gallery show in January.»
«A gallery show?» Jenna’s voice shifted from concern to genuine excitement. «Thea that’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?»
«Because it just happened last week. And because I’ve been deliberately not thinking about Seattle and Victoria and all of this.»
«But aren’t you glad?» Jenna pressed. «Aren’t you satisfied that everyone finally sees what she did?»
I looked at my painting. The blue door, the worn stone, the Barcelona street that had nothing to do with Seattle or my past. «I’m glad the truth came out. I’m glad Robert is getting free. I’m glad Silas finally understands what happened. But satisfied? I don’t know. Mostly I just feel distant from all of it.»
«How can you feel distant? This is about you. About what she did to you.»
«It was about me. Past tense. Now it’s about Victoria facing consequences for her own choices. And I’m just a footnote in someone else’s story.»
Jenna didn’t understand. I could hear the confusion in her silence. She wanted me to be triumphant, vindicated, glowing with satisfaction that my enemy had fallen. But I’d moved past needing that satisfaction.
«I should go,» I said gently. «I’m in the middle of painting and the light is perfect right now.»
After we hung up, I turned my phone completely off. Put it in a drawer in my bedroom where I wouldn’t be tempted to check it. Then I went back to my painting and lost myself in the details of a door I’d walked past dozens of times without really seeing.
Elena came by around nine that evening with takeout from a Moroccan place nearby. She took one look at my painting progress and smiled. «You’re in the zone,» she said, unpacking tagine and couscous on my dining table. «Good. That’s where you should be.»
I washed my hands and joined her at the table. «Everyone keeps asking if I’m satisfied about Victoria’s consequences. If I’m glad she’s losing everything.»
«Are you?»
«I don’t know. Thought I would be. I spent months fantasizing about Victoria getting exposed. About Silas realizing what he’d lost. About everyone seeing the truth. But now that it’s happening I just feel removed from it.»
Elena served us both food, her movements efficient and practical. «That’s because you’ve already moved on. Victoria’s destruction isn’t your climax. It’s her ending. You’ve already had your climax and resolution. You left Seattle, built this life, found yourself again. Victoria’s consequences are just the epilogue to a story you’ve already finished.»
I sat with that thought while we ate. She was right. The most important part of my story had already happened. The leaving, the rebuilding, the slow realization that I could be happy without Silas, without Seattle, without any of the life I’d thought I needed.
«Can I tell you what I think the real revenge is?» Elena asked, pouring us both wine.
«Please.»
«The real revenge is that you’re sitting here eating Moroccan food and talking about your gallery show instead of obsessively tracking Victoria’s downfall. The real revenge is that she’s become irrelevant to your happiness. She destroyed your marriage thinking she was taking something valuable. But what she actually did was free you to build something better.»
«When did you become so wise about revenge?» I asked, smiling.
«After my divorce, I spent a year trying to make Carlos jealous. Dating men I didn’t like, posting photos of my fabulous life, making sure mutual friends told him how well I was doing. Then one day I realized I was still letting him control my choices. I was still performing for his attention even though we were divorced. Real freedom came when I stopped caring whether he noticed.»
I raised my glass. «To not caring whether they notice.»
We clinked glasses and drank and I felt something final settle in my chest. Victoria’s life was imploding in Seattle. Silas was struggling with guilt and professional consequences. Robert was nearly free. And I was in Barcelona, eating Moroccan food with a friend, working on paintings for a gallery show, living a life that had nothing to do with any of them.
That night, after Elena left, I stood on my balcony looking out at the Gracia neighborhood. Lights and windows, people moving through their evenings, the city existing without drama or scandal or revenge. Just life happening at its own pace. My phone was still off, buried in a drawer. Tomorrow I might turn it on and deal with whatever messages had accumulated. Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d spend the day painting instead, finishing the blue door piece and starting the next one. The choice was mine. That was the real power. Not Victoria’s destruction but my complete freedom to ignore it. To care or not care on my own terms, according to my own timeline, without reference to anyone else’s expectations.
I went back inside and returned to my painting, working by lamplight until my eyes grew tired. The door was taking shape. Intricate, detailed, beautiful in its ordinariness. Just like the life I was building, one careful brushstroke at a time.
The painting of the blue door was finally finished when my phone lit up with Silas’s text Sunday evening. I’d been standing back from my dining table, examining the watercolor from different angles, deciding if it needed any final touches. The Mediterranean light I’d tried to capture looked right. Warm but not harsh, the kind of afternoon glow that made Barcelona feel golden.
I was reaching for my phone to take a photo when the message appeared.
«Can we talk? I need to see you. I’ll fly to Barcelona if that’s what it takes. Please, Thea.»
I read it three times, each time feeling a different emotion. First surprise. Silas wanted to fly six thousand miles to see me. Then irritation. Of course he thought he could just show up in my carefully constructed new life. Finally, clarity. This was the moment I’d been preparing for without knowing it. The old Thea would have said yes immediately. Would have felt obligated to give him closure, to hear his apology in person, to offer comfort because that’s what nine years of marriage had trained me to do. But living in Barcelona had taught me something crucial. I didn’t owe anyone access to my peace.
