Yes, that was the word.
Eric’s occasional texts became increasingly desperate—pleading, then threatening, then pleading again. I blocked him without hesitation.
Three months later, my second boutique location opened to overwhelming success. I displayed framed photos of the grand opening on my office wall—right next to a printed screenshot of Eric’s original text: Have fun with your little shop.
Oh, I was.
A full year passed before I saw Eric again. Not in person—just in a mutual friend’s social media post. He looked older, heavier, somehow defeated. He was standing in front of a used-car lot with a banner that read Now Hiring! as if advertising his availability. Someone commented that he’d taken a job “below his skill level.” Others whispered about mounting debt.
Meanwhile, my third boutique location launched in the city. The event drew local press, fashion bloggers, and young entrepreneurs. One of them—a polished blonde named Marissa—asked me about balancing marriage and business.
“Never merge finances without understanding the risks,” I told her. “And keep records. Good records.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me: Eric’s downfall had accidentally made me a respected voice in women’s business circles.
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