My Wife Left Me ‘Stranded’ at the Airport—I Flew First-Class to Paris With His Business Partner…
I stood there at the airport, my suitcase still in hand, watching Cassandra’s private jet lift off into the sky without me. My name’s Julian Cole, and this was supposed to be our big anniversary weekend, a getaway she’d promised me for months. We’d been planning it since January, or at least I thought we were.
I’d packed my best shirts, even bought a new camera lens to capture the moments I imagined we’d share. But there she was, laughing with her glossy posi of assistants and friends, all decked out in designer sunglasses and heels that clicked like they owned the world.
“This is a girl’s trip now,” she’d said, tossing me that smirk of hers, the one that always made me feel like I was the punchline to a joke I didn’t get. “I could have yelled, could have made a scene right there in the terminal, but I didn’t. I’m not the begging type.” Her laughter echoed in my head as I turned on my heel and walked straight to the first class desk.
The lady behind the counter barely blinked when I asked for the next flight to Paris. I had the miles, the cash, and a sudden fire in my gut, telling me I didn’t need Cassandra’s permission to live my life. Within an hour, I was buckled into a plush seat, sipping a coffee as the plane taxied down the runway. I wasn’t chasing her. I was leaving her behind. 10 minutes after her jet took off, I knew she’d get the email. I’d scheduled it earlier that morning, right after she ditched me.
It was from our shared legal adviser. A little automated surprise I’d set up with a few clicks. Subject line, preliminary separation agreement. I could picture her face, those perfectly arched brows shooting up, her lips parting in that silent gasp she does when she’s caught off guard.
She’d be 30,000 ft in the air, surrounded by her giggling crew, and suddenly pale as a ghost. Good. Let her squirm. By the time my plane touched down in Paris, my phone was already buzzing like a beehive. I didn’t even check it, just let it vibrate in my pocket as I stepped into the warm, bustling chaos of Charles de Gaulle. 155 messages.
I’d find out later. 155 little please, rants, and apologies she’d typed out while I was sipping wine over the Atlantic. But right then, I didn’t care. I was in Paris, and for once, it wasn’t about her. It was about me. I grabbed my bag, adjusted my jacket, and walked out into the city that was about to change everything.
The air smelled like fresh bread and freedom, and I wasn’t looking back. Cassandra could keep her jet, her entourage, her smirks. I had a ticket to something better, and I wasn’t waiting for her to sign off on it. This was my runway now, and I was taking off. I settled into my first class seat, the hum of the plane’s engines vibrating through me as we climbed higher over the Atlantic.
My name’s Julian Cole, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t flying to keep up with Cassandra’s schedule or to play the part of her arm candy husband at some glitzy event. This was my flight, my choice, and it felt damn good. The flight attendant handed me a glass of champagne, and I watched the bubbles rise and pop, each one disappearing like the promises Cassandra had made over the years.
We’d started out as partners, equals, I thought, building her luxury tech brand from late night brainstorming sessions in our cramped apartment. Back then, it was our dream, but somewhere along the way, it became hers. I turned into the guy holding her purse at Red Carpet Gallas, smiling for the cameras while she dazzled the world.
“Julian, you’re so good at being there for me,” she’d say like it was a compliment. I’d nod, play along, let her shine. But now, staring out at the endless stretch of clouds, I saw it for what it was. I’d been erased, reduced to a prop in her perfect little production, the champagne tasted sharp, bitter even, but I drank it anyway. I reached into my carry-on and pulled out the leatherbound journal she’d given me last Christmas.
It was one of those expensive gifts she loved. Beautiful, thoughtful on the surface, but empty inside. She hadn’t even bothered to write a note in it. Typical. I flipped it open, the blank pages staring back at me like a challenge. My pen hovered for a second, then I pressed it to the paper and wrote the first words that felt like they belonged to me.
Julian’s Paris, not hers. It wasn’t poetry, but it was mine. And that was enough. I leaned back, letting the words sink in. Paris wasn’t just a destination now. It was a declaration. I wasn’t going to trail after her anymore. Wasn’t going to wait for her to throw me a scrap of attention. This trip was about me figuring out who I was when I wasn’t Cassandra Blakes’s plus one. The plane rocked gently, and I started planning.
I’d land in a few hours, check into a hotel, nothing like the over-the-top places she’d pick, and just walk. No itinerary, no press calls, no one telling me where to stand or what to say. I’d wander the streets, eat whatever smelled good, maybe dust off my camera, and take some pictures for myself, not for her Instagram.
The thought made me smile, a real one, not the practice grin I’d worn for years. I glanced at the journal again, tracing the words with my finger. Julian’s Paris. It sounded like freedom. I didn’t know what I’d find there. Maybe a cafe with strong coffee. Maybe a quiet corner to think. Maybe even someone who’d see me. Not her shadow.
