His Final Mistake

Harper

The crystal flute feels impossibly heavy in my hand. I lift it, watching the tiny bubbles race to the surface of the champagne, and take a small, careful sip. It’s a 2008 vintage, Damian’s favorite. The one we drank on our wedding night. I placed the order the moment I arrived, a hopeful gesture. A reminder. For him, or maybe for me.

The restaurant is a hushed cathedral of wealth. Low lights gleam off polished mahogany and the diamonds glittering on the women at surrounding tables. The murmur of conversation is a soft, expensive hum. I smooth the napkin in my lap for the tenth time. It’s silk, a deep burgundy that matches the velvet of my dress. A dress I bought specifically for tonight. Our fifth anniversary.

He is forty seven minutes late.

I tell myself it’s business. It’s always business. A deal closing, a conference call with Tokyo. Damian’s time is not his own. It belongs to the company, to the market, to the relentless pursuit of more. I am just a small shareholder in his attention. For five years, I’ve tried to be happy with my dividends.

A flicker of movement at the entrance catches my eye. My heart gives a hopeful leap. It’s him. Damian stands there for a moment, a silhouette of power in his perfectly tailored suit. He scans the room, his gaze sweeping past me once, twice, before it finally lands. He doesn’t smile. He never smiles in public. It’s part of the brand. Aloof. Untouchable. Perfect.

My own smile is ready, the one I practice in the mirror. Bright, but not too eager. Adoring, but not desperate. The perfect wife’s smile. It falters and dies on my lips as he moves.

He is not alone.

A young woman is attached to his arm. Her hair is the color of spun gold, her dress a confection of pale pink silk that seems to float around her. She is a whisper of a thing, all wide eyes and a soft, pink mouth. She looks up at Damian with an expression of such doe eyed reverence that it makes my stomach turn.

Isla. His new assistant. The one he hired three months ago. The one he said was ‘frightfully efficient’.

They are moving toward my table. Every head in the room turns to watch them. Damian Vance does not go unnoticed. And tonight, he has brought a guest to his own anniversary dinner. The room seems to tilt, the quiet hum of conversation fading to a distant buzz in my ears. My hand, the one holding the champagne flute, begins to tremble.

He stops before our table. He doesn’t pull out a chair for her, but she detaches herself from his arm and slides into the seat beside him, opposite me, with a practiced grace.

“Harper,” Damian says. His voice is flat. An acknowledgement. Not a greeting.

“Damian,” I manage. My voice is a thread. “You’re late.”

“I was detained,” he says, his eyes flicking to Isla for a fraction of a second.

“The city is just a nightmare tonight, Mrs. Vance,” Isla chirps, her voice as sweet and cloying as burnt sugar. “But Damian is just so clever, he navigated us right through.”

Mrs. Vance. She says it with such reverence, as if it’s a title she’s trying on for size. The word ‘us’ hangs in the air between us, a glittering, venomous thing.

I stare at my husband. “Why is she here?”

He ignores my question, signaling the waiter. “We won’t be needing the champagne. Just water. Still.”

The waiter, who had been beaming moments before, now looks confused. He whisks away my half full glass and the unopened bottle resting in its silver bucket. My small, hopeful gesture, erased.

“Damian,” I say again, my voice firmer this time. “It’s our anniversary. Why. Is. She. Here?”

Isla flinches theatrically, placing a delicate hand on Damian’s forearm. “Oh, dear. Have I intruded? Damian, you said…”

“You haven’t intruded, Isla,” Damian says, his voice softening just for her. He turns his gaze to me. It is as cold and hard as a banker’s glass. “This concerns you as well. It’s better to be efficient.”

Efficient. The word is a slap. Our marriage, our life, boiled down to a matter of efficiency.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“Of course you don’t.” He reaches into his jacket, but instead of the small, velvet box I had foolishly, pathetically allowed myself to fantasize about, he pulls out a thick manila envelope. It makes a heavy, final sound as he slides it across the polished table. It stops just short of my water glass. My name is typed on the front. Harper Vance.

“What is this?” My fingers won’t move. I can’t make them reach for it.

“It’s a notification,” he says, his tone that of a CEO addressing a subordinate. “Our arrangement has concluded. This document formalizes the dissolution of our partnership.”

