Chapter 11 - A Year Without Aaron
A year passed.
I built a life that belonged entirely to me.
I joined Hale Meridian's investment committee.
I established a foundation in my grandparents' names supporting financial-literacy programs for young women.
I sold the house Aaron and I had shared.
Then I bought an apartment with enormous windows and absolutely no memories.
I dated twice.
Both men were kind.
Neither relationship lasted.
That didn't bother me.
Loneliness and solitude are not the same thing.
I had finally learned the difference.
Aaron never called unless necessary.
Birthday: one text.
Hope it's a good one.
Christmas: nothing.
Our former anniversary: nothing.
That silence was perhaps the most respectful thing he had ever given me.
Then one rainy Tuesday, Nathan called.
“Aaron's stepping down.”
“From Prescott Global?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He says the company needs leadership unconnected to the family.”
I was stunned.
Aaron had spent his adult life preparing to lead Prescott Global.
“What will he do?”
“No idea.”
I told myself it wasn't my concern.
Three months later, I saw him at an airport.
Of all places.
I was returning from London.
He was standing near baggage claim in jeans and a dark jacket.
No assistant.
No driver hovering nearby.
No phone attached to his hand.
He saw me.
We both stopped.
Then he smiled.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
“Good.”
“You look good.”
“So do you.”
Awkward.
Strangely sweet.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Picking up my sister.”
I nodded.
“And you?”
“Coming home.”
Another silence.
Then he glanced at my suitcase.
“Still traveling with that thing?”
I looked down.
The same cream suitcase I had rolled into Prescott Global with his clothes in another lifetime.
I laughed.
“Apparently.”
His sister's flight arrived.
Aaron didn't ask me to coffee.
Didn't ask for another chance.
He simply said:
“It was good seeing you, Claire.”
Then he walked away.
I watched him go.
And for the first time, I realized something frightening.
I missed him.
Not the husband he had been.
The man he was becoming.
May you like
There is a difference.
And that difference would become the hardest decision of my life.