The idea of not being alone for long flickered in my mind, but I pushed it aside. This wasn’t about replacing her. It was about reclaiming me. The flight attendant came by again, offering a warm towel, and I took it, wiping my hands like I could scrub off the last decade of playing second fiddle.
Outside, the sky was turning pink and gold, the sun dipping below the horizon. I didn’t check my phone, didn’t want to see her messages yet. Let her stew, let her wonder where I’d gone. For once, I wasn’t the one waiting. I closed the journal, tucked it back into my bag, and finished the champagne.
The plane leveled out, steady and sure, carrying me toward a city I’d always loved but never truly explored on my own terms. I didn’t need her jet, her plans, her approval. I had a seat, a pin, and a clean slate. Paris was waiting, and I was ready to meet it, not as Cassandra’s husband, but as Julian. Just Julian, the guy who’d finally stopped ghosting himself.
I stepped off the plane at Charles de Gaulle, my leg stiff from the flight, but my mind buzzing with something I hadn’t felt in years. possibility. My name’s Julian Cole and I was in Paris, not because Cassandra dragged me here for some photo op, but because I’d chosen it. The airport was a blur of voices, French, English, a dozen other languages mixing together, and I moved through it like a man waking up from a long sleep.
I grabbed my bag from the carousel, slung it over my shoulder, and headed for the exit, ready to breathe in the city. But before I could get far, a voice called out, smooth and familiar. Julian Cole as I live and breathe. I turned and there he was, Marco Levant, leaning against a pillar with that easy grin of his.
Marco was one of Cassandra’s old investors, a sharp guy with a knack for turning a profit and a reputation for not taking her crap. He pulled out of her company a couple years back, something about creative differences, and now he was her biggest rival in the tech game. “Marco,” I said, shaking his hand. “What are you doing here?” He chuckled, adjusting the cuff of his tailored jacket.
“Same as you,” I guessed, getting out from under her thumb. “I heard about the airport stunt. Classy move, by the way.” I smirked, not sure how he knew already, but Marco always had his ear to the ground. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t about to cry over it.” He nodded like he’d expected nothing less. “Good. You’re not the only one she’s tried to cut out, you know.
” She uninvited me from her little summit this weekend. Thought I’d crash it anyway. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cream colored envelope, handing it to me. You should come, too. She’s headlining or was supposed to. Be a shame if she didn’t see some familiar faces in the crowd. I took the invitation, flipping it over in my hands.
It was for a tech summit in Paris, one of those exclusive events where CEOs and big shots patted each other on the back. Cassandra had been prepping for it for weeks, rehearsing her keynote speech in our living room while I nodded along like a good husband. She doesn’t know you’re coming, does she? Marco asked, his eyes glinting with mischief.
No, I said, feeling a grin tug at my lips. She will soon, he clapped me on the shoulder, laughing. That’s the spirit. Come on, let’s grab a drink. You look like you could use one. We found a bar just outside the terminal, all sleek glass and dim lighting, and ordered two whisies. The first sip burned, but it settled me, grounding me in this new reality where I wasn’t just reacting to her moves. I was making my own.
Marco leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. So, what’s the plan, Julian? You’re here. She’s up there losing her mind. Where do you go from here? I thought about it. The invitation still in my hand. I don’t know yet. I just wanted to get away, figure things out, but this. I tapped the envelope. This feels like a start. He nodded like he got it.
She’s built a lot on your back. You know those early marketing ideas, the ones that got her brand off the ground. I remember whose brain they came from. I looked at him, surprised he’d bring it up. That was a long time ago. Doesn’t mean it’s not still true, he said, taking a sip. She’s good at taking credit. You’re good at letting her.
Maybe it’s time to change that. The words hit me harder than I expected. I’d spent years telling myself it didn’t matter. that I was happy supporting her being the guy behind the scenes. But sitting there with Marco, the whiskey warming my chest, I realized how much I’d let slip away. Paris wasn’t just a getaway anymore. It was a chance to take something back.
We finished our drinks and Marco stood tossing some euros on the table. See you at the summit, Julian. Don’t let her off easy. He walked off, leaving me with the invitation and a head full of thoughts. I tucked it into my jacket, paid for my half, and stepped outside. The air was crisp, the city sprawling out in front of me.
I didn’t know what I’d do at that summit, but I knew one thing. Cassandra was about to find out I wasn’t her ghost anymore. I hailed a cab, gave the driver the name of a hotel I’d found online. Nothing fancy, just mine, and watched the lights of Paris flicker by. This was my shot, and I wasn’t backing down. I woke up to the sound of Paris breathing outside my window.
