Back then, John was a different man. To court me, he'd commuted between cities by helicopter every single day for three years. When the Weiss family disapproved, he stripped himself of his title as heir and followed me to Riverdale. Ignoring the ridicule of his peers, he worked construction, hauling steel pipes until his shoulders were raw, just to save enough for a diamond ring.
Even when I rejected his proposal and tried to break things off, he stood outside my apartment building for a year. Rain or shine, he waited—just to catch a single glimpse of me.
When I finally agreed to marry him and move to Harbor City, he bought a billion-dollar estate so I'd feel secure. When the tabloids branded me a gold digger, John stood before the cameras and declared to the world, "I was the one who begged her to marry me."
After the wedding, he treated me like royalty. I thought he was different. I thought happiness would last forever.
The illusion shattered on our fourth anniversary.
I'd spent days preparing Buddha Jumps Over the Wall—his favorite—and brought it to his office as a surprise. Instead of celebration, I walked in to find him and his secretary naked, entwined, kissing on the couch.