The Paris Trip That Never Was
My husband booked a surprise trip to Paris. But as I was stepping into the taxi, our gardener grabbed my wrist and whispered something that made my blood run cold. What happened next revealed a truth I’d been living with for thirty-four years without even knowing it.
My name is Lorine Holloway, and I’m sixty-four years old. I live in the suburbs of Denver, in a house that I’ve carefully decorated and maintained for over three decades. Every room tells a story—the wallpaper I chose for the guest bedroom, the kitchen tiles I spent weeks deliberating over, the garden path I designed with Spencer’s help. This house is more than four walls and a roof. It’s the life I built, brick by brick, choice by choice.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
After thirty-four years of marriage to Jared Holloway, I believed I knew everything about our life together. I knew which side of the bed he preferred, how he took his coffee, the way his left eye twitched when he was frustrated but trying to hide it. I knew the rhythm of our days, the comfortable predictability of a long marriage.
But I was wrong about knowing everything.
The morning it all unraveled started like any other Thursday. I was in the kitchen, planning my grocery list for the week, when Jared came downstairs with an expression I hadn’t seen in years. He was smiling—not the tired, obligatory smile of a man going through the motions, but something brighter, almost boyish.
“Lorine,” he said, his voice carrying a cheerfulness that immediately put me on edge. “I have a surprise for you.”
I looked up from my notepad, pen still in hand. “A surprise?”
“Paris,” he announced, spreading his arms wide as if unveiling a grand prize. “A romantic getaway, just the two of us. Well, just you, actually. I thought you could use some time away. You’ve been looking tired lately.”
I hadn’t been tired. I’d been sleeping perfectly fine, walking three miles every morning, tending to my book club responsibilities, and volunteering at the community center twice a week. I felt more energetic at sixty-four than I had at fifty.
But Jared had a way of rewriting reality. He always had.
“Paris?” I repeated, trying to process this. “When?”
“Today.” His smile didn’t falter. “The flight’s this afternoon. I’ve already packed your suitcase. Everything’s arranged.”
My stomach tightened, though I couldn’t have explained why. A trip to Paris should have thrilled me. It was something I’d dreamed about for years, mentioned in passing countless times. But something about the timing, the suddenness, the way Jared kept glancing at his watch as if counting down to something—it all felt wrong.
“You’ve already packed for me?” I asked slowly.
“Of course. I know what you like. And I’ve called a few of your friends—Margaret, Susan, Dorothy—just to let them know you’ll be away for a while. Taking a well-deserved rest.”
“A while? How long is this trip?”
“Two weeks, maybe three. However long you need to relax.” His voice had that patronizing edge I’d learned to recognize over the years, the tone that said: I know what’s best for you.
But I hadn’t asked for a rest. I didn’t need one. And the fact that he’d already called my friends, already told them I was “tired,” already constructed a narrative about my state of mind without consulting me—it made something cold settle in my chest.
“Jared, I appreciate the thought, but I have commitments. The book club meeting next Tuesday, my volunteer shift—”
“All taken care of,” he interrupted smoothly. “I’ve let everyone know. They understand. You work too hard, Lorine. You deserve this.”
The word “deserve” rang hollow. In thirty-four years, Jared had never once surprised me with something purely generous, something without strings attached. His gifts always came with expectations, conditions, prices I didn’t understand until it was too late.
The pearl necklace for our anniversary that he’d used to guilt me into hosting his business partners every weekend for six months. The kitchen renovation I’d been “so ungrateful about” when I asked why he’d changed my carefully chosen tile without asking. The vacation to the Bahamas where he’d spent every evening on work calls while I sat alone on the beach, feeling more isolated than I ever had at home.
Every surprise had been a trap dressed in gift wrap.
By noon, the taxi was idling at the curb. My suitcase—the large one I used for extended trips—sat by the front door. It felt heavier than it should have for a spontaneous getaway. When had he packed it? Last night while I slept? Earlier this morning while I was in the shower?
The thought of him going through my belongings, choosing my clothes, deciding what I would need, made my skin crawl.