A soft hum of life that felt worlds away from the polished chaos of Cassandra’s universe. My name’s Julian Cole and I checked into Lum Matten Blue, a little boutique hotel tucked into the hills of Monatra. It wasn’t the kind of place she’d ever pick. No marble lobbies or conciergees kissing her ring, but it was perfect for me.
The room was small with creaky wooden floors and a view of cobbled streets winding down into the city. I didn’t need a penthouse to feel alive here. I pulled on a jacket, grabbed my camera, and headed out, letting the morning air hit me like a reset button. The streets were narrow, lined with old stone buildings and flower boxes spilling over with color.
I walked without a plan, something I hadn’t done in years. With Cassandra, every trip was a mission. Schedules, meetings, photo ops. But today, I was just a guy with a camera, wandering through a city that didn’t care who I was married to. I stopped at a cafe, the kind with wobbly tables and waiters who didn’t rush you.
The coffee was strong, the croissant flaky and warm, and I sat there watching people go by, artists with sketch pads, old men with newspapers, kids chasing pigeons. No one asked me about her latest product launch or told me to smile for a picture. It was just me in the moment, and I felt my shoulders loosen for the first time in forever.
After breakfast, I headed toward the art district. The camera slung around my neck like an old friend I’d forgotten I had. Photography used to be my thing back before Cassandra turned it into a punchline. “It’s a cute hobby, Julian,” she’d say, like I was a kid playing with toys.
I’d stopped bringing it up, stopped carrying the camera unless she needed a shot for her feed. But here in Paris, I lifted it to my eye and started snapping street corners, cracked walls, a woman selling flowers from a cart. The world looked different through the lens, sharper, like I could hold on to it instead of letting it slip through my fingers. A couple of locals noticed.
An older guy with a beret and a woman with a scarf tied just so. You’re a photographer? The guy asked, his English rough but friendly. Just for fun, I said, lowering the camera. Beautiful city you’ve got. He grinned, proud, and they started asking about the gear, the shots I like to take. Not once did they mention Cassandra or her brand.
It was like I’d stepped out of her shadow and into my own skin. That night, I followed a flyer I’d seen pinned to a cafe wall, some rooftop exhibition in the neighborhood. The place was strung with lights, the air thick with chatter and cigarette smoke.
I wandered through, sipping a glass of cheap wine, looking at sculptures and paintings that felt raw, real. Then I met Genevie Thorne. She was standing by her installation, a mess of wires and screens flickering with images that broke apart and came back together. She had dark hair pulled into a loose bun, paint smudged on her cheek and eyes that locked onto you like she could see right through. What do you think? She asked, nodding at her work.
It’s like it’s falling apart and starting over at the same time, I said. Not sure if that made sense. She smiled. A slow knowing thing. That’s exactly it. Eraser and rebirth. You get it. We talked for a while, her voice soft but steady.
She told me about the piece, how it was about shedding old versions of yourself to find what’s underneath. Sometimes you have to disappear to finally be seen, she said, and it hit me like a punch. I’ve been disappearing for years, fading into Cassandra’s spotlight. But maybe I didn’t have to anymore.
I told her about my camera, how I’d picked it up again that day, and she nodded like she understood more than I was saying. “You should come back tomorrow,” she said. “There’s a workshop. bring your photos. I left the rooftop with her words rattling around in my head, the city lights blurring below me. Matra felt like a liberation, every step pulling me further from the guy I’d been. I didn’t need Cassandra’s approval or her private jets.
I had a camera, a coffee stained map, and a stranger’s invitation to keep going. Paris was mine now, and I wasn’t letting it go. I got back to Lamaten Blue after that rooftop exhibition. My head still spinning from Genevie’s words and the way Paris had started to feel like mine.
My name’s Julian Cole, and I’d been running on adrenaline all day, walking the streets, snapping photos, talking to people who didn’t know me as Cassandra’s husband. The hotel room was quiet, just the soft creek of the floorboards, and the distant hum of the city outside. I tossed my jacket on the chair, kicked off my shoes, and sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone sat on the nightstand, dark and silent.
I hadn’t turned it on since the airport. Hadn’t wanted to deal with whatever Cassandra was throwing at me. But something pulled at me now. Curiosity maybe, or just the need to see how far she’d unraveled. I picked it up, pressed the power button, and waited as it buzzed to life. The screen lit up, and there it was. 155 messages.
A wall of notifications, all from her. I scrolled through, not opening them yet, just watching the previews stack up like a train wreck. I couldn’t look away from. The first few were smug classic Cassandra. Still at the airport, one read. You’re being dramatic, said another.
