The band was playing something slow and jazzy, the kind of music that felt like it belonged in an old movie. I hesitated for just a second-I barely knew this man, didn't even know his name yet-but something about the way he looked at me made me want to say yes.
We danced. He was a good dancer, confident but not showy, leading without being controlling. We talked about everything and nothing-our least favorite things about events like this, the best restaurants in the city, and whether the auction items were actually worth their inflated prices. We laughed at the same jokes. Rolled our eyes at the same pretentious speeches.
By the time the band took a break, I had his number and a date planned for the following weekend. And I hadn't felt that alive, that seen, in longer than I could remember.
That weekend became the next weekend, which became every weekend. Miles was charming, attentive, and ambitious in a way that felt exciting rather than threatening. He had plans for his future-for our future, he would say, even in those early days, making my heart skip with the implication that he saw me in his long-term picture. He made me feel like I was the center of his universe, like everything he did was to make me smile.
For the first two years, it really was perfect. Or at least, it seemed perfect. We went to gallery openings and Broadway shows. He took me to his favorite restaurants and remembered which dishes I liked best. We spent weekends at his family's lake house, talking about our dreams and fears. He was passionate about his work, driven to build something meaningful, and he claimed to admire my own ambitions.
During this time, Miles would occasionally mention that I should join his company. "You'd be amazing there," he'd say casually over dinner, reaching across the table to take my hand. "Think about it. Your strategic mind, your people skills-you're exactly what we need to take Morretti Development to the next level." But it was never concrete, never a serious conversation that went beyond hypotheticals. Just an idea floating in the background of our relationship, something we might explore someday.
I was happy. Or at least, I thought I was happy. Looking back now, I can see the little signs I missed. The way he always chose the restaurants. The way he'd introduce me to his business associates as "my girlfriend, Lila" without mentioning what I did or acknowledging my own accomplishments. The way he seemed to love having me on his arm at events, but would sometimes zone out when I talked about my work.
But at the time, I just felt lucky. Lucky to have found this successful, handsome man who claimed to love me. Lucky that someone like Miles Morretti had chosen me.
I was such a fool.
Then Miles proposed, and everything changed.
It was romantic, textbook perfect-he'd taken me back to the botanical gardens where we'd had our third date, got down on one knee by the rose garden with a stunning three-carat diamond ring, and told me I was the only woman he'd ever loved like this. I said yes through happy tears, thinking this was it. This was my fairy tale beginning.
Right after I said yes, after we'd celebrated with champagne and called our parents, after the initial euphoria had faded just slightly, Miles brought up the company again. This time, it wasn't casual.
We were having dinner at his penthouse, still giddy from the proposal, when he took my hands across the table. His expression had shifted into something more serious, more businesslike.
"Now that we're going to be family," he said, his eyes intense on mine, "it only makes sense that we grow our business together. I've been thinking about this for a while, Lila. You're brilliant. Your skills in client relations and strategic partnerships are exactly what Morretti Development needs. We'll build our empire together-our legacy. Can you imagine it? Husband and wife, partners in life and business. It's perfect."
But was it?