I didn’t text back. I called him instead, wanting him to hear my voice so there would be no ambiguity.
«Thea.» He answered so quickly I knew he’d been waiting, staring at his phone, hoping. «Thank you for calling. I know I don’t deserve…»
«Silas, I don’t want you to come to Barcelona.»
Silence. Then, «Please. I just need a chance to explain in person. To show you that I understand now. That I see what Victoria did, what I let her do. Five minutes. Just give me five minutes face to face.»
I walked to my balcony while he talked, looking out at the street I’d come to know so well. The café where I had coffee most mornings. The bakery that made the perfect croissants. The flower seller who always smiled when I walked past. This was my life. Built from nothing, claimed from the ruins of our marriage.
«You’ve already explained,» I said. «You called me two Saturdays ago. You apologized. I accepted that apology. There’s nothing more that needs to be said in person.»
«But there is.» His voice took on that persuasive attorney quality I knew too well. «I miss you. I know I don’t have the right to miss you after what I did, but I do. And I think… I’ve been thinking a lot about this, I think we could try again. Now that I understand what Victoria did, now that I see how she manipulated both of us. We could start fresh.»
I closed my eyes against the audacity of it. «Silas.»
«I could move to Barcelona,» he continued, building momentum. «Or you could come back to Seattle. I know that’s asking a lot but hear me out. Or we could find somewhere new together. New York, London, somewhere neither of us has history. We could rebuild what we had before Victoria destroyed it.»
«Silas, stop.»
He stopped.
«I don’t want to try again. Not now. Not ever. Not because I hate you, but because I finally like myself and I can’t risk losing that again.»
«You wouldn’t lose yourself. I’d make sure of it. I’d support your art, your career, your choices. I’d be different this time. I swear I’d be different.»
I sat down on my balcony chair, phone pressed against my ear, trying to find words for something I’d only just figured out myself.
«That’s the problem. You’re still talking about what you would do. What you’d give me permission to be. What you’d allow. But I don’t need your permission anymore. I don’t need you to support my choices because my choices aren’t subject to your approval.»
He was quiet for a long moment. «I don’t understand.»
«I know you don’t. That’s exactly why I can’t come back.»
«Then help me understand. Please Thea. Just tell me what you want.»
I looked around my apartment. At the finished painting on my dining table. At the art supplies I’d used every day this week. At the invitation from Carla’s gallery tacked to my wall.
«I want to stay in Barcelona. I want to keep working for Global Reach on projects I find meaningful instead of impressive. I want to have coffee with Elena and practice my terrible Spanish. I want to show my paintings at a gallery in January. I want to date eventually, maybe when I’m ready, but casually, without thinking about marriage or building a shared life. I want to exist without performing existence.»
«Those are small things,» Silas said, and I could hear genuine confusion in his voice. «Barcelona, coffee with friends, a small gallery show. Those are nice but they’re not a life. They’re not a partnership. They’re not what we had.»
And there it was. The fundamental disconnect I’d been trying to articulate.
«You’re right,» I said. «They’re not what we had. What we had was me slowly disappearing while you barely noticed because you were too busy deciding I wasn’t enough. These small things… they’re everything to me. They’re the life I couldn’t have when I was with you.»
«I never stopped you from having coffee with friends or making art,» Silas argued weakly. «You didn’t have to explicitly forbid it. Your disappointment was enough. Every time I mentioned my art collective, you’d get that look. Like I was wasting my time on hobbies instead of building something serious. Every time Jenna called, you’d mention afterward how exhausting she was. Every time I suggested visiting my family, you’d have some important work thing that meant I’d have to go alone. You never said, ‘don’t do these things.’ You just made me feel worthless for wanting them.»
I heard him take a shaky breath. «I didn’t realize I was doing that.»
«I know. That’s why it worked.»
We were both quiet. I could hear traffic in the background on his end, he was probably in his car somewhere, having this conversation in a parking lot or pulled over on some Seattle street.
«Thea,» he said finally, his voice small. «I loved you. I still love you. Doesn’t that count for something?»
«It counts for a lot. It means our marriage mattered, that those nine years weren’t a complete waste. But love isn’t enough if it comes with constant disappointment that I’m not someone else. I was wrong about who I wanted you to be. I see that now.»
«Maybe you do. But I can’t take the risk of going back to find out. I’ve worked too hard to like myself again.»
Silas was crying now. I could hear it in his breathing, in the pauses between words. «I don’t know how to accept this. I don’t know how to let you go.»
«You already did. Last February when you asked for a divorce. You let me go then. I’m just declining your attempt to take it back.»
«That’s not fair.»
«Maybe not. But it’s honest.»
We talked for another twenty minutes, going in circles. Silas making arguments about second chances and learning from mistakes. Me gently but firmly holding my boundary. Finally, I could hear the exhaustion in both our voices.