I could hear her voice in my head, that sharp little laugh she’d let out when she thought she’d won. She probably sent those right after her jet took off, sipping champagne with her crew, thinking I’d just sit there and wait for her to come back. By message 20, the tone shifted. Where are you? She’d written, “No smirk in that one.” Then a few later, Julian, answer me.
I kept scrolling, the words blurring together. By 45, she was pissed. What the hell did you do? That must have been when the email hit, our legal advisor’s little gift about the separation. I smiled to myself, imagining her flipping through her inbox at 30,000 ft. Her perfect nails tapping the screen harder with every word she read.
The messages kept coming, a flood of her losing control. You can’t do this to me. She wrote at 96 like I was the one who ditched her at an airport. Then the apology started. Julian, I need to talk to you. Please. Came at 124. I’m sorry, she said at 142. And I almost laughed out loud. Cassandra didn’t say sorry. Not unless she was backed into a corner. The last one, 155, hit different.
We need to fix this. No demands, no snark, just a plea. I stared at it for a long minute, the screen glowing in the dim room. My thumb hovered over the reply button, but I didn’t press it. What was there to say? She left me standing there, laughed about it, and now she was scrambling because I’d finally stopped playing her game. I turned the phone off, the screen going black again, and set it back on the nightstand.
Let her wonder. Let her sit with it. I wasn’t her lap dog anymore, racing to fix things the second she snapped her fingers. I got up, walked to the window, and pushed it open, letting the cool night air roll in. Paris stretched out below me, all twinkling lights and quiet streets, and I felt something settle in my chest. Peace, maybe, or power.
She could send a thousand messages, and it wouldn’t change a thing. I was here living my life while she was up there, spiraling in her private jet bubble. I grabbed my camera from the table, flipping through the shots I’d taken that day. The flower cart, the cracked wall, the old guy in the beret. They weren’t perfect, but they were mine.
And that felt better than any staged photo I’d ever taken for her. I thought about Genevie’s workshop tomorrow. How she talked about a razor and rebirth. Maybe that’s what this was. Me wiping the slate clean, letting Cassandra’s avalanche of texts bury the guy I used to be. I didn’t owe her an answer. Didn’t owe her my time.
she’d figure out soon enough that I wasn’t coming back to beg. I climbed into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, and closed my eyes. The phone stayed off, the messages unread. For the first time in years, I fell asleep without her voice in my head, just the sound of Paris whispering me into tomorrow.
I woke up to sunlight spilling through the curtains of my room at Lumaten Blue. The kind of soft glow that made Paris feel like a painting. My name’s Julian Cole, and for once, I wasn’t jolted awake by Cassandra’s voice barking orders or her phone blaring with notifications. It was just me, the quiet, and a day I got to shape. I stretched, feeling the ache in my legs from yesterday’s wandering, and smiled.
Today was Genevie’s workshop, and I was ready to see where it took me. I grabbed a quick shower, threw on a sweater and jeans, and headed out with my camera and a few of the photos I’d printed at a shop down the street. St. Germaine was a trek from Mont Matra, but I didn’t mind the walk. Every corner of this city had something to show me.
The streets were alive with people, the air thick with the smell of bread and coffee. I stopped at a stall for a pan of chocolate, eating it as I went, crumbs falling onto my jacket. By the time I reached the workshop, a little studio tucked above a bookstore, I felt like I’d already lived a full morning.
Genevieve was there setting up screens and cables, her hands moving fast, but sure. You made it, she said, glancing up with that half smile of hers. Brought your soul to shred. I laughed, holding up my camera. Something like that. She waved me in, and I joined a handful of others, artists, mostly with paint stained fingers and quiet energy.
“The workshop was about digital self-portraits,” she explained. “But not the polished kind you post online. We’re deconstructing ourselves,” she said, her voice steady, taking who we were and breaking it down to find what’s left. I nodded, not totally sure what that meant, but ready to try.
She handed me a tablet hooked up to a projector, showed me how to upload a photo, and start pulling it apart pixel by pixel, layer by layer. I scrolled through my shots, then stopped on one Cassandra had posted months ago. It was us at some gala, her in a glittering dress, me halfcropped out of the frame, smiling like an afterthought.
She’d captioned it something about power couples, but I’d always hated how it looked, like I was barely there. I uploaded it and the image flashed onto the screen. Bigger than life. Genevieve leaned over. That’s a good one to start with. What do you want to do with it? I didn’t even think. Get rid of her. She grinned, showing me how to drag a tool across the screen, erasing Cassandra bit by bit.
Her dress dissolved, her face blurred into nothing, until all that was left was me half a figure, awkward and incomplete. But I wasn’t done. I kept going, breaking down the edges, the background, the fake smile I’d worn that night. The pixels scattered like dust, and I rebuilt it, pulling my silhouette into the center, filling it out with lines and shadows from the Paris shots I’d taken. The gala faded, replaced by cobblestones and street lights until it was just me standing whole.