Jared stood too close behind me as I approached the door, his hand hovering near my back, guiding me forward with an insistence that felt less like affection and more like herding. His voice was a constant stream of directions: “Watch your step. Don’t forget your purse. The taxi’s meter is running. We need to move.”
I felt like a chess piece being pushed across a board.
That’s when I saw Spencer.
Spencer Caldwell had been our gardener for fifteen years. He was a quiet man in his late sixties, with weathered hands and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled—which wasn’t often. He spoke only when necessary, usually about mulch or pruning schedules or the best time to plant bulbs. In all those years, we’d exchanged pleasantries but never anything deeper.
He kept to himself, did his work with meticulous care, and never overstepped the boundary between employee and employer.
Until today.
Spencer was kneeling beside the winter roses, his usual post this time of year. But as I approached the taxi, he stood abruptly. Not the slow, arthritic rise of an older man, but something urgent. He walked straight toward me, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity I’d never seen before.
Before I could react, he reached out and grabbed my wrist.
“Madam,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent, “please don’t go. Trust me.”
Time seemed to stop. The weight of his hand on my wrist, the desperation in his eyes, the way he’d broken fifteen years of careful professional distance—it all screamed danger.
“Spencer!” Jared’s voice cracked like a whip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let go of my wife!”
But Spencer didn’t look at Jared. He kept his eyes fixed on mine, and in them, I saw something that chilled me: knowledge. He knew something. Something terrible.
“Please,” he whispered again, so quietly only I could hear. “Don’t get in that taxi.”
Jared was suddenly there, pulling Spencer’s hand away from my wrist, positioning himself between us like a barrier. “Go back to your work, Spencer. Now. Or you’re fired.”
Spencer stepped back, his hands raised in surrender, but his eyes never left mine. He was trying to tell me something without words, something he couldn’t say out loud.
My mind raced. What did Spencer know? Why was he risking his job to warn me? What was waiting for me if I got on that plane?
“Lorine, get in the taxi.” Jared’s voice had lost all pretense of cheerfulness. It was a command now, flat and hard.
I looked at my husband’s face—the tightness around his mouth, the hardness in his eyes, the barely contained fury directed at Spencer—and I made a decision.
I forced a smile, the same placid smile I’d perfected over thirty-four years of marriage. “Wait,” I said, turning back toward the house. “My reading glasses. I can’t sit on a plane without them. You know how my eyes get.”
Jared’s jaw clenched. “We don’t have time for this, Lorine. The flight—”
“Just one minute,” I insisted, already moving toward the door. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
I didn’t wait for permission. I walked into the house with measured steps, forcing myself not to run, not to give away the panic rising in my chest. Through the window, I could see Jared pacing beside the taxi, checking his watch, his agitation growing with every second I delayed.
I grabbed my reading glasses from the bedside table. Then I made my choice.
Instead of walking back through the front door, I slipped out the back entrance, the one that led to the garden. My heart pounded as I crossed the yard, moving as quickly as my legs would carry me without running. The guesthouse loomed ahead—a small structure we’d built twenty years ago for visiting relatives who never came.
It had been empty for years, collecting dust and forgotten memories. But today, it became my sanctuary.
I slipped inside and locked the door behind me, my hands shaking. The windows were grimy, but I could see through them well enough. I positioned myself where I had a clear view of the driveway and waited.
Through the dusty glass, I watched Jared in the driveway. He was calling my name, but there was something wrong about it. The tone was off. He sounded angry, not worried. Not frightened that his wife had disappeared. Just… frustrated. As if a plan had gone wrong, not a person gone missing.
After a few minutes, he pulled out his phone and dismissed the taxi driver. Then he made a call, speaking rapidly, his free hand gesturing sharply. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could read his body language: irritation, urgency, reassurance to whoever was on the other end.
Then he went back inside the house.
I crouched by the window, my knees protesting, my heart hammering against my ribs. Minutes crawled by. The afternoon light shifted, casting long shadows across the yard.
About an hour later, a dark-colored car rolled into our driveway.
It was sleek and expensive-looking, with tinted windows so dark I couldn’t see who was inside. No license plate on the front. It moved slowly, deliberately, as if the driver knew exactly where they were going.
Two people got out.
