He Broke My Heart, My Family Broke His Empire Chapter 02

He Broke My Heart, My Family Broke His Empire Chapter 02

Julian and I met at Harvard. We dated for four years.

He was the quintessential Boston Brahmin. The Ashworth name was a passport in itself. And I was, in his words, the “little wildcat from Texas.” I had a raw vitality he seemed to both despise and crave. He never outright rejected the women who flocked to him, just smiled and told me he liked seeing me jealous.

Over those four years, my insecurity festered. I became a cornered animal, guarding against every woman who came near him, my reactions growing more extreme each time.

On graduation day, I proposed.

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned against the railing by the Charles River and lit a cigarette, the smoke blurring his handsome, distant face.

“Clara, I’m not ready to settle down,” he said slowly. “We can get married. You’ll be Mrs. Ashworth. But you have to accept that there will be other women. It’s the norm in our circle.”

Naively, I thought he was joking.

I thought it was just cold feet.

Until the sixth day of our marriage.

I found him with a blonde in our marital bed, in our Beacon Hill home. When Julian saw me, he didn’t even pause. A smile flickered across his face—half the thrill of being caught, half pure cruelty.

I lost my mind. I screamed and smashed everything I could get my hands on. It wasn’t a Boston-style silent protest. It was pure, unadulterated Texas fury.

The terrified woman called the police.

The next day, Julian’s name and mine appeared together in the society pages of *The Boston Globe*, not the finance section.

From that day on, to “tame” my “Texas wildness,” Julian invented his annual game: the Nantucket Thanksgiving invitation.

After I tearfully recounted the story to my brother over the phone, Wyatt made me a deal.

If, after five years, Julian still refused to take me to Nantucket, Wyatt would come to Boston, drag me home, and make the Ashworths pay for every humiliation.

At the time, I didn’t think it would come to that.

The first year, the chosen woman was some unknown actress. Julian took her to the century-old family estate in Nantucket. The door that opened for her remained firmly shut to me. I waited all night for him in the first snow of winter, only to end up in the hospital with a fever.

The second year, it was a professor. Julian posted a family photo on Instagram. She stood beside his mother, smiling, looking for all the world like the true lady of the house. I sat alone with a cold pizza, crying until I could barely breathe.

After that, I even went to the Old North Church and prayed like a fool that next year, it would be me.

The third year, the fourth year…

Until this year. The fifth.

The chosen woman still wasn’t me.

I had become a joke in Boston’s high society. A cautionary tale about the girl who thought she could trade Texas grit for Boston respectability.

I was done.

I no longer wanted to be an Ashworth.

I picked up my phone. My fingertips slid across the cold screen as I opened the chat with my brother.

“Wyatt, come get me. And hurry. I still can’t stand Boston clam chowder.”