When Ambergris Erased Cherry Blossoms
My husband, Julian Vaughn, was a star architect.
One day, he was drugged by a new intern at his firm, which led to a one-night stand.
The next morning, he called me, his voice hoarse from a hangover and filled with an unfamiliar panic.
"Clara, I messed up. But don't worry, I gave her more than enough money to get her out of the city for good."
After ten years of marriage, I believed it was a momentary lapse in judgment.
Six months later, Julian's firm was in the final, critical stages of bidding for a landmark project.
I rushed over from my art gallery, only to be met with a shocking scene at the door of the model room.
Julian stood before the massive architectural model, a weariness and guilt so profound it felt foreign on his features.
The doctor said the intern, a woman named Chloe Jensen, was three months pregnant. She'd been matching his grueling hours in the model room and was now at risk of a miscarriage.
Later, Chloe gave birth to a pair of fraternal twins, a boy and a girl.
The entire Vaughn family was ecstatic.
My fingertips ice-cold, I slipped the Cartier wedding band from the finger where it had rested for ten years.
I sent a text to a number saved only by a last name: "Sterling."
"I accept your offer."
A moment later, my phone vibrated.
A single phrase lit up the screen: "Awaiting your command."