But I was impatient.
“I’m not canceling a business trip just to prove my loyalty.”
She fell silent.
Then nodded.
“Alright.”
The following morning, I left for Rome.
Camille was waiting for me.
For seven days, we enjoyed expensive restaurants, private showrooms, and a luxury hotel suite overlooking the city.
I barely contacted my wife.
When I finally returned home, those seven boxes were waiting.
I opened the first.
Inside were two old train tickets from our early years in New York.
The second contained a rent receipt from our tiny apartment.
The third held Isabelle’s old dressmaking scissors.
The fourth contained our wedding photograph.
Beneath it was a handwritten question.
When did you stop seeing me?
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
Then I turned on the tablet.
Isabelle appeared on the screen.
She was sitting in her sewing room, wearing a simple gray sweater.
She looked pale and tired.
“Gabriel,” she began, “I used to believe that discovering an affair would be the most painful thing I could experience.”
She paused.
“But what hurt more was realizing how long I’d been lonely while sitting beside my own husband.”
My throat tightened.
“I tried to reach you,” she continued. “I asked you to spend time with me. I waited for you to listen. I wanted you to remember the people we used to be.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“But eventually, I stopped believing you wanted to hear me.”
I stared at the screen.
Then she said something unexpected.
“Three weeks before you left, my doctors found a tumor.”
I froze.
She explained that the doctors believed it was benign and treatable.
But she needed surgery.
And she was frightened.
I remembered her looking pale in the kitchen.
I remembered her asking me to stay.
I remembered dismissing her concerns.
“Gabriel, I didn’t know how to tell you,” she continued. “Every time I tried, you seemed annoyed that I needed something.”
I covered my mouth.
“On the first day, you left for Rome.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I hoped you’d call that evening.”
I remembered sending her one brief message.
Landed. Busy. Talk later.
“On the second day,” she continued, “I saw Camille’s photograph.”
Two wine glasses beside a hotel window.
My wedding ring visible on the hand resting near hers.
“On the third day, she posted another photograph.”
This one showed the hotel room.
My favorite watch lay on the bedside table.
The same watch Isabelle had given me after our first major international contract.
Engraved on the back were the words:
For all the time we haven’t had yet.
I looked down at my wrist.
I was still wearing it.
“On the fourth day,” Isabelle said, “I went to the hospital.”
My chest tightened.
“I checked in without you.”
I stood abruptly.
Then I opened the fifth box.
Inside was a photograph of Isabelle lying in a hospital bed.
She wore a surgical gown and a small, determined smile.
On the back, she’d written:
I was scared, Gabriel.
I sat on the floor.
While I’d been enjoying Rome, my wife had been undergoing surgery.
The procedure had gone well.
The doctors expected a good recovery.
But she’d faced it without the person she’d wanted beside her.
On the fifth day, she returned home with help from medical staff.
On the sixth, she began arranging her departure.
And on the seventh, she finished the boxes.
I opened the sixth.
Inside were carefully organized documents, inventories, and divorce papers.
Her signature was already there.
She hadn’t threatened to ruin my company.
She hadn’t demanded revenge.
She simply wanted to end our marriage and resolve our shared affairs fairly.
Then I reached for the seventh box.
I opened it.
Nothing.
It was completely empty.
On the video, Isabelle took a deep breath.
“This box represents what I finally lost.”
I stared at the empty cardboard.
“Not you, Gabriel.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“My hope that you would become the man I kept waiting for.”
I tried calling her immediately.
Her number was no longer available.
I contacted her sister, our household staff, and our attorney.
But Isabelle had arranged to leave privately.
She didn’t want direct contact.
For the first time in years, I couldn’t solve a problem by offering money.
I couldn’t buy another gift.
Arrange another vacation.
Or apologize and expect everything to return to normal.
My wife was gone.
And she wasn’t asking me to come after her.
Later, Camille called.
When I told her Isabelle had left, she assumed that meant we could finally be together.
But I was beginning to understand something.
Camille hadn’t forced me to betray my marriage.
I’d made those decisions myself.
I’d enjoyed being admired.
I’d avoided difficult conversations.
And I’d convinced myself that having two separate lives wouldn’t hurt anyone.
I ended the relationship.
Camille was furious.
She had every reason to feel misled by the promises I’d made.
I apologized, knowing the apology couldn’t undo what I’d done.
The following morning, I met my attorney.
“Can I stop the divorce?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“You cannot force Isabelle to remain married.”
I stared at the documents.
For fifteen years, I’d been accustomed to getting what I wanted.
But Isabelle wasn’t a business contract.
She was a person who had decided to leave.
I instructed my attorney to handle the financial arrangements fairly and respect her privacy.
Then I began seeing a counselor.
At first, I wanted someone to tell me how to win Isabelle back.
Instead, he asked a question I couldn’t answer.
“If your wife returned tomorrow, what would actually be different for her?”
I thought about the mansion.
The jewelry.
The vacations.
The company.
Then I realized none of those things had been missing from her life.
What she’d wanted was my presence.
My honesty.
And a place where her needs mattered.
Over the following months, I reduced my travel schedule.
I began delegating more responsibility.
I returned to designing for the simple pleasure of creating something beautiful.
During a magazine interview, I finally acknowledged Isabelle’s contributions to the Laurent brand.
I spoke about the tiny apartment, the borrowed sewing machine, and the long nights she’d spent making my sketches possible.
END PART 2
