Three days later, I boarded a flight to California.
Before Grant, I had been building a career in hospitality interiors.
Hotels.
Restaurants.
Luxury residential spaces.
During my marriage, that career slowly became something I worked around Grant’s promotions.
His deadlines.
His travel.
His networking dinners.
I turned down large contracts because somebody had to be available.
Somebody had to keep life organized.
Somebody was always me.
Then a design group in Santa Barbara offered me a temporary project renovating an aging oceanfront resort.
I said yes.
The resort was beautiful underneath years of bad decisions.
Walls blocked the ocean view.
Guest traffic collided at the entrance.
A decorative fountain occupied the most valuable portion of the lobby.
On my first morning, project director Daniel Rhodes handed me a hard hat.
“What would you demolish first?”
I pointed immediately.
“The fountain.”
He laughed.
“The owners love that fountain.”
“The owners don’t have to drag luggage around it.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then smiled.
“I think we’re going to work well together.”
For the next month, I remembered who I had been before my marriage became my primary job.
I challenged architects.
I fought over lighting.
I redesigned traffic flow.
I stayed awake until 2:00 a.m. because I wanted to finish something, not because I was waiting for Grant to return from another mysterious dinner.
The resort extended my contract.
Another client called.
Then another.
I rented a tiny house ten minutes from the beach.
The furniture didn’t match.
I loved every piece.
Vanessa continued posting online.
She was still claiming to be pregnant.
Grant was placed on administrative leave while his company investigated his expenses.
Vanessa blamed me.
I ignored her.
Apparently, being ignored was unbearable.
Three months later, the resort held a launch event for the first renovated wing.
Investors attended.
Local media attended.
Travel writers and hospitality bloggers attended.
I was scheduled to present the design strategy.
Ten minutes before my presentation, an event coordinator approached.
“Natalie?”
“Yes?”
“There are two people asking for you at the front entrance.”
Something in my stomach tightened.
“Names?”
“Grant Mercer and Vanessa Cole.”
Of course.
“And they brought two people who say they’re independent lifestyle reporters.”
Daniel heard that.
He stepped toward me.
“I can have security remove them.”
