That summer I turned eighteen, at our family’s home on Cape Cod, my father brought his mistress and their illegitimate daughter to my parents’ wedding anniversary party.
When that girl, Sloane, brazenly sat at my mother’s treasured Steinway and played the song that belonged only to my mother, my mother’s spirit shattered. Late that night, she walked into the cold sea off our villa’s coast and never returned.
When I married my husband, Brendan Caldwell, I made one thing solemnly clear: that piano piece was an absolute deal-breaker. Hearing it was grounds for divorce.
He promised me that song would never touch our lives.
Five years later, at a dinner, a business rival from GeneVance, trying to provoke us, had the live jazz band play that very piece.
The moment Brendan heard it, he erupted, storming over to silence the band. That day, for a fleeting moment, I thought I might have found happiness in my marriage, despite my past.
However, just six months later, at a reception celebrating the launch of a gene-targeted therapy I had led, I took the stage. As a “surprise,” the pianist Brendan had hired began to play that song.
And Sloane, the woman who'd driven my mother to her death and destroyed my family, stood at Brendan’s side in a gorgeous haute couture gown, a brilliant smile on her face.
I leveled a cold stare at him, but he just sighed, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Sloane arranged all of this for you. She’s your sister; she wanted to take this chance to reconcile. Don't make a scene in front of the media."
I stared into his eyes for two seconds, then, in front of all the cameras, I turned and walked away.
What sister? I never had one.
And as of that day, I no longer had a husband.
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1
For three solid hours, I stood on the beach of our old Cape Cod house, where my mother’s memorial lay, letting the biting sea wind whip around me.
Today was the anniversary of her death. The tenth anniversary.
That piano piece used to be my mother's only solace. Yet, ten years ago today, my father stood by and watched as Sloane played it on my mother's piano, an act that shattered her.
That song became a wound I couldn't bear to touch.
And now, ten years later, my husband, with the woman who drove my mother to suicide at his side, had used the very same song to destroy me.
In the distance, over Boston Harbor, fireworks from a yacht party burst across the night sky like silent, glittering rain. Brendan’s party. A celebration for the launch of GeneVance's new gene therapy.
I had led the R&D team through six months of relentless work, of countless sleepless nights. But in this moment, it felt less like my achievement and more like Sloane’s victory lap as she clawed her way into high society on my back.
After paying my respects, I pulled my cashmere coat tighter and turned to leave.
Just then, Brendan’s call came through.
His voice was thick with alcohol. "The party's winding down. You're the Chief Scientific Officer, Tiffany. All the investors are asking for you. Why aren't you here?"
I said nothing.
In the past, I might have softened my tone to avoid a fight, but tonight, I had nothing left to say to the hypocrite.
His voice rose, laced with irritation. "Tiffany, are you listening to me? Where the hell did you go?"
"Cape Cod," I said, my voice as cold and flat as the water before me.
He fell silent. It seemed he’d finally remembered it was the anniversary of my mother's death.
It also seemed he’d finally remembered that I had sacrificed my own birthday party and our anniversary dinner just to hit the launch date for this new therapy.
My only request had been for him to come with me today, to the sea, to pay our respects.
After a long pause, his voice returned, strained. "I… I was so swept up in everything, I forgot. Just for a moment. Wait for me on the beach. I'm driving over now."
I hung up and turned to leave.
But as I reached the parking lot, a text from him buzzed on my phone.
'Tiffany, it's too late, and the coastal highway is a mess to drive at night. Next time. Sloane got drunk and sprained her ankle. I have to get her to the hospital. Don't be mad, I'll make it up to you.'
I wasn't surprised. Not at all.
Knowing Sloane, she would always find a way to cling to Brendan, to play the victim.
A man as shrewd as Brendan had to see through her pathetic games, but he didn't care. He loved the drama, the ego boost of two women fighting over him, and he didn't give a damn about my feelings.
But it didn't matter anymore. From now on, I wouldn't care about him either.
That night, Brendan didn't come home.
No texts. No calls.
I didn't ask. I didn't check his credit card statements.
The next morning, I was at the office early.
Brendan was the CEO, and I was the Chief Scientific Officer. In five years, we'd grown from a garage startup next to MIT to occupying an entire floor in Boston's financial district, even as our marriage had crumbled.
The first phase of the new therapy was done, so the pace at work had finally eased.
Coffee in hand, I was carefully reviewing the divorce agreement from my lawyer when Brendan strolled into my office.
"Sloane twisted her ankle getting out of the car last night," he said, loosening his tie. "Took her for a check-up. By the time we left the hospital, it was late, so I just got a room at a hotel nearby."
I nodded, my eyes still glued to the divorce agreement on the screen. "Okay."
We were getting a divorce. Who he spent the night with was no longer my business. He didn't need to report his whereabouts to me.
