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I was proud of what I'd accomplished.

Unfortunately, my personal life hadn't fared nearly as well.

Turns out you could successfully restructure a multibillion-dollar corporation and still be blindsided by a man who couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

I’d almost gotten my perfect rom-com ending: high school sweethearts reunited at our ten-year reunion, two ambitious people ready to build an empire together. I genuinely thought I’d be the one gliding down a rose-petal aisle. I’d had it all mapped out, like a quarterly budget meeting.

He was charming, successful, ambitious.

So was I.

We were going to be one of those power couples who appeared in magazines looking effortlessly in love while discussing investment portfolios.

We'd even gone engagement ring shopping. Not officially, of course. Just browsing. Which, in hindsight, was a lot like calling a house fire a minor heating issue.

The following week, I came home early from work to surprise my boyfriend.

Surprise.

He was in our bed.

With his twenty-year-old assistant.

Serene.

Not Serena.

Serene.

A distinction she made very clear while scrambling to locate her underwear.

Marvin Gaye was playing through the speakers, and porno was running silently on the television.

Apparently, Kenny believed in multimedia experiences.

For one surreal second, I'd stood in the doorway wondering if I'd accidentally entered someone else's condo.

Then he'd looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Kayla?! What are you doing here?!” Like I was the one who'd shown up somewhere I didn't belong.

What followed was an impressive display of emotional gymnastics. According to Kenny, he'd cheated because I worked too much. Traveled too often. Because he was lonely.

I told him to get out of my apartment and hadn’t spoken to him since.

Unless you counted the airplane he'd hired to skywrite, I'M SORRY, I LOVE YOU, DIMPLES.

Which I didn't.

Public humiliation was not a love language.

I exited the highway and the screen on my dashboard lit up with a text.

Julissa: Don’t forget to text me as soon as you get here!

I frowned.

I didn't forget things. Not appointments, names, or conversations. I could still remember the names of my kindergarten teacher's sister and grandmother, who'd visited our classroom exactly once.

Some people called my memory photographic. I'd never been tested, so I wasn't making the claim.