Chapter 4

On the morning of my birthday, I received flowers from Julian via his assistant.

Ninety-nine Ecuadorian roses, with a card bearing a standard printed greeting.

Even the signature was typed.

My phone vibrated. A message from Julian.

"Flight's been moved up. Heading to the airport now. Happy Birthday, I'll make it up to you when I get back."

I called him. It rang seven times before he picked up.

The background was silent, definitely not the bustling airport.

"Are you in the taxi yet?" I asked.

"Yeah, almost at Terminal 3," his voice had a strange gasp to it. "Signal might be unstable."

I opened the location sharing app.

Our shared location, set up for safety, showed him in a high-end apartment complex in downtown LA.

That red dot stung my eyes.

"Which hotel did you say you stayed at last time?" I tried to make my voice sound casual.

"The Peninsula," he blurted out, then quickly corrected himself, "No, it was the Hyatt near the airport."

A faint female voice whispered in the background: "Julian, the hot water in the bathroom..."

The call suddenly disconnected.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at my carefully chosen nude-pink silk dress.

It was Julian's favorite color. He said it reminded him of the nightgown I wore on our first date.

Now, the dress hung empty on my body.

I'd lost twelve pounds in the last two months.

On the coffee table lay the gift I hadn't been able to give him.

A pair of matching Patek Philippe watches.

The men's watch had "To My Lighthouse" engraved on the inner side of the dial. The women's, "To My Harbor."

In our senior year of college, we watched a lighthouse by the sea.

He said I was his eternal light when he was lost. I said he was my safe harbor after wandering.

A sound came from the entryway. I turned, surprised and hopeful, but only saw the delivery guy.

He handed me a cake box. "Mr. Julian ordered it. Requested delivery for 7 PM sharp."

Inside was a one-pound Tiramisu.

But I was lactose intolerant.