Chapter 17 - The Museum of Julian
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I wiped my face, closed the photo album, and shoved it into the moving box. I could not afford to break down. Not yet.
By evening, the movers had finished. The truck was loaded and idling in the driveway, waiting for my final sweep.
I walked through the house one last time. The contrast was jarring, almost surreal. My side of the master closet was completely bare, stripped down to the drywall. Harrison’s vibrant, colorful bedroom was an empty, echoing box.
But everything belonging to Julian remained exactly where he had left it that morning.
His expensive, tailored suits hung in perfect, undisturbed rows in the closet. His collection of vintage Rolex watches sat gleaming in their glass display case on the dresser. His prized bottles of imported red wine remained untouched in the climate-controlled cellar. His custom golf clubs leaned casually by the back door.
I was leaving his entire world perfectly intact. I was creating a museum dedicated to Julian’s vanity and arrogance.
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He would return from Aspen expecting to find a warm house, a hot dinner, and a wife eager to hear fabricated stories about his Tokyo boardroom triumphs. Instead, he would walk into a hauntingly silent tomb. He would find his possessions perfectly preserved, but the soul of the house—the wife he took for granted and the son he lied to—completely erased from existence.
I stood in the center of the living room, pulling my heavy winter coat tight around my shoulders. The Christmas tree was still glowing brightly in the corner, illuminating the empty spaces where our lives used to intersect.