The first was a stranger—a man in his forties, casually dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. He had an ordinary face, the kind you’d forget five minutes after seeing it. But the way he moved, the way his eyes scanned the property with practiced efficiency, told me this wasn’t his first time entering someone else’s home uninvited.
The second person made my breath catch in my throat.
Marcus Dalton.
Marcus was supposedly Jared’s “old friend” from college. They’d reconnected five years ago at a reunion, and since then, Marcus had become a regular fixture in our lives. He came to dinner parties, brought expensive wine, laughed at Jared’s jokes, and called me “Lorine darling” as if we were family.
I’d never liked him. There was something oleaginous about Marcus, something that made me want to wash my hands after shaking his. But Jared valued his friendship, so I’d tolerated his presence, smiled through his visits, and pretended not to notice the way he and Jared would sometimes stop talking when I entered a room.
Marcus was carrying a hard black briefcase. Not a briefcase for documents or a laptop—this was something else. It was the kind of case you’d use for tools, or equipment, or things you didn’t want damaged.
It was the kind of case you didn’t bring when visiting an old friend for a casual chat.
Jared met them at the door, speaking quickly, his voice too low for me to hear. He looked up and down the street before ushering them inside, his movements furtive, anxious. He didn’t want the neighbors to see.
The three of them disappeared into the house.
I pressed myself closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass. For several minutes, nothing happened. Then I saw movement behind the living room curtains—shadows shifting, someone moving furniture or reaching for something.
There was a sound. Sharp and metallic. Like something being scraped against tile, or metal against metal. Brief but distinct.
Then, through a gap in the curtains, I saw something that made my blood run cold.
Marcus was placing something behind the cluster of family photos on our mantelpiece. Something small, black, and deliberate. A device of some kind. He adjusted it carefully, tested something on his phone, then nodded to Jared.
The stranger was doing something similar near the bookshelf, his movements quick and practiced.
They were bugging the house.
Installing surveillance equipment in my home, in the place where I lived and breathed and had private conversations and moments I thought were mine alone.
My hands clenched into fists. The pieces started falling into place, sharp and jagged, cutting through the fog of confusion.
Paris wasn’t a gift. It was a way to get me out of the house.
To remove me while they did… what? Planted listening devices? Searched through my belongings? Staged something?
And for how long had this been planned? Jared had called my friends, arranged the trip, packed my suitcase, booked the flight—all without my input. All designed to move me exactly where he wanted me, exactly when he wanted me there.
Like a pawn on a chessboard.
I thought about all the times Jared had encouraged me to go visit my sister in California. The weekend trips he’d suggested to see old friends. The spa retreat he’d gifted me last year “just because.” Every time he’d created distance between me and this house, this life.
Had he done this before? Had there been other strangers, other devices, other invasions I’d never known about?
The black car stayed for nearly two hours. When Marcus and the stranger finally left, Jared walked them to their car, shaking hands, clapping Marcus on the shoulder like they’d just closed a successful business deal.
Then Jared came back inside, and I watched him pick up his phone again.
I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I could see his face through the window. He looked relieved. Satisfied. He was probably calling the airline, canceling my ticket, coming up with a new story to explain why I’d “decided not to go” after all.
Would he tell people I’d changed my mind? That I’d been unreasonable? That I was having some kind of episode?
The sun was setting by the time Jared’s car finally pulled out of the driveway. He’d changed clothes—dressed for dinner out, probably establishing an alibi, making himself visible to others while I was supposedly missing or traveling or whatever story he’d concocted.
Only then did I finally leave the guesthouse.
My legs were stiff from crouching, my mouth dry from fear and adrenaline. I crossed the yard in the gathering darkness, every shadow making me jump. When I reached the main house, I stood at the threshold, staring at the home I’d lived in for thirty-four years.
It looked the same. The porch light glowed warm and welcoming. The wreath I’d hung last week still decorated the front door. Everything was exactly as I’d left it.
Except now I knew it was contaminated. Invaded. No longer safe.
I couldn’t go back inside. Not yet. Not until I understood what I was dealing with.
Instead, I walked to the garden, where Spencer was still working despite the fading light. He was cleaning his tools, preparing to leave for the day. When he saw me, he froze.
