After Being Stood Up Nineteen Times, I Walked Away

I swallowed another shot, ignoring the burn.

Across the crowded banquet hall, Lucas Vitter didn't even look my way.

Tonight celebrated his third year running the family syndicate.

It was also supposed to be the night we finally made things legal.

Five years together, three as his heavy-lifting secretary, and eighteen broken promises to visit City Hall.

While I drank my stomach raw keeping his capos entertained, Lucas was tucked in a booth, whispering with his shiny new lawyer, Selena Blake.

Yet I still clung to the pathetic delusion of signing our marriage papers tonight. That died on the curb outside.

Lucas pulled his Maybach up, but as I grabbed the handle, the locks clicked down. Pushed out. The window rolled down just an inch.

"Selena overdid it trying to keep up. I'm taking her home," he said flatly. "Grab an Uber. City Hall will have to wait."

He didn't stick around for an argument. He stepped out, rounded the hood, and gently tucked a flushed Selena into the passenger seat.

Eighteen delays. Lately, most of them involved her.

The old me would have shattered on the pavement. I would have screamed, caused a scene, demanded to know what five years of my life were worth.

Tonight, I just smiled. "Sure."

Lucas froze, his hand heavily on the doorframe, visibly thrown off by the total lack of drama.

But a second later, his icy mask slid back on. "I'll bring you a gift tonight."

He drove off, making damn sure Selena’s window was rolled up tight.

The biting Chicago wind cut right through my dress, but my chest had already gone entirely numb.

I took a slow breath, folded the marriage application I’d guarded all night, and shoved it straight to the bottom of my purse.

I didn't go back to our penthouse. I headed straight for the Vitter Group headquarters.

I placed my signed resignation letter on Marcus's desk. He was the Director of Human Resources.

"Isabella… what's this?" His voice faltered at the sight of the envelope.

"I'm resigning."

He took the envelope but didn't open it. He just looked at my signature on the front.

"Does Mr. Vitter know?"

"I'll tell him later. Not that he'll care. He has someone more capable by his side now."

Marcus was silent for a long time.

He set the envelope on the desk. Didn't file it away, didn't push it back. Just looked at me with clear reluctance in his eyes.

"I support your decision."

"Isabella, you've been with him for three years. You started as a junior secretary and made it to Senior Advisor in Strategic Development. The two European expansions—those due diligence reports were yours alone. That merger last year, the one the FTC was breathing down our necks about—I heard you built the entire antitrust risk framework. Three months of all-nighters."

He paused.

"And no one outside these walls knows any of it. At the annual shareholder meeting, the woman standing beside him accepting the applause was Selena."

I smiled.

"I was getting paid. It was part of the job."

"You were getting paid in sacrifice." Marcus sighed, taking off his glasses to wipe them. "Two years ago I moved you out of the secretarial pool because I wanted you to have your own path. But you chose to stay in his shadow."

"Now I want to go out and see the world."

He held my gaze for a long moment.

Then he locked my resignation letter in his drawer and stood, extending his hand.

"When do you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow."

"Then today and tomorrow don't count as leave. The door to Strategic Development stays open for you. If you ever want to come back, you come straight to me."

I took his hand.

"Thank you, Marcus."

Ten o'clock. I was back at my apartment, packing.

My phone lit up with a notification—Selena's Instagram update. I didn't even remember following her.

The photo showed a private room at a Japanese restaurant. Exquisite sashimi platter on the table, a glass of sake by her hand. The frame caught only one corner of the table—and the left hand of the man across from her.

Long fingers. Sharp knuckles. A pale old scar on the web between thumb and forefinger.

I knew that scar. I'd sat beside him in the ER the night he got those twelve stitches.

On his ring finger: a plain platinum band.

He used to say rings were shackles. He said we'd wear them when we were married.

Five years. I'd believed him for five years.

The caption read:

[Thank you for the gift. Thank you for getting me through the hardest year. Here's to the next chapter—I hope you'll still be in it.]

Posted at 9:45 p.m.

Just before that, he'd sent a text about a late work event.

I didn't reply. I turned my phone face-down.

Then I opened my email.

Two dozen unread messages. Recruiters' offers from top firms in New York, Boston, Los Angeles. They'd been pouring into my inbox for three years, and I'd never seriously looked at any of them.

Tonight I opened them one by one. Read every word.

My cursor stopped on the email with the black iris insignia in the sender's footer.

The West Coast. Territory of the Morinetti family—Lucas Vitter's sworn enemies.

Years ago, Morinetti men had killed his kin in that firefight. Afterward, the name "Morinetti" became taboo in the Vitter estate.

He never set foot on the West Coast again. He never allowed any core member to have dealings with them.

I turned off the lamp and sat in the dark for a long time.

"Lucas," I whispered, "by the time I reach the West Coast, we'll be finished for good."