My name’s Catherine “Cat” Granger. I’m 32. I’m a journalist. I dig into the secrets of rich people. From the outside, my life was fancy parties and interviews. I lived in a nice penthouse in Chelsea, London. My husband, Julian Thorne, lived there too. He’s 35. Julian was a well-known broker in Mayfair. He was charming and good at tricking people. He had it all: a great job, good looks, and a big ego. Everyone looked up to us. They thought we were powerful and important. But they didn’t know. Under all that fake shine was a living hell. A ugly truth, you know?
Today was supposed to be special. October 5th. Our fifth wedding anniversary. Also, Julian’s 35th birthday. I turned down a big job from Vanity Fair. I spent the morning at antique shops on Portobello Road. I looked for a special gift. I picked an old pocket watch from the 1800s. It was carved well. It was a sign of our time together. I hoped it meant our future too. I also cooked a big dinner for him. He liked these dishes. I’m not a good cook, though. I lit candles everywhere. I put out a dark grey tablecloth. I set the silver knives and forks. All very formal. The chocolate cake with gold on it, he said it was the best. It sat there, very visible, on the table.
At 7 PM sharp, I put on the fancy dress Julian gave me from Italy. I sprayed his favorite scent. I sat at the table. I thought he would come home. At 8, I put on his jazz music. At 9, I texted: “My love, I’m waiting. Dinner is ready.” No reply. At 9:30, I called. Five long rings. Then voicemail. At 11:45 PM, a short email from Julian popped up. It said: “Cat, sorry. Urgent meeting. I have to fly to Geneva now. I’ll make it up. Don’t worry.” No anniversary wish. Not even a thank you. Just cold words. Like he was telling a helper what to do.
I put the phone down. The candles had almost burned out. Wax pooled on the table. The cake was still there. Untouched in the fridge. It mocked my wasted effort. I stood still in the dim dining room light. I still held the napkin I made for him. I didn’t cry. But a fierce fire of anger burned inside me. Julian had let me down before. But this time, it felt different. A huge anger. A gut feeling. It told me it was time to end this perfect lie.
The next morning, I went to work. But my mind was full of anger. All day, no message. No call from Julian. I tried calling him. It just rang and rang. Then it went to his old voicemail message. “Sorry, I’m making money for my empire. Leave a message.” It felt like I was gone from his world. Like I was invisible.
By noon, the anger grew too big. I called Julian’s office in Mayfair. His secretary, Eleanor, spoke slowly. She almost sounded sorry. “Oh, Ms. Granger… about Mr. Thorne… he quit three days ago. He didn’t leave us any contact info. We were pretty shocked.”
I stood frozen in my office hallway. The air felt thick. Hard to breathe. My heart pounded. Memories rushed back, like a movie played backward. But this time, they brought a terrible feeling of being betrayed. I understood then. This was not some urgent meeting. Julian chose to disappear. And me, his wife of five years, I was the last to know. The pain and anger hit me at once. I felt like I would explode.
After work, I rushed home. Each turn of the taxi wheel felt like fighting a storm. I unlocked our apartment door. It used to feel safe. Now, it was filled with a choking, strange quiet. My eyes went right to the shoe rack. A bright empty spot. Julian’s favorite black leather shoes, worn on our wedding day, were gone.
I yelled, my voice rough: “Julian! Where are you?! Get out here now!” Only echoes came back. They mocked how helpless I felt. I hurried to the bedroom. My heart felt like a cold hand squeezed it tight. He stood there. Next to an open Louis Vuitton suitcase. Clothes were thrown into a new Prada bag. A custom-made suit. A fancy tie. New crocodile shoes. Still with tags. Stuff he’d never wear to, like, normal meetings.
“What are you doing?!” I screamed. My voice shook. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. “Explain yourself. Now!”
Julian looked up. His eyes were cold. Distant. No feeling. Like I was some annoying stranger. “You’re back,” he said flatly. Then he kept packing. Didn’t even stop. Ignored me.
I stepped closer. A choking feeling grew. “Where are you going? What is this? You’re ruining everything!”
“I’ve taken a new job in Dubai,” he said. No emotion. Like talking about a trip. “New job, new chances, new life. A true fresh start.”