“Mrs. Holloway,” he said quietly. “Thank God.”
“How did you know?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Spencer glanced toward the house, then gestured for me to follow him to the far corner of the property, away from any windows, any possible surveillance.
“I’ve been working here fifteen years,” he said once we were hidden behind the garden shed. “I’ve seen things. Small things. Heard things I wasn’t supposed to hear.”
“What things?”
“Your husband’s visitors. The ones who come when you’re not home. The conversations that stop when I get too close. Last week, I was trimming the hedges near the study window. I heard Mr. Holloway on the phone, talking about ‘timing’ and ‘removing obstacles’ and ‘executing the plan.'” Spencer’s weathered face was grave. “Then today, I overheard him telling someone that you’d be gone by afternoon. That the house would be empty. That they’d have time to ‘set everything up.'”
My legs felt weak. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I almost did, a dozen times. But what could I say? That I’d overheard fragments of conversations? That I had a bad feeling? You might have thought I was crazy. Or worse, you might have told Mr. Holloway, and then…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t risk it. But when I saw that taxi this morning, and the way he was pushing you toward it, I knew I had to do something.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Spencer, thank you.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
That was the question, wasn’t it? What could I do? Go to the police and tell them my husband had installed surveillance equipment in our own home? They’d probably say it was a domestic matter, that he had every right to install security systems in his own house.
I looked down at my wrist, where Spencer’s grip had left a faint red mark. A mark that would fade by morning, just like all the other small hurts I’d accumulated over thirty-four years. The dismissals. The condescensions. The times my opinion had been overruled, my concerns minimized, my instincts questioned.
I’d spent three decades telling myself that this was just how marriage worked. That compromise meant accepting Jared’s way of doing things. That being a good wife meant not making waves.
But standing there in the twilight, hidden behind a garden shed like a fugitive in my own yard, I finally understood the truth.
I hadn’t been compromising. I’d been disappearing.
Piece by piece, choice by choice, year by year, I’d allowed myself to be erased. To become a character in Jared’s story instead of the author of my own.
And today, he’d tried to write me out completely.
“I’m going to leave,” I said aloud, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “I’m going to pack a real suitcase—my own choices—and I’m going to leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“My sister’s in California. She’s been asking me to visit for years. Jared always said it wasn’t a good time.” I laughed, a bitter sound. “It’s a perfect time now.”
Spencer nodded slowly. “Do you need help? Getting your things?”
“No. But thank you.” I touched his arm gently. “For everything. For seeing what I couldn’t see. For being brave enough to warn me.”
“We look out for each other,” Spencer said simply. “That’s what decent people do.”
Decent people. Such a simple phrase, but it contained an entire philosophy I’d forgotten: that you don’t have to accept mistreatment just because it comes from someone you’re supposed to love.
That evening, I went back into the house. I walked through each room, looking at it with new eyes. The hidden devices Marcus had planted. The life I’d built that had never really been mine. The beautiful cage I’d decorated myself.
I went to our bedroom and packed a suitcase—my own choices this time. Comfortable clothes. My favorite books. The jewelry my mother had left me. Documents I’d need: birth certificate, social security card, bank statements I’d secretly started reviewing over the past year when I’d first sensed something was wrong.
I’d been preparing for this without even knowing it. Some part of me had been waiting for the moment when I’d finally have to choose: stay and be erased, or leave and be myself.
Before I left, I found the devices. There were four of them: one behind the family photos, one near the bookshelf, one in our bedroom, and one in my small home office. I left them exactly where they were.
Let Jared wonder where I’d gone. Let him listen to the empty house. Let him hear the silence of a woman who’d finally stopped playing her assigned role.
I left no note. What could I say that wouldn’t sound like either pleading or accusation? Instead, I simply left. I walked out the front door with my suitcase, got into my own car, and drove away from the only life I’d known for thirty-four years.
As I pulled out of the driveway, I saw Spencer in my rearview mirror, standing by the winter roses. He raised one hand in farewell. I raised mine in return.
Two weeks later, I was in my sister’s sunny kitchen in San Diego, drinking coffee and watching the ocean through her window, when my lawyer called. The surveillance devices had been logged as evidence. Jared’s