The room was quiet, everyone lost in their own work, but I felt Genevieve watching. That’s you, she said, nodding at the screen. Not whoever you were pretending to be. I looked at it. My shape, my city, no trace of her. Yeah, I said, my voice low. I think it is.
We spend hours there, tweaking and tearing apart, the air buzzing with this strange mix of focus and release. I didn’t just stop at that one. I pulled up other photos, old ones from our life together, and shredded them, too. A beach trip where she’d made me hold her bag. A dinner where I’d been stuck taking pictures of her food. Gone. All of them turned into something new.
By the end, I had a series of images, each one a piece of me I’d forgotten. Genevieve walked over as I saved the last one. “You just published your first piece of emotional honesty,” she said, her eyes steady on mine. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” I nodded, not trusting my voice. It did feel good better than good.
It was like I’d clawed something back, something she’d buried under years of her spotlight. I left the studio as the sun dipped low, the tablet under my arm, and those images burned into my head. Paris glowed around me, all golden and alive. And I walked back to the hotel with a lightness I hadn’t known I could feel. Cassandra’s world didn’t own me anymore.
I was undoing it piece by piece and building something real in its place. I stepped out of the cab into the cool Paris evening, the lights of the summit venue glowing ahead like a beacon. My name’s Julian Cole, and tonight wasn’t about hiding anymore. It was about showing up.
Marco had invited me to this dinner, the one Cassandra was supposed to host, and I’d said yes without a second thought. The invitation was still in my pocket, creased from being handled all day, but it felt like a ticket to something bigger than just a meal. I adjusted my jacket, not the flashy kind she’d have picked for me, just a simple one I liked, and walked in.
The place was all glass and gold, packed with tech execs and investors in suits that cost more than my old car. I scanned the room, half expecting to see her sweeping in with that queen bee smile, but she wasn’t there. The table settings had her name on them, though. Cassandra Blake, keynote speaker. Guess she hadn’t cancelled yet.
I found Marco near the bar sipping a drink and chatting up some guy in a bow tie. He spotted me and waved me over. You clean up nice, Julian,” he said, handing me a glass of something dark and strong. Ready to stir the pot. I took a sip, letting it burn down my throat. She’s not here, is she? He shook his head, smirking. Not yet.
Word is she’s been off the grid since that email hit. Her team scrambling. Before I could ask more, someone grabbed my arm. Lily Monroe, Cassandra’s executive assistant. She was all nerves, her blonde hair slipping out of its neat bun. Julian. Thank God,” she whispered, pulling me aside. She’s been spiraling since that legal thing dropped.
She hasn’t told anyone why she’s not here tonight. I raised an eyebrow, keeping my voice steady. “That’s her mess to explain, Lily. Not mine,” she blinked like she hadn’t expected that. “You’re not worried?” “No,” I said, smiling just enough to throw her off. “Let her tell her story. I’m telling mine.” Lily stared at me, then nodded slowly, backing off as the crowd started moving toward the tables. I found my seat.
Marco had made sure I wasn’t stuck in the back and settled in, the buzz of the room washing over me. The keynote was about to start, some stand-in guy fumbling through notes when the MC stepped up instead. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, voice booming. Before we begin, let’s acknowledge someone in the room.
Julian Cole, the man behind the original marketing concept Cassandra Blake built her empire on without credit. The air went still, heads turned, eyes landing on me. I froze for a second, the glass halfway to my lips, then set it down as the gas rippled through the crowd. Marco leaned over, grinning. Told you I’d stir the pot.
Silence hung heavy, then someone clapped, slow at first, then faster, until the room broke into applause. I stood nodding, not sure what else to do. The MC kept going, talking about innovation and unsung heroes, but I barely heard it. My heart was pounding, not from nerves, but from something else. Relief maybe, or vindication. For years, I’d let her take the credit. Told myself it didn’t matter as long as the company thrived. But it did matter.
And now everyone knew it. The dinner rolled on, plates clinking, voices rising, but I felt like I was floating above it. People came up after shaking my hand, asking questions about those early days. You’re the real deal, one guy said, a tech blogger I recognized. She never mentioned you. She didn’t have to, I said, keeping it light.
I was there anyway. Marco caught up with me later as the crowd thinned. You handled that like a pro. She’s going to hate this. Good, I said, meaning it. Let her. We stepped outside, the night air sharp against my skin. I didn’t need her here to feel the weight of this moment.
The applause still echoed in my head, not just for what I’d done, but for what I was doing now, standing up, stepping out, Lily’s words stuck with me, though, spiraling. Part of me wondered what Cassandra was doing right then, pacing some hotel room, yelling at her phone, trying to spin this, but I didn’t linger on it. This dinner, this night, it didn’t need her.
