After Being Stood Up Nineteen Times, I Walked Away

Lucas Vitter and I had been together for five years. I'd been his secretary for three. We still weren't legally married.

Today marked the third anniversary of his takeover of the Vitter family. It was also the eighteenth time he'd promised—finally—to go with me to City Hall and make it official.

But at the celebration banquet, while his top men took turns forcing drinks on me, he was busy exchanging dishes and toasting with his young female legal counsel, Selena Blake.

I nursed a lingering hangover and drank until my stomach nearly bled. He didn't look at me once. The sympathy in my colleagues' eyes said it all.

Yet I was still floating on the joy of finally registering our marriage later that night. Until the banquet ended, and Lucas stood me up again.

He pulled his Maybach up to the restaurant entrance and kept the doors locked, blocking me out.

"Selena had a few too many on my behalf. She's not feeling well—I'm taking her home. Grab a cab yourself. We won't make it to City Hall today. We'll do it another day, okay?"

He didn't wait for my answer. He got out, walked around the car, and carefully helped Selena into the passenger seat.

Five years together. This was the eighteenth time Lucas had postponed our marriage registration. Most of those times involved Selena.

Before, I would've broken down. Shouted at him, picked a fight, demanded to know who he really loved, who had sacrificed her youth for him.

But not this time. I just smiled slightly. "Okay."

Lucas paused at my response, surprised by my calmness.

A moment later, his usual indifference returned. "I'll bring you a gift when I come home tonight."

He drove off. Before leaving, he made a point of rolling up Selena's window, afraid the delicate woman might catch a chill.

The November wind in Chicago cut to the bone. My heart had already gone numb.

I took a deep breath, folded the marriage application form I'd been carrying in my bag, and tucked it to the very bottom.

I knew it was time to close the book on this five-year relationship.

I didn't go back home. I went straight to the Vitter Group.

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 himself. 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."