Cheated, lied, and shattered everything we thought we knew about love and safety. Left us for a newer, shinier version of our life.
No.
That won’t be me.
And then I realize my new reality.
I’m not going to France.
I’m staying home.
And I’m going to raise this child.
On my own.
TEN
SPENCER
I stayed in France for nearly ten months.
What began as a forced recovery turned into something more—an unintentional sabbatical, a chance to strip my life down to its bare parts and see what was left.
I spent my days in physical therapy and occupational rehab. Learned how to move again. Breathe again. Exist without pain as my primary reality.
Back home, my enterprises held steady—thanks to an airtight leadership team and the kind of infrastructure designed to function without me, at least for a while.
Rumors swirled. Investors speculated. A few headlines guessed at burnout or a quiet acquisition, but the full extent of my injuries never surfaced.
That was by design.
Vulnerability and valuation rarely play well together.
I’ve recently returned to Boston. And reentering my own life has been harder than I thought it would be.
I’m finally back on a bike. That alone feels like a miracle.
But my shoulder still isn’t right. Some days, it tightensup and refuses to rotate, no matter how many stretches, bands, or yoga routines I try.
And my left knee—don’t even get me started. It locks at the worst possible times. I don’t know if it will ever be what it was.
I told myself I wouldn’t reach out to Rhea until I was fully recovered.
Until I could show up with something to offer. Until I could be with her—really be with her—not wincing every time I move or leaning on a goddamn walker.
Not that that’s all I wanted from her.
It wasn’t just about sex or attraction—I wanted to be in her life. To laugh with her, argue with her, build something together. And that’s what scared me most.
So I waited.
I made myself wait.
And now it’s been fifteen months since her eyes met mine in that ballroom. Fifteen months since she danced into my life—literally—and I thought,I want more of this woman.
I have her work number.
That much I kept from her grant application. But odds are she’s not there anymore. If she followed through on her plan—and I’d bet anything she did—she’s in France by now. Writing poems in a corner café. Losing herself in a new life.