The words don’t make sense. Arrangement. Dissolution. Partnership. It’s the language of a boardroom, not a marriage.

“Partnership?” I look from his blank face to Isla’s, who is watching me with an expression of pity so fake it’s almost comical. “This is our marriage, Damian. Our life.”

A dry, humorless sound escapes his lips. “It was a contract, Harper. A five year contract. It was a mutually beneficial agreement. I required a poised, presentable wife to secure the Sterling merger. You required a solution to your family’s rather catastrophic financial situation. Both objectives were met. The term is now complete.”

The world stops. The air in my lungs turns to ice. My mind scrambles, trying to find purchase on the slippery, brutal truth of his words. The Sterling merger. It was the week before he proposed. He said my father’s debt was a trifle, something he was happy to take care of so we could start our lives together without worry.

He never said it was a transaction.

“I loved you,” I say, and the words taste like ash in my mouth. They sound weak, foolish. A child’s plea in a world of cutthroat negotiations.

Damian almost smiles. It’s a chilling sight, a slight upward tick of one corner of his mouth. “Love was never in the prospectus, Harper. It’s a poor investment. Far too volatile.”

“I gave up everything for you,” I say, the desperation rising in my throat like bile. “My master’s program. My career. My entire life.”

“What career?” he scoffs, and this time he does laugh, a short, sharp bark that makes a woman at the next table look over. “A career in staring at dusty canvases? Harper, be serious. Paying for that useless Art History degree was the single worst investment I have ever made. A complete and utter waste of money. At least my investment in you provided a suitable hostess for five years. That, I’ll admit, yielded a decent return.”

Isla giggles. A light, airy sound. “Oh, Damian, don’t be so cruel,” she says, though her eyes dance with triumph. “I think art is… nice. It’s very… decorative.”

Decorative. Useless. That’s what he thinks of me. That’s all I’ve ever been. An object he acquired to complete a set, to be displayed at parties and dinners. A piece of art whose value has now depreciated.

My hands are under the table, clenched into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. I focus on the small, sharp points of pain. It’s the only thing that feels real.

“The prenup is quite clear,” Damian continues, his voice businesslike once more. “You will be well compensated for your time. Consider it a severance package. An apartment has been arranged for you. Your things will be moved tomorrow. I expect you to be gone by noon.”

He’s planned it all. The logistics. The exit strategy. While I was picking out a dress, he was scheduling movers.

“You can’t just… throw me away,” I say, my voice trembling with a rage that is finally, blessedly, beginning to burn through the shock.

“I’m not throwing you away, Harper. I’m decommissioning an asset that is no longer required.” He pushes his chair back and stands. Isla rises with him, a pale pink shadow at his side. He places a hand on the small of her back. It’s a gesture of ownership. The same way he used to touch me.

“I think you’ll find the terms more than generous,” he says. “My lawyer will be in touch. Do try not to make a scene.”

He turns and walks away without another glance. Isla pauses for a moment, looking back at me. She gives me a small, sad smile, a perfect performance of sympathy.

“I’m so sorry it had to be like this, Mrs. Vance,” she says softly. Then she turns and glides after him, her golden hair catching the light.

I am alone. At a table for three. The heavy manila envelope sits in the center of the vast white tablecloth like a tombstone. The entire restaurant is pretending not to stare, but I can feel their eyes on me. The wife of Damian Vance. The ex wife.

My hand moves, a jerky, robotic motion. I pull the envelope toward me. My fingers feel clumsy, disconnected from my body as I tear the seal. The first page is thick, expensive paper. At the top, in stark, black letters, are the words: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

Underneath, our names. Damian Alexander Vance, Petitioner. Harper Catherine Vance, Respondent.

Something inside me snaps. The carefully constructed facade of the perfect wife, the poised hostess, the decorative object, shatters into a million pieces. He called my passion a waste. He called my knowledge useless.

I look down at the papers, at the cold, legal words that have just erased my life. A slow, cold resolve begins to crystallize in the wreckage of my heart. He thinks my Art History degree was a waste of his money.

He has no idea what a truly bad investment looks like. But he’s about to find out.