I’d walked in alone and walked out taller. Paris had given me that, and I wasn’t giving it back. I walked along the same the next evening, the water reflecting the city lights like a mirror cracked with gold. My name’s Julian Cole, and I was still riding the high from that summit dinner. Those gasps, that applause, the way people looked at me like I was someone worth seeing.
It was a rush, but it didn’t erase the quiet itch in my chest. Cassandra had texted again that morning, one line cutting through the noise of the last few days. Let’s meet. No press, just us. I’d stared at it over coffee, the steam curling up from my cup, and against my better judgment, I typed back, “Fine.
Cafe Lumiere, 7:00 p.m. Now here I was, heading to meet her, not sure what I wanted out of it, but knowing it was time to face her. The cafe was small, tucked off a side street with round tables spilling onto the pavement.
I got there early, ordered a glass of red wine, and sat outside watching the river flow. She showed up 10 minutes late. Typical, her heels clicking like a warning shot. She wore sunglasses even though the sun was long gone, her face unreadable behind them. She slid into the chair across from me, setting her bag down with that careful grace she’d perfected. “You embarrassed me,” she said. “No, hello.” “No soft start.
” Her voice was tight, like she’d been holding it in too long. I took a sip of wine, letting her words hang there for a second. “No,” I said, setting the glass down. You exposed yourself. I just stopped covering for you. She pulled off the sunglasses, her eyes sharp and tired at the same time.
That email, Julian, the summit. What are you trying to do? Ruin me. I leaned back, keeping my voice even. I’m not trying to do anything to you. I’m done playing your game. That’s all. You left me at the airport. Laughed about it. Did you think I just take it? She flinched. Just a flicker, but I caught it. It was a mistake, she said.
Softer now. I got caught up with the girls. The trip, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. But it was, I said, and it’s been like that for years. Me waiting, you deciding. I’m not your prop anymore, Cassandra. She stared at me, her fingers tapping the table, that nervous habit she hated admitting she had.
So what? You’re just walking away after everything we built. You built it, I said. And it felt good to say it out loud. I helped. Sure. gave you ideas, held you up, but you took the credit, the control, and left me in the background. I’m not asking for a medal. I’m just done pretending it’s enough. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Maybe she couldn’t.
Let’s talk settlements, then, she said, switching gears like she always did when she lost ground. We can figure this out. Keep it clean. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a card, Catherine’s, my lawyer, and slid it across the table. Everything goes through her now. We’re done here.
She looked at the card, then back at me, her mouth opening like she wanted to fight, but I was already standing. Julian, wait. She started, but I didn’t. I left her sitting there, the wine untouched, the card glaring up at her. The power shift was complete, and it hit me as I walked away, slow at first, then all at once. I didn’t owe her that conversation.
Didn’t owe her my time or my explanations. She’d had years of me bending, adjusting, making it work. Not anymore. I crossed the street, the saint stretching out beside me, and felt the weight lift. This wasn’t her choice anymore. It was mine, and I’d made it. I kept walking, the city folding around me like a friend.
Paris had given me a voice, a spine, and I wasn’t handing them back. She could sit there all night plotting her next move, but it wouldn’t change a thing. I was free, not just from her, but from the version of me I’d let her shape. The river flowed on, steady and sure, and I matched its pace. my steps lighter than they’d been in years.
I woke up the next morning with the sun sneaking through the blinds of my room at Lumat and Blue, a quiet energy buzzing in my chest. My name’s Julian Cole, and after last night, leaving Cassandra at that cafe table, her voice fading behind me, I felt like I’d finally cut the last thread tying me to her world. I didn’t check my phone. Didn’t care if she texted again.
Today wasn’t about her. It was about me, and I had an idea brewing. I grabbed a coffee from the hotel’s little kitchen, the bitter taste waking me up as I sat by the window, watching Monakra stretch awake. The streets below were already moving, vendors setting up, people shuffling to work.
And I thought about those photos I’d taken, the ones I’d reworked with Genevieve. They weren’t just pictures anymore. They were pieces of me, raw and real. What if I showed them not to Cassandra, not to prove a point, but for myself? I pulled out my notebook, scribbling down thoughts. Gallery, exhibit, Paris. By the time I finished my coffee, I had a plan.
I called Genevieve, catching her just as she was heading out. “Hey, it’s Julian,” I said, pacing the room. “You know anything about renting gallery space?” She laughed. That easy sound that made everything feel possible. “You’re serious?” “Yeah, I know a spot near Laray. Small, but it’s got character. What are you thinking? An exhibit?” I said, the words solidifying as I spoke.