“What?! Dubai?!” I froze. My whole body is stiff. “You… you quit, moved across the world. No word to me?! After all we built? This home, our future, our promises?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, Sebastian pulled a thin folder. He put it on the vanity table. I opened it. The first page: divorce papers. I stood still. My mind raced. Like a huge electric shock.
“Julian, what is this?!” My voice broke. Almost a shriek. “Are you kidding me?”
He looked at me with cold eyes. Full of hate. “You’re not the wife I need anymore.”
“What the hell are you talking about?!” I gasped. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe what I saw. “What do you mean you don’t need me? What did I do wrong? You once said I was everything! You said we were meant to be!”
“You always put your work first,” he said. His tone was judging. Like I was a bad employee. “This apartment always smells of old newspapers and ink. Your work papers are everywhere. You only cook weekends. Not even often. You don’t care about me. You’ve gotten… dull, Cat. A shadow of yourself. Only caring about silly stories.”
I held the divorce papers tight. My nails dug deep. Blood oozed out. “I tried! You came home late every night. Said you ate. Said you were busy with ‘big deals.’ I cooked, you ignored it. I cleaned, you told me not to touch your desk. Said it was your ‘special space.’ Where you kept important papers. And now you blame me for not doing my duties?! You say I’m dull? You say I don’t care? Do you know how many career chances I gave up? Big projects in New York, in Paris. Just to keep this ‘home’ going?!?”
“Don’t bring up those small things!” he snapped. He turned his back. I looked at the closet. Like I wasn’t there. “You’re just making excuses! A real wife doesn’t need reminders. You should’ve known. Should’ve known how to please your husband! You should’ve made me the center of your world!”
I gave a bitter laugh. Tears threatened. But I held them back. I wouldn’t let him see me weak. “You talk like I sit around all day! I’m a journalist! I work hard to expose liars like you! I work. I pay half the rent for this fancy apartment. I handle all the bills. All the house stuff. But no one cooks for me. No one asks if I’m okay. And I never complained! I always tried to make you happy, Julian! You don’t know what I gave up. Just to balance everything! I gave up my whole career for this fake life!”
Julian narrowed his eyes. He looked at me like I was a hateful enemy. A problem to get rid of. “That’s your choice, Cat. I’ve made mine. My life, my path, there’s no room for you. You’re a burden.” He zipped his suitcase. I walked to the door. “I’ve rented a villa in Palm Jumeirah. I start next week. Don’t stop me. This is final. Don’t try to call me again. You’re not good enough.”
I blocked the door. My body shook. My heart felt crushed. “That’s it?! No apology?! No real reason? After five years? After all our dreams? How could you just leave everything like this?! You’re a monster!”
“I don’t owe you anything!” he said. His voice was cold and firm. So cruel it gave me chills. Then Julian shoved me hard. I lost my balance. Fell to the floor. The door clicked shut. A dry, empty sound. It echoed in the quiet apartment. Cold like a judge’s hammer. I lay there, still. Holding the divorce papers. My hands shook. I felt like I was dying in my own home.
Two days later, I got a call. From the building office. “Ms. Granger, we got a request to change the lease. The current renter, Mr. Thorne asked to end the contract. He wants you out by month’s end.”
I was stunned. “What did he say?” I asked. My voice was barely a whisper. I couldn’t believe how mean he was.
“He just left a note: ‘I don’t live there anymore. The person staying will clear out by month’s end.'” No talk. No message. Julian. He didn’t give me a chance. To talk. To understand. To mourn. He just cut off all ties. Erased me from his life. So cold. Like I never existed. Like I was a mistake.
That night, I searched Julian’s old desk drawer. I found old receipts. For all the furniture. Most things, from the sofa to the art, were in my name. The only things Julian took were his clothes. Some small tech. His fancy watch. He left like a stranger. A ghost. But that coldness. That finality. It woke me up.
I looked around the apartment. Everything was still there. Whole. Except our marriage. I didn’t sign the divorce papers right away. They sat on the coffee table for three days. Like an open wound. Not yet bleeding. Every time I walked by, I stopped. I stared. Like a reason would appear. Between the cold typed lines. But the more I looked, the clearer it got. The only reason was Julian’s cruel silence. When he left without a word.
