—
I filed for annulment the following week — Priya had found, buried in Massachusetts family law, grounds narrow enough to require some creativity, but a marriage barely eighteen hours old with immediate, well-documented evidence of a spouse’s ongoing emotional affair gave us more than enough to work with. Desmond’s attorneys pushed back initially, until Priya produced three years of texts between him and Priscilla that Odalys — my sister, not my grandmother — had quietly been documenting for the better part of a year, worried enough about the pattern that she’d started saving screenshots long before I was ready to see them myself.
“I should have shown you sooner,” Odalys told me, guilt written across her face.
“You should have,” I agreed. “But I don’t think I was ready to see it until he handed me a reason I couldn’t explain away.”
Desmond lost his position at Ashgrove Capital within the month — not directly because of the annulment, but because Priscilla’s ongoing relationship with a married associate, once it became public knowledge inside a firm with strict conduct policies, made both of them considerably more liability than asset. I heard, through channels I stopped caring about fairly quickly, that whatever they’d actually built together didn’t survive contact with daylight much longer either.
—
I kept the villa. I flew to Santorini myself, six weeks later, alone, and stood on the same terrace where my honeymoon had been supposed to happen, watching the sun set over water so blue it looked designed rather than natural.
Marcus found me there with a glass of wine I hadn’t ordered.
“On the house,” he said. “For the woman who owns the house.”
I laughed — the first real laugh in weeks. “I should come here more often.”
“You should,” he agreed. “The company could use a chairwoman who actually visits her own properties instead of a husband who apparently never bothered to ask whose name was on the deed.”
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