Those portraits I did at the workshop, plus the street shots from this week. I want to put them up. She didn’t hesitate. I’m in. Meet me there in an hour. I hung up, grabbed my camera and the printed photos, and headed out. Li Marray was a maze of narrow streets and old buildings alive with galleries and cafes.
The space Genevieve found was perfect. white walls, worn wooden floors, a big window letting in light. The owner, a gruff guy named Pierre, agreed to a short rental, muttering about crazy artists, but handing me the keys. Genevieve showed up with a toolbox and a grin, and we got to work.
We hung the photos, my silhouette against Paris streets, the fragmented gala shot, the flower cart lady mid laugh. I called it unccropped, a name that felt right, like I was finally stepping into the frame. We worked all day adjusting frames, tweaking the layout until it looked like something real. By the next afternoon, we opened it up. Nothing fancy, just a sign out front and word of mouth.
People trickled in, locals mostly, then some tourists, their voices bouncing off the walls as they looked at my work. I stood back watching them linger. Point talk. A woman in a red coat bought the flower card shot, saying it reminded her of her grandmother. A guy with a beard asked about the tech behind the digital pieces.
It wasn’t a mob, but it was enough. 2 days later, every print was sold. I couldn’t stop smiling. Marco dropped by that second night, his suit sharp as ever. Congratulations, he said, handing me a beer from a nearby bar. You’re a hit. By the way, she’s been trying to buy back your shares in the company. I told her too late. I laughed, clinking my bottle against his.
She can keep scrambling. I’m good here. He nodded, looking around. This is you, Julian, not her shadow. You should see her face when she hears about this. I didn’t need to. I could picture it. Those perfect brows furrowing, her lips pressing tight. But it didn’t matter anymore. The gallery was mine. The photos were mine.
And the people who’ bought them saw me, not her. Genevieve joined us. Her paint splattered jeans a contrast to Marco’s polish. “You did it,” she said, nudging me. told you there was something honest in there. Couldn’t have without you, I said, meaning it. She shrugged, but her eyes said she got it.
We stood there, the three of us, as the last visitors left, the space quiet again. I looked at those empty walls, the sold tag still pinned up, and felt full and not just of pride, but of something I’d lost along the way. This was my passport to the real me, stamped and signed in Paris. I didn’t need Cassandra’s approval or her empire. I had this, and it was enough.
I woke up on my last day in Paris with the kind of quiet that sneaks in after a storm. Soft, steady, and mine. My name’s Julian Cole, and I’d spent the week rewriting myself, step by step, photo by photo, until I wasn’t just Cassandra’s husband anymore. The room at Lamatin Blue felt smaller now, like I’d outgrown it. My bags half-packed by the window.
I didn’t know where I go next, back home, maybe, or somewhere new. But I knew I wasn’t the same guy who’d landed here. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, the screen lighting up with one new message. It was from her sent just after midnight. Do you still love me? I stared at it, the words sharp against the soft morning light.
Cassandra, always cutting to the core when she was desperate. I could see her typing it, probably alone in some hotel suite, her nails clicking on the screen, waiting for me to cave like I always had. My thumb hovered over the reply button, a dozen old habits tugging at me. Say yes. Smooth it over. give her something to hold on to.
But I didn’t. I pressed delete, the message vanishing like it had never been there, and set the phone down. No response, no punctuation, just peace. I didn’t owe her an answer anymore. I got up, pulled on a sweater, and headed out. The city calling me one last time. The streets of Monro were waking up.
Bakers hauling trays, kids laughing on their way to school. And I walked with no rush, letting it all sink in. Paris had given me more than I’d expected. A camera rediscovered, a gallery sold out, a spine I’d forgotten I had. I ended up at a bookstore cafe near the sane, a little place with mismatched chairs and shelves packed tight.
I ordered a coffee, grabbed a new journal from the racked plane, no leather, nothing fancy, and sat by the window, the river glinting outside. The pin felt good in my hand, steady like it belonged there. I opened to the first page and wrote, “Julian Cole, artist. No longer Cassandra’s plus one. No longer stranded, just flying. The words came easy.
No hesitation, no second guessing. It wasn’t a grand story, just a start, but it was mine. I sipped the coffee, the bitterness grounding me, and watched the water flow. People moved past, tourists with maps, locals with bags of bread, and I didn’t feel invisible anymore. I thought about the week.
Marco’s grin at the summit, Genevie’s quiet push at the workshop, the gallery walls bare from sold prints. They’d seen me, not her shadow, and that was enough to carry forward. My phone buzzed once, twice, but I didn’t check it. Let her send whatever she wanted. Apologies, threats, more questions. It didn’t matter. I’d said everything I needed to by walking away by building something here.
