The sentence came from my husband’s mouth right there on the private dock in the Florida Keys, spoken openly in front of his parents, his ex-girlfriend, and the pilot who was waiting to fly us to the private island I had arranged for our anniversary.
I stood completely still, gripping my sunglasses in a trembling hand, my heart pounding against my ribs as if it might break out of my chest.
It had been five long years of marriage to Caleb Harrison—five years during which he flaunted designer watches, extravagant dinners in the Harbor District, tailored suits, and vintage sports cars while everyone believed he was a powerful figure in business.
The truth was far less impressive, because the cybersecurity company funding his entire lifestyle actually belonged to me, a business I had built from a cramped studio apartment in the West End while surviving on barely three hours of sleep each night.
I had declined every party invitation and endured years of growing debt and ridicule until I finally turned that tiny startup into a multi-million dollar corporation.
Caleb worked as a mid-level manager at a logistics company, and his modest salary did not even cover the insurance on the car he drove every day.
Even as his indifference toward me grew stronger, I still desperately believed I could save our failing marriage if I just tried hard enough.
That was the only reason I had booked a week on a private island in the Caribbean for our fifth anniversary, securing a villa complete with a personal chef, full staff, and a private beach for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
I did it because Caleb had spent months telling me that I was cold and that my company had turned me into a woman who no longer had a home in her heart.
He said he needed a wife who was more present and traditional, and I was naive enough to believe he truly missed me.
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