Saturday evening, I was working. On a new report. My phone vibrated. A message. From an old college friends’ group. A 10-year reunion. At a live music bar in Shoreditch. I’d looked forward to it. Even paid a month ago. Back then, I imagined going with Julian. Hand in hand. A happy, steady couple. Among those struggling or divorced. Now, it was just me. And a deep ache. But also a strong desire to be free.
I almost didn’t go. But then, I looked in the mirror. My face was tired. But it still held some pride. Some resolve. I decided to get dressed. I chose ripped jeans. A leather jacket. Red lipstick. And I let my hair down. Not to impress anyone. Just to remind myself I was still here. I was strong enough. To walk into a crowded room. Without flinching. Without breaking.
The Old Blue Last bar was loud. Lively. Just like I remembered from college. Rock music. Glasses clinking. Old stories humming everywhere. I stepped into the noise. I felt out of place at first. Until a familiar look made me stop. “Hey, Cat!”
I turned. It was Liam. He was in my journalism class. Now a famous photographer. He had some grey hair. But his eyes were warm. Sincerely, “I almost didn’t know you,” I said.
He smiled. Handed me a cold beer. “Still the last one to show up, huh?”
We sat at a small table. Tucked in the back. Liam said he’d divorced three years ago. Raising his 8-year-old daughter alone. No bitterness. No big drama. Just quiet truths. Shared between two adults. Who’d been through tough times. He asked about Julian. I just said, “We’re getting divorced. No need for pity.” Liam nodded. Then he changed the topic. I was quietly thankful. He gave me space. To breathe. To heal.
That night, driving home. Through London’s cool autumn air. I turned on the radio. An old Alanis Morissette song played. “You Oughta Know.” The words hit me. Like a punch to the chest. A flood of memories. Cold dinners. Unread messages. And so many lies. All those years, I told myself: “Julian’s busy. He’s stressed. I should understand. I just need to try harder.” But facing the truth, I knew. I’d lived like a ghost. Always finding excuses. For someone else’s neglect.
Sunday morning, I was making coffee. My phone rang. The screen lit up. “Julian.” I waited a few seconds. Then I picked it up.
“I told the leasing office we’re ending the contract by month’s end. You should start packing,” he said. His voice was flat. Commanding. No feeling. Like I was a fired worker.
I stayed calm. His words didn’t hurt anymore. “Don’t you think you should’ve asked where I’d go? Or at least talked about this? After all these years?”
“You’re an adult, Cat. Figure it out,” he replied. Blunt. Full of scorn. “I told you. I don’t owe you anything. You’re in the past.”
I put my coffee cup down. Took a slow, deep breath. “Good. I’ll sign. I won’t disappoint you again. I’ll free us both.”
Julian stayed silent. “And don’t call me again,” I said firmly. My voice was clear. Strong. “Don’t talk to me like I still manage your house. Still take care of everything. I’m not that woman, Julian. I’ve changed. You’ve made me stronger.”
No response from him. I hung up. No hesitation.
I sat at the kitchen table. My eyes drifted to the divorce papers. Then, like closing a chapter that had long rotted, I picked up the pen. I signed my name. Not a single tremor in my hand. Not a single tear. Just clarity. A feeling of freedom. Unexpected freedom. After so many years. Clouded by fake promises.
Exactly one week after I sent the divorce papers through my lawyer, an email from Julian landed in my inbox. Around 10 PM. The subject line had just one word: “Proof.”
I opened it. Before I could read the first line, a photo jumped out. A marriage certificate. “Groom: Julian Thorne. Bride: Seraphina Dubois-Laurent.” Stamped in red. At the bottom: Dubai International Financial Centre. Date registered: exactly one day after the London court finished our divorce.
Before I could react, my phone rang. It was Julian. I picked it up. No fear. No pain anymore. Just contempt. And a little curiosity. His voice came through. Triumphant. Full of himself. It almost made me sick.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” Julian said. His tone was arrogant. “I’m remarried! My life has never been better. Totally free. Totally new. Totally the right class.”