The cafe filled up, voices blending into a hum, and I kept writing ideas for photos, places I might go, things I wanted to see through my lens. The pages filled fast, each one a step away from the guy who’d stood at that airport, suitcase in hand, watching her jet take off. I didn’t hate her, I realized, finishing my coffee. I didn’t even miss her. She was just a chapter ending.
And this this journal, this city, this me was the first page of something else. I paid the bill, tucked the journal under my arm, and stepped outside. The air was crisp, the sane steady beside me. I walked along it, my boots tapping the pavement, and felt the weight of her final message lift completely. No, I didn’t still love her.
Not the way she meant, not the way that kept me tethered. I loved this instead. The freedom, the quiet, the man I was becoming. I stopped at a bridge, leaned on the railing, and watched a boat drift by. Paris stretched out around me, its lights flickering on as the day faded. I’d fly out tomorrow, but I wasn’t leaving empty-handed.
I had a new story, a first chapter written in my own hand, and that was more than enough to take with me. I stood on that bridge over the sane, the cold metal of the railing pressing into my palms, and watched the boat disappear around a bend. My name’s Julian Cole, and this was my last night in Paris, a city that had taken me apart and put me back together in ways I hadn’t seen coming.
The air was sharp now, the kind that bites at your nose, and the lights along the river flickered like they were winking at me. I wasn’t ready to leave. Not really. But I knew I couldn’t stay forever. Tomorrow I’d fly out back to a life I’d have to figure out from scratch. But tonight was still mine.
I pulled my jacket tighter and started walking again. No plan, just the urge to soak up every last second of this place. The streets were quieter now, the crowds thinning as the city settled into itself. I passed a guy playing an accordion, the notes slow and heavy, and tossed a few coins into his hat. He nodded, not breaking the tune.
And I kept going, the music following me like a shadow. I thought about that journal in my bag, the one I’d started at the cafe, the words I’d written. Julian Cole, artist. It still felt strange calling myself that. But it fit better than Cassandra’s husband ever had. I wonder what she was doing right now, probably back home by now, pacing our old living room, yelling at Lily or her lawyers.
That last text of hers, “Do you still love me?” kept popping into my head, but not because I wanted to answer it. It was more like a ghost, a whisper from a life I’d left behind. I didn’t feel guilt, didn’t feel torn, just done. I turned down a street I hadn’t explored yet, narrower than the others, with old lanterns casting pools of light on the cobblestones.
A little bar caught my eye, and nothing fancy, just a wooden sign swinging over the door that said, “Lipost rest.” Sounded good. I pushed inside, the warmth hitting me like a hug. The place was small, half full with low ceilings and tables scratched up from years of use.
I ordered a whiskey at the counter, the bartender pouring it without a word, and took it to a corner by the window. The glass was heavy in my hand, the amber liquid catching the light, and I sipped it slow, letting it burn its way down. A guy at the next table was sketching on a napkin, his pencil scratching quick lines, and I watched him for a minute, feeling that it’s to pull out my camera. I didn’t though, just sat there soaking it in.
Then the door creaked open and Genevieve walked in. She spotted me right away, her dark hair loose tonight, a scarf dangling from her neck. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said, sliding into the chair across from me without asking. “Thought you’d be packing.” I smiled, setting the glass down. Thought I’d say goodbye to Paris first.
What about you? She shrugged, ordering a wine from the passing bartender. I live here, but I like this place. Good for thinking. We sat there, quiet at first, the hum of the bar filling the space. She looked at me, her eyes steady like they’d been at the workshop. You’re different now, she said, not a question. Yeah, I said, nodding. I feel it, too.
She sipped her wine, then leaned forward. That exhibit, unccropped. It wasn’t just photos, was it? It was you figuring out who you are. I thought about that. The way those images had pulled me out of Cassandra’s frame. Guess so. Took a while to see it. She smiled. Small but real. Most people don’t. They stay cropped.
We talked for hours about art, Paris, the way things break in men. She told me about her next project, something with sound and light, and I told her about the journal, the idea of keeping this going wherever I landed next. The whiskey ran low. The bar emptied out, but we didn’t move. It wasn’t flirty.
Wasn’t anything more than two people who got each other, but it felt good, solid, like an anchor in all this newness. When the bartender called last rounds, we stepped outside, the cold snapping me awake. “You’ll be back,” she said, pulling her scarf tight. “Paris doesn’t let go that easy.” “Maybe,” I said, grinning. or maybe I’ll take it with me.” She laughed, waved, and disappeared down the street.
I walked back to the hotel alone, the city quiet now, my breath fogging in the air. I packed my bags, tucked the journal in last, and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow I’d leave, but tonight I was still here, still Julian, still flying.
