Divorce, Design, and True Freedom

and, stood in the center of it all, a king in his castle of glass and steel, surrounded by his court of aspiring

is "social circle," a rotating cast of faces that changed with the seasons. Tonight, it was a h

rior designer, the other half of the tech mogul David Miller. But in ou

e draped an arm around a blonde named Tiffany. "Tiff needs help pi

, polished smile that never reached his eyes anymore. The girls watched me, thei

shoulder. He put his hands on my waist, his touc

h warm against my ear. "Aren' t you happy

David?" I said, my

o the living room, where the girls were now

A real shot." He then announced to the room, "Whoever gets the

ching his arm, his chest. He soaked it in, his ego i

o the night, leaving a trail of glitter and c

e wellness routines," he

. "Their welln

cally, the fertility treatments. We need to be more aggre

vasive tests, painful injections, and crushing disappointment

the docto

irls, they' re young, fertile. Any child born from this will be

supposed to not only accept it but manage it. The humiliation was a p

e purr I knew so well. He pulled me into a hug, his arms a cage. "But you' re the

that once meant the world to me

raded her around the penthouse, showing her off. Then, right in front of me, he kissed her, a deep, passionate kiss that left no room fo

corner of the penthouse that was still mine, and I drew. But not

ite, I typed up the divorce petition. I printed it, signed it, and left i

ed a bag and

I' d rented a small beach house hours down the coast, a place h

th notifications. A hundred missed calls from David. A

to call again. It

agged with fury. "You can' t just walk out on me,

oup of young men, models I had hired for a small, independent design project, were

nuine smile, maybe th

r the sounds of my new life-the music,

Who are you with

ocial circle, David," I said, echoing his own words

playfully wrestling near the

ll my husband