I didn’t speak. I just listened. Deep inside, something quietly shifted. Not pain. But understanding. A chilling clarity. He was trying to provoke me. To hurt me one last time.
“Her name is Seraphina,” he went on. His voice is sickly sweet. “She’s 32. Like you. But she’s all elegance. Gentleness. And…” He paused. Clearly for my benefit. “…so beautiful you’d be jealous, Cat. Perfect beauty. No flaws. Like a Greek goddess.”
I stayed quiet. I found his shallowness amusing. Too bad a man could only measure worth by outside things.
“She’s the only daughter of the family that owns the fancy Dubois-Laurent hotel chain. Across Europe and the Middle East,” Julian bragged. His voice was full of pride. “Her parents gave us a multi-million dollar villa. In Palm Jumeirah. Overlooking the sea. And a job… Her family helped me become CEO of the Dubois-Laurent Investment Fund. A job whose size and power you could never get.”
“So that’s why you needed the divorce so fast?” I asked. My voice suddenly became sharp. Not hiding my dislike. “To marry a more powerful woman, right? Someone to make your flashy image look better?”
“Not totally,” he replied. His tone got a bit more serious. Annoyed. “I just couldn’t live with a woman who always put work first. Too ambitious. And didn’t do her wife duties. You couldn’t sacrifice for your family, Cat. You were too independent. Too strong. Too… thorny.”
I let out a small, bitter laugh. It echoed in the room. “And your new wife, she doesn’t work? She chose to take care of the home, right? She’s totally dependent on you, Julian? A perfect doll in a golden cage?”
“That’s right,” Julian said, smug. No shame. “She’s the perfect model. And we’re having a baby boy. She’s five months along. An heir for the Thorne and Dubois-Laurent families. A solid, flawless future.”
Every sentence he spoke felt like a dull knife. Cutting the last thread that tied me to that marriage. But instead of pain, I felt a hollow stillness. A chilling calm. This wasn’t the end. It was a start. His selfishness and ambition laid bare. I knew I had a secret weapon.
“Seraphina Dubois-Laurent,” I repeated the name after hanging up. I savored each sound. It sounded familiar. I opened Instagram. Typed it in. Her profile popped up. Right away. The picture showed a stunning woman. Shiny, long black hair. Deep brown eyes. A bright, perfect smile. One that could make anyone feel small. I scrolled down. Then, in the fifteenth photo, I froze.
Seraphina. She was the girl from that fancy Swiss boarding school. I was there for three years too. Back then, her name was Sarah Jensen. Not Dubois-Laurent. She was skinny. With messy, bleached blonde hair. Eyes often puffy from crying. And really bad acne. She was the most disliked kid in school. Always picked on. Shunned for her looks and shyness. I remember protecting her from cruel bullies. Listening to her cry about her dream to “become somebody. Someone beautiful. Someone important.”
No way!
I reopened the wedding photo Julian sent in the email. The bride in that picture looked like a totally different person. No trace of the old Sarah Jensen. But I remembered those deep brown eyes. That tiny mole at the corner of her left lip. She always tried to hide it. And how she always looked down. Walking through the hallway. To avoid people’s stares. How could I forget? I spent many evenings listening to her cry. About her dream to “become someone.”
I called Clara right away. My best friend is from Switzerland. “Do you remember Sarah Jensen?” I asked. My voice was fast. Trying not to show how shocked I was.
There was a pause. Then Clara burst out laughing. Her laugh was sarcastic. “Not only do I remember her, I still have a picture of her from the last prom! You know, that night she cried because no one would dance with her? Why are you suddenly bringing her up? That kid must be hiding by now, right? I heard she disappeared after graduation.”
I told her everything. About Julian. The new marriage. The villa in Palm Jumeirah. The CEO job. Clara wasn’t surprised. “Oh my god, that’s her! She changed completely after school, Cat. Moved to Paris for art. Then started her ‘transformation.’ I heard she had a series of extreme plastic surgeries – jawline, nose, eyes, breast implants, liposuction. Even full body skin bleaching. People call her Seraphina now, but her personality’s the same: quiet, calculating, and very careful about who she latches onto. She always wanted status and money, Cat. Remember? She used to say she’d do anything, even sell her soul, for a fancy life. To never be looked down on again.”
