Part 4

I touched the silk. There was nothing wrong with it. It was beautiful. Exactly as I had imagined. And now it felt unbearable. I placed the sketch beside our wedding photograph. For years, I had believed that the occasional grand gesture could excuse long periods of neglect. But I had not merely neglected Isabelle. I had taken the moments meant for her and offered them elsewhere. I opened the sixth box. Inside was a folded calendar page. Seven consecutive days had been marked in blue ink. Beside each date, Isabelle had written the same two words. Come home. My breath caught. I recognized the dates immediately. They were the seven days I had just spent in Rome. A week earlier, Isabelle had approached me in my study. I had been reviewing schedules for the upcoming trip. She stood at the doorway for a few seconds before speaking. "Gabriel, could you stay home next week?" I barely glanced up. "Why?" "I need you here." "What happened?" "Nothing happened." "Then what is it?" She sat across from me. "I just need us to have some time together." I remember sighing. "Isabelle, I can't rearrange an entire week because you suddenly want company." Her expression changed. "I'm not asking for a vacation."

"Then what are you asking?" "Seven days." I looked at her. "Seven days?" "Just one week at home. No trips. No late dinners. No disappearing into your office every night." I leaned back. "That's impossible." She folded her hands. "Even if I told you next week was important?" "Everything is important to you lately." She flinched. I noticed. I simply chose not to care. "Gabriel, I'm trying to talk to you." "And I'm trying to work." "Please." Something about that word irritated me. I felt accused even though she had accused me of nothing. "Isabelle, I'm not participating in another loyalty test." She stared at me. "What?" "You keep asking whether I love you, whether I'm coming home, whether I'm spending enough time with you. It's exhausting." She became very still. I went on. "I have responsibilities. You can't expect me to prove myself every time you feel insecure." She lowered her eyes. For several seconds, neither of us spoke. Then she said, "All right."

I returned to my schedule. I did not ask why she had wanted those seven days. I did not follow her. I did not notice that she stood in the doorway for one last moment before leaving. Now I understood. She had given me a choice. She had not described it as an ultimatum. She had not threatened to leave. She had simply asked for one week. One week out of fifteen years. And I had refused. The sixth box contained one more item. A sheet of paper folded around the calendar. On it, Isabelle had written: "I wasn't asking you to cancel your life. I was asking whether there was still a place for me inside it." I bent forward. My elbows rested on my knees. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I cried. Not the restrained tears I had shed at public memorials while cameras were present. Not the sentimental emotion that sometimes came during an award speech. These tears were ugly and uncontrollable. I pressed my palms against my face. Because I could suddenly see those seven days from Isabelle's side. Day One. I had been in Rome enjoying dinner with Camille. Isabelle had been alone in our bedroom, sorting old train tickets. Day Two. I had attended private meetings, then spent the evening drinking wine with my mistress. Isabelle had been holding the receipt from the first apartment where we once believed being together was enough. Day Three. Camille and I had wandered through expensive boutiques. Isabelle had been holding the scissors she used when our future depended on both of us. Day Four. I had arranged a private dinner. Isabelle had been staring at our wedding photograph. Day Five. Camille had asked whether I would ever leave my marriage. Isabelle had folded the ivory silk from the dress I gave another woman. Day Six. I had told Camille I would figure everything out eventually. Isabelle had looked at seven empty days on a calendar. And Day Seven. I had kissed Camille goodbye, still believing I could return home and find my wife exactly where I left her. I looked toward the final box. But I did not open it. Not yet. My phone vibrated. Camille. A message appeared. "Did you get home safely? I miss you already." I stared at it. Only a few hours earlier, those words would have pleased me. Now they made me feel sick. Another message arrived. "Gabriel? Everything okay?" I typed a response. Then erased it. I considered telling her that Isabelle had disappeared. But something stopped me. I had spent nine months allowing Camille to believe my marriage was merely an inconvenient attachment to my public life. I had also spent nine months convincing myself that Camille was responsible for the distance between Isabelle and me. Neither explanation was true. I had made every decision. I had lied. I had betrayed. And I had enjoyed being admired by two women while giving neither the complete truth. I put my phone down. Then I called Isabelle again. Voicemail. I tried once more. The same result. "Isabelle," I said after the tone, my voice cracking, "I found the boxes." I waited. "I watched part of the video." Another silence. "I don't know what to say." That was the first honest sentence I had spoken all evening. "I thought I knew what our marriage was. I thought..." I stopped. Because I had thought of our marriage as something that existed for my convenience. A home to return to. A familiar voice. A woman who would forgive whatever I did because she had always forgiven me before. "I'm sorry," I whispered. The words sounded painfully inadequate. I ended the call. Then I returned to the tablet. Isabelle appeared again. She was sitting at the foot of our bed. Her face was pale, but there was a strange calmness in her expression. "Gabriel, there is something I need to tell you about those seven days." She took a slow breath. "I didn't spend that week deciding whether I still loved you." I felt my entire body tense. "I spent it accepting that loving you was no longer enough to keep me here." Then she looked directly into the camera. "And there is one final thing you need to see before you open the seventh box."

PART 4: THE TRUTH THAT MONEY COULD NOT ERASE The video returned to our first apartment. I recognized the kitchen table immediately. It was covered in fabric, sketches, and cups of coffee. The camera stood somewhere near the window. Isabelle and I were sitting close together. I was younger, exhausted, and smiling. She was holding my hand. "Gabriel," she said in the recording, "what happens if all of this actually works?" I laughed. "What do you mean?" "What happens if you become successful? Really successful?"

I looked around the tiny apartment. "We'll get a bigger place." "And if you become famous?" "I'll buy you everything you've ever wanted." She shook her head. "That isn't what I'm asking." I turned toward her. "What are you asking?" She hesitated. "What happens to us?" I remember answering without thinking. "Nothing." She smiled. "Nothing?" "Nothing important." I squeezed her hand. "We'll still be us." She studied my face. "Promise?" I leaned forward and kissed her. "I promise." The screen froze on that moment. My younger self was smiling at a woman who believed him completely. I felt something inside me collapse. I had remembered being ambitious. I had remembered wanting recognition. I had remembered every important contract, every collection that sold out, and every public achievement. But I had forgotten how certain I once was that Isabelle mattered more than any of it. The video changed.