The First Letter

My Dearest Jake,

I hope this letter finds you and the kids doing well. How is everything back home? Has Alex finally worked up the courage to float on his back without clinging to you? And is Annie still raiding the pantry for her rocket-building materials? I miss all the beautiful chaos of our life—sticky fingers, bedtime giggles, and even the mess in the living room. Nothing here comes close to that kind of warmth.

This island is stunning, almost like stepping into another world. The water is a perfect blue, the sand feels like silk, and the sunsets stretch out forever, painting the sky in colors that don’t seem real. It should be paradise, but it doesn’t feel like it. Everything about this place—the people, the atmosphere, even the air—feels too polished, too rehearsed, like it’s all for show.

I need to tell you something strange. There’s a spa here, one Richard insisted I visit, part of his whole image-obsession thing. He said it would help me “enhance” myself for the conference crowd. I went along with it—honestly, I wasn’t sure what else to do. It started off normal enough: massages, facials, the usual. But then they suggested hypnosis as a way to “relax and align my mind.” I don’t know how to explain it, Jake, but ever since, I’ve felt…off. A little unsteady, like I’m not fully myself. To make it worse, they’ve been giving me some sort of hormonal treatments as part of this so-called enhancement program. I didn’t know how to say no at the time, but now I wish I had. It’s not sitting right with me, in more ways than one.

And then there’s Richard. I don’t even know where to start with him. He thrives in this shallow, high-stakes world, but the way he talks to me—about me—makes my skin crawl. He has this way of dismissing everything I say, like when I was telling someone about you and the kids at dinner, and he cut me off mid-sentence, saying, “Let’s keep it relevant, Lori.” And when I tried to talk about something that actually mattered to me, he brushed it aside, muttering something about how “people are only interested in what’s useful.” It’s like I’m not even a person to him, just a prop to help him close his deals.

The suite we’re staying in is absurdly grand, but don’t worry—I’m sleeping on the couch. It’s uncomfortable and far from ideal, but it’s better than the alternative. Richard keeps saying that sharing the suite is “good for optics,” but I made it clear from the beginning that there’s a line he’s not crossing. Still, being around him so much, especially in close quarters, isn’t easy. He has a way of making every moment feel like a power play, and it’s exhausting.

I know this trip is supposed to be an opportunity for us, for our family’s future, but there’s a weight to all of it that’s hard to carry. I keep thinking about you and the kids, about the life we’ve built together, and it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. I miss you all more than I can say.

Please give the kids an extra squeeze from me, and tell them I’ll be home soon. I can’t wait to be back where I belong—with you.

All my love,

Lori