I didn’t say anything. All the puzzle pieces. They were fitting together. Painfully. Disgustingly.
“There were rumors she was involved in a scandal. With a married billionaire in Dubai. Before she ‘disappeared’ for a while. Then she came back. As Dubois-Laurent. Said she was from a noble French family,” Clara added. Her voice was cynical. “She changed her whole identity. To fit her new image. I guess she ‘leveled up,’ huh? From a shy, ugly little Sarah Jensen. To a mysterious, powerful Seraphina Dubois-Laurent. A queen of lies.”
I had no more questions. That night, I sat in my living room. Staring at Julian and Seraphina’s wedding photo. Everything in the picture sparkled. The fancy flowers. The expensive wedding dress. Her perfectly white teeth. Her bright smile. But I knew. Behind it all were layers of thick makeup. A carefully made image. And a hidden reason. A burning desire to escape her past. To get status. At any cost. And Julian, he chose that. He chose a fake life. A marriage based on lies. And shallow ambition.
One week after Julian’s bragging call, my phone rang at 3 AM. A strange number from Dubai. I hesitated. But a bad feeling came back. A strong hunch told me to answer. I picked it up. It was a hoarse, desperate voice. No smugness left.
“Cat… it’s me, Julian,” his voice trembled. Full of despair. And fear. “Seraphina… she gave birth.”
I stayed quiet. I wanted him to struggle.
“A baby girl,” he went on. His voice broke. Like glass. “But… but she doesn’t look like me or Seraphina at all. Actually, she doesn’t look like either of us. She… she has natural curly brown hair. Big green eyes. And… and a small heart-shaped birthmark behind her right ear. Just like Sarah Jensen.”
I gripped the phone. My heart pounded. A grim satisfaction mixed with a quick pity. That birthmark… I remembered it so well. It was clear proof.
“Cat, do you remember when you laughed so hard after I told you about Seraphina?” Julian asked. His voice was full of worry. And panic. Almost begging. “You knew something, didn’t you? I got a DNA test. The baby is mine. But I still don’t get it. Why does she… why does she have those features? Why doesn’t she look like us? I haven’t told anyone but you. You laughed like you knew something. Please tell me! I’m losing my mind here!”
I took a deep breath. My voice was cold. Direct. “Julian,” I said, “you made your own hell. And now, you have to face it.”
“What hell?!” Julian shrieked. His voice was full of discomfort. And extreme fear. “What are you talking about? Don’t joke, Cat! This isn’t a joke! I’m about to break!”
“Do you remember your high school graduation album, Julian?” I asked. My tone was slow. Each word cutting into him. “The album you tried to bury at the bottom of your old desk drawer. Covered in dust?”
Silence. A heavy silence on the other end. Julian was trying to remember. I could picture his face turning pale. Cold sweat on his forehead.
“I found it when I was cleaning our old apartment,” I went on. Each word is a sharp needle. Piercing his heart. “It was buried deep in your desk drawer. Covered in dust. Like you wanted to bury it. With everything from your past. The past you always hated.”
“You went through my things?!” Julian asked. His voice was full of anger. But that anger quickly turned to horror.
“No,” I stressed. “I was cleaning. Like you asked. And when I opened that album, I was shocked. A boy with tightly curled hair. Squinty eyes. Crooked teeth. And bad acne. It took me a few minutes to realize it was you, Julian. A totally different person. From the perfect man I married. A version you tried to erase from every memory. Every photo. Every story. That’s the truth about Julian Thorne.”
Sebastian slowly breathed out. A heavy sigh. Like a silent confession. “That was… that was a long time ago, Cat. I changed. I remade my life. I became a different man.”
“You changed because you felt bad about yourself,” I said. My voice turned cold. “You wanted to be better. A more perfect you, right? You wanted to climb up the social ladder. At any cost. You wanted to escape being that ugly, average kid.”
“Yes!” he shrieked. His voice was full of despair. “I wanted a life I deserved! I wanted everyone to admire me!”
