To Choose Something Else

I spent ten years of my life propelling Sebastian Vaughn to the pinnacle of Wall Street.

But while I was in London for seven days, he signed over the trust fund meant for our family’s future to Cherry, his late friend's widow.

He even hung the one-of-a-kind Monet masterpiece we received as a wedding gift in the penthouse apartment he bought for her.

On the star-studded red carpet of the Met Gala, Cherry was on his arm, taking my place.

And I, dressed in a white Saint Laurent gown, walked alone through a sea of flashing lights.

I smiled and announced to the press, "My husband, Sebastian, and Ms. Cherry have grown so close that he generously gifted our son's future to her daughter—all without my knowledge, of course."

As the color drained from my husband's face, I told him, "The divorce papers have been delivered. Don't call me."

When I got home, my ten-year-old son, Oliver, threw himself into my arms, crying, and asked, "Mom, did you already know?"

"Dad said he had to do it. He said he loves you more than anyone… and he begged you not to leave."

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1

After the gala, I came across an exclusive report on a gossip website about Cherry Parker’s new apartment.

No faces were shown in the photos, just a corner of the living room where a painting was hanging above the fireplace.

That Monet, Water Lilies, was a wedding gift from Harrison. The address was a penthouse on Fifth Avenue—a property I never even knew existed.

The caption read: "Wall Street's new titan spares no expense for his mystery woman. When the whole city is watching, you have to put on a good show."

My fingertips went ice-cold.

I opened the encrypted laptop in the study—the one Sebastian forbade me from touching. Inside was a folder named "Caleb's Legacy." It contained trust transfer documents, asset allocation lists, beneficiary agreements, and a handwritten memo.

"In the seven days Juliet is in London, finalize the trust amendment and Amelia's guardianship supplement."

I stared at the words for a few seconds, then let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

He had calculated my absence down to the minute.

I picked up my phone and sent a message to my friend Chloe in Vancouver.

"Is the partner seat at the Pacific Art Foundation still open?"

"And have your lawyer draft a divorce agreement for me."

A few months ago, she had invited me to join the foundation's founding team to handle strategy and fundraising. I'd refused, unable to bear leaving Oliver or the home I had spent a decade building.

Now, I could.

The next morning, I woke early, packed two suitcases, then roused Oliver for school. As usual, he dragged his backpack along the floor, complaining that breakfast was boring.

I made him pancakes and bacon. As he ate, I sat across from him, trying to memorize the way his golden hair fell across his brow. At ten, he was already starting to resemble his father.

I didn't say goodbye to the house.

I didn't say goodbye to Sebastian.

At 8:42 a.m., I dropped Oliver off at school, kissed his forehead, and told him I loved him. Then I drove to a hotel downtown to prepare for the evening's showdown.

That night, I appeared at the Metropolitan Museum of Art's charity gala.

Every year, the Vaughn Group was its biggest sponsor. Every year, my seat was to Sebastian's right. Every year, I wore the jewelry he chose for me.

This year, I walked in dressed in white, my hands bare, and took my seat without a glance at anyone.

The crowd noticed first. Cherry was already there, sitting next to Sebastian and wearing a Cartier diamond necklace. The entire room fell into a sudden, vacuum-sealed silence.

I smiled.