Her Money, His Pride

The first thing I noticed was the second wineglass. It stood beside mine on the marble table, a faint mark of red lipstick staining its rim. Not my color. I remained in the entrance of the apartment with my fingers wrapped around the handle of my handbag. For several seconds, I did nothing except stare at it. One glass could be explained. Two glasses meant someone had been here. The heels near the sofa told me she had not left. They were black, elegant, and expensive. The kind of shoes designed to make a woman look as though she had never walked anywhere inconvenient in her life. I recognized them. Isabelle had worn them to my mother’s charity dinner three weeks earlier. A soft laugh came from the hallway. My body went cold. I had returned from school early because Julian had sent me flowers that morning. White roses, accompanied by a handwritten card reminding me that our wedding was only four months away. I had thought surprising him would be romantic. Apparently, Julian had arranged a surprise of his own. I placed my handbag on the table without making a sound. The apartment was mine, although Julian had lived there for almost a year. My father had given it to me when I turned twenty-five, along with a warning that property lasted longer than men. At the time, I had accused him of being cynical. I walked toward the bedroom. The door was partially open. Through the narrow space, I saw Julian sitting on the edge of my bed. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and Isabelle stood between his knees, her fingers resting against his chest. They were kissing. Not hesitantly. Not apologetically. They kissed like people who had done it before. The pain did not arrive immediately. First came disbelief, then humiliation, followed by a strange and terrible clarity. Julian had asked me to marry him beneath the chandeliers of the Ashford ballroom. He had cried when I said yes. He had promised my father that he would protect me. And now he was touching another woman in the room where I slept. “I hope you’re both comfortable.” Isabelle jumped away from him. Julian turned so quickly that his knee struck the nightstand. “Victoria.” My name sounded ugly in his mouth. Isabelle reached for the front of her dress. “This isn’t—” “Don’t.” My voice remained surprisingly calm. “Please don’t insult me by explaining what my eyes are perfectly capable of understanding.” Julian stood. “You were supposed to be at school.” The words struck harder than they should have. Not *I’m sorry.* Not *I made a mistake.* I was supposed to be somewhere else. “I teach here,” I reminded him. “I live here. You, however, are about to do neither.” “Victoria, listen to me.” “No.” “It was a mistake.” “A mistake is sending an email to the wrong person.” I looked at Isabelle. “This seems considerably more organized.” Her face tightened. “You always think you’re better than everyone.” I almost laughed. She was standing in my bedroom with my fiancé, and somehow I had offended her. “Get out, Isabelle.” She collected her shoes but did not put them on. As she passed me, she lifted her chin as if dignity were something she still possessed. Julian waited until the front door closed. Then he moved toward me. I stepped back. “Don’t touch me.” His expression changed. The guilt disappeared, replaced by the confident patience he used whenever he believed I was being unreasonable. “I love you.” “Apparently, you have a generous definition of the word.” “It meant nothing.” “How long?” He hesitated. That was answer enough. “How long, Julian?” “A few months.” The floor seemed to tilt beneath me, but I refused to let him see it. A few months. While we selected wedding invitations. While my mother arranged dinners for his business contacts. While my father introduced him to investors who had previously refused to take his calls. I looked at the man I had planned to marry and wondered how much of his love had ever belonged to me. And how much had belonged to the name Ashford. “You’ll leave tonight.” His face hardened. “You’re overreacting.” “You were sleeping with one of my friends.” “We were having problems.” “I wasn’t aware of them.” “That was the problem, Victoria. You don’t see anyone but yourself.” The accusation found its target because part of me believed it. Perhaps I had been too absorbed in school. Perhaps I had spoken about my students when he wanted to discuss his company. Perhaps I had assumed he would always be there. But betrayal was not an argument. It was a choice. “You have one hour.” “You can’t erase three years because of one mistake.” “I can erase anything I paid for.” The moment the words left my mouth, his face changed. There it was. That flicker of resentment. “You always do that,” he said quietly. “You use your money to control everyone.” My throat tightened. Perhaps he was right. Or perhaps men only complained about my money after it stopped benefiting them. I turned away before he could see the tears gathering in my eyes. “Fifty-nine minutes.”