“No,” I replied. My voice is sharp like a knife. Cutting through his excuses. “You changed because you wanted a new life. A fake life. You built an empire on sand, Julian. But you forgot one simple truth: genetics don’t change. You can get plastic surgery. But your DNA won’t. And that, Julian, is true for Seraphina too.”
The silence stretched. Heavy. Uncomfortable. I knew Julian was thinking. And he was slowly getting it. The painful, awful truth. He tried to hide it for so long.
“Do you think I’m ashamed of who I used to be?” he asked. His voice was hoarse. Full of weakness. And fear. “Do you think I hate myself?”
“No,” I said. My voice is now full of scorn. “I don’t think you’re ashamed. I know you hate yourself. I feel bad for an innocent child. Who will grow up with two parents. Who couldn’t be honest. You hid your past. Seraphina did too. And now you’re surprised when your daughter doesn’t look like the edited versions you both made? You think she’ll look like your new wife? Or the image you tried to create? No, Julian. She will look like Sarah Jensen. The bullied girl with curly hair and green eyes. And the heart-shaped birthmark behind her ear. She will prove both your lies!”
Julian’s voice trembled. Almost broke. Sobs mixed with his words. “No one knows, Cat, no one… but she… she will carry what’s real in you. Your blood. Your DNA. Everything you’ve tried to erase. It will be plain to see. And… and Seraphina too. My fame. My money… it’s all fake.”
I heard him breathe deeply. Like he was trying to calm down. But he failed. “What about Seraphina?” I asked. Cutting him off one last time. I wanted this game to end. “How is she? Is she taking the truth well? Or is she also going to run from her own daughter?”
Julian let out a long, defeated sigh. Full of total despair. “She… she’s in shock. She cried. Said she was tired from birth and all the changes. But do you know what’s worse, Cat? What’s worse is… she won’t hold the baby. Every time she looks at the child’s face, she turns away. Like seeing a monster. A curse. She says the baby… it reminds her of the person she tried to bury. Of the ugly, hated Sarah Jensen. Yesterday, her mom had to step in and hold the baby. Because Seraphina refused. I… I don’t know what to do, Cat. Everything… everything is falling apart. My new job in Dubai… the Dubois-Laurent Investment Fund is checking all the contracts I signed. They say I cheated. Lied to them. Lied to their own daughter! I have nothing left, Cat! I have absolutely nothing!”
Julian, yelling in despair, I heard crashing sounds through the phone: “I’ve lost everything! Do you hear me, Cat?! EVERYTHING! The villa in Palm Jumeirah, the CEO job, Seraphina… She’s threatening to tell everyone the truth about me! I’m a fraud! I did financial fraud! I used that money for plastic surgery and to build this fake life! You… you’re the only one who knows the real me! You’re the only one I can trust now!”
Cat: “Oh, so this is the real Julian Thorne? The one who always bragged about being honest and talented? A fraud, a cheat? Great. I’m an investigative journalist, Julian. Did you think I wouldn’t find out the truth about you? You messed up.”
Julian: “No! You can’t! You can’t write anything! If you expose me, everything I have will be ruined! My name, my job, everything I’ve built! I’ll never recover!”
Cat: “You destroyed everything yourself, Julian. You built an empire on lies. And now, it’s falling apart. Your daughter… She’ll grow up with a father who is a fraud. And a mother who hates her because she looks like her before surgery. That’s your punishment!”
Julian, yelling, glass shattering: “Don’t talk about the baby! Don’t talk about her! She’s proof of my failure! She’s evil! Seraphina won’t hold her! She’s throwing things! She says she’s disgusted by the baby! Do you get it, Cat?! I’m in hell! HELL!”
Cat: “You’re not scared, Julian. You’re just scared of the truth. You lived in a fake world too long. And now, that world is broken. That baby, your daughter, is a perfect mirror of what you tried to hide. That’s your lesson. You get what you give. And you, Julian, you have to learn to live with it.”
I hung up before he could say more. Then I blocked his number. I didn’t need to hear anything else. The crashing sounds from his end, his desperate screams, they marked the end of any ties we had. I was completely and painfully free. But I also felt deeply satisfied.
