That night, I almost did what I had always done.
I almost stayed quiet.
For eight years, I let Everett believe I was simply his wife — someone who arranged dinner parties, stayed home, and “dabbled” in creative pursuits. If anyone asked what I did, he’d smile politely and say, “She prefers a quieter life.”
What he never understood was that I owned the company he was climbing.
Meridian Harbor Group — the logistics and hospitality empire he bragged about conquering — was a subsidiary of a holding corporation controlled by me. My grandfather had left me the majority stake. I expanded it quietly, carefully, deliberately. Shipping contracts along the West Coast. Boutique resorts in Southern California. Tech investments in Seattle and Austin.I never told Everett.
When we met in Savannah eight years ago, he was earnest. Ambitious in a grounded way. He talked about building something meaningful, not about corner offices or titles. I wanted to be loved for my laugh, for my love of poetry, for the way I sang off-key in the car.
Not for a balance sheet.
But success reshaped him.
