Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I’m angry I got so carried away, angry over the situation with Casey. I’ve never, in all my career, dealt with a journalist like her, a person like her, even. In my social circles, everyone is polite—at least to your face. I’m not used to open hostility, and her outward fire draws me in until I say too much, cross the line. I did it last night and again this morning. I can’t remember the last time I was so rude.
When she took a seat across from me at breakfast, I couldn’t believe it.
No one, and I mean no one, at Woodmont Overseas would dare to do such a thing. I’m shocked she did. I’ve made myself clear. It’s not like I’ve minced my words with her. No interview means no interview—it doesn’t mean try harder to persuade me. It won’t happen.
It’s not just personal at this point; it’s protocol.
I grew up in a deeply private family. The Woodmont name doesn’t grace gossip websites or tabloids. Discretion is key.
It’s not hard to keep out of the spotlight either. I’ve done it my entire life. Every so often, my publicist will receive the odd interview request. Life, People, Forbes—they’ve all tried to profile me at one point or another. Every time, I’ve declined. It’s for the best. I value my private life. It’s the one normal thing I have. The wealth I grew up with can sour your soul. Seeking public adoration on top of it would be a recipe for disaster.
My phone buzzes, and I look down, relieved. Anything would be a good distraction from my current thoughts. A text from Vivienne lights up the screen.
I’m shocked, to say the least. We haven’t been in communication lately. I’ve seen her out occasionally. We were at the same gala a few weeks back, and I had thought it would be horrible to have to see her like that, out in public, not on my arm. It was . . . fine. Of course I could never admit that to her. It would only prove her point further.
Her text pertains to my work with Aurelia.
VIVIENNE: Sending you a huge congratulations, Phillip! I saw a segment about the Aurelia on the Today show this morning. Such a wonderful achievement. I’m so proud.
I don’t even know what to reply, so I stick with a simple thank you.
My ex-girlfriend was perfect for me in every way. Vivienne Chén is studious, business oriented, and strong willed. Her intelligence amazed me on a daily basis, perpetually keeping me on my toes. A graduate of Stanford Law, a Fulbright scholar, and now a global strategist for Yves Saint Laurent—she can carry her own in any crowd. I saw her as my future wife, the mother of my children, until we were eating dinner a few months ago and she asked me, out of the blue, if I was happy in our relationship. If I was happy, specifically, with her.
I thought it was a trivial question.
What is happiness next to satisfaction, contentment, pride? Love is an amorphous blob, impossible to pin down from one moment to the next, elusive, and silly.
“Happy? Yes. Sure,” I’d replied confidently.
Then I returned to my steak, assuming the conversation was over.
“Phillip.”
Her tone said Be serious.
I thought I had been.
Still, I set down my cutlery and looked up. Her slender eyebrows were pinched together. Her lips turned down in frustration. It made my stomach sink.
She’d leaned in, straightening, then restraightening the linen napkin on her lap. “I worry we don’t bring out the best in each other,” she spoke softly, almost like she barely had the nerve.
I’d audibly balked.
Was she kidding? Since meeting her, I’d perfected my drop shot in tennis. I’d expanded my love of good wine and literature. We completed the Sunday crossword, worked out routinely and efficiently. Went to bed on time.
With Vivienne by my side, my life was orderly and efficient. I was so deeply rooted in my comfort zone, surely it meant we were supposed to be together.
“We’re bad influences on one another,” she emphasized, like we were two drug addicts caught in a vicious cycle. Like after our caprese salads, I was going to suggest a bump in the bathroom. “We barely talk anymore.”
So what if Vivienne and I shared a comfortable quiet life together? We would occasionally discuss news articles at dinner, things we’d read in The Times that morning. What else were we supposed to do? Muse about life? Laugh?
Then she took it one step further by asking “Do you love me?”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Now, of course, I realize my response should have been Yes. Madly.
That’s what most people want to hear, I imagine. Instead, I reached across the table to take her hand so I could ask “What is this really about?”
She moved out that night in what will go down as the world’s most docile breakup. Not a tear was shed. No screaming. A preschool teacher would have praised us for using our indoor voices as we pragmatically discussed how best to divide up our stuff.