Almost a year after my last call with Julian, I barely remembered him. Not because I tried to forget. But because the life I built after him filled every empty space he left.
I sold the old penthouse. I moved to a smaller, cozier apartment in Notting Hill. My balcony overlooks a community garden. Full of flowers. My life now? No drama. No big twists. But it has a rhythm. Freedom. A fullness I thought I’d never have. I found peace in simple things. In being true to myself.
I kept working as a journalist. But now, I focus on stories that bring justice. Not just fame. I won several international journalism awards. My articles gave a voice to those without one. I took an Italian cooking class on weekends. I reconnected with old friends. Especially Liam. We didn’t make big promises. Just quiet afternoons. Deep talks. Simple friendship. Between two people who’d been through a lot. And who valued peace. My life, for the first time in many years, wasn’t about anyone else but me. I found true freedom.
I didn’t follow Julian anymore. But life has a strange way of telling you about people who left. One autumn afternoon, I saw Clara at an art show at the Tate Modern. After a few greetings, she leaned in. She whispered, “Have you heard anything about Julian and Seraphina?”
I shook my head slightly. Not surprised. Just a bit curious.
“Seraphina’s divorcing him, Cat,” Clara went on. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Word is Julian got caught doing money fraud at the Dubois-Laurent Investment Fund. All the money he used for his plastic surgery. And that fancy image. It all came out. The Dubois-Laurent family completely ruined his career.”
“The child?” I asked. I guessed already. But I still wanted to hear how bad it was.
“Their daughter. She’s almost three now,” Clara said. “But it gets worse, Cat.” Clara showed me a screenshot. From a friend in a parent group in Zurich. “There’s a new girl in the international kindergarten class. Her mom had full face plastic surgery. Somehow the kids found out. They started teasing her. Saying, ‘Your mom used to be ugly! Your mom’s a monster!’ The poor thing cried all week. I didn’t want to go to school. Seraphina just left the child. She’s too obsessed with being pretty. And finding a new, richer husband.”
I stared at the message. My heart sank. I didn’t care about Julian or Seraphina. But thinking of a child being bullied for things that weren’t her fault. It broke something inside me. Sadness. Anger. Even pity for an innocent soul. It was a cruel cycle. Of lies. And what happens because of them.
“Seraphina regrets having the baby,” Clara added. Her voice was full of mixed feelings. “She says the child is proof of her past. The past she tried to erase. She doesn’t want to see herself in the child. She thought the child would be beautiful like her after surgery. But now it’s clear. The girl has the original genes. It’s like a punishment. For both her and Julian. They lost everything.”
I didn’t say anything. Because, honestly, there was nothing left to say. Julian and Seraphina, they chose a life of glitter. Built on fake beauty, status, and control. But in the end, what they couldn’t hide – their past, the truth, how they treated others – that’s what showed up clearest. When they had a child. Real nature. You can’t erase it. No matter how hard you try.
I went back to my afternoon. Bought a pastry from my favorite bakery in Notting Hill. And walked home through the park. Where the golden light streamed through the trees. My life now. No drama. No big surprises. But it has a rhythm. Freedom. And a fullness. I thought I’d never have. I found peace in simple things. In being true to myself.
Sometimes, I still think about what I went through. Five years of marriage. A sudden divorce. A clear betrayal. And the truth behind that perfect makeup. But I don’t feel bitter anymore. I feel thankful. Because of that crash. It gave me a chance to be reborn. Not as someone new. But as for myself. More real. Stronger. Tougher Catherine “Cat” Granger. No deals. No avoiding things. No pretending to be okay when I wasn’t. I learned to love and accept myself.
If anyone ever asks if I’ve forgiven Julian, I’d probably smile. And say, “I don’t need to forgive anyone. I just need to live true to myself.” And for the first time in years, I can say that without thinking twice. With total confidence and peace.
Cat’s story shows. Looks can fool the world. But time and truth. They always win. When she was hurt. And left. For not being perfect. She didn’t seek revenge. Or beg for closure. She quietly left. Remade her life. Built herself up from inside. In the end, those who lived a lie. They faced what they caused. While Cat. She found freedom. Peace. And her true self. Something no money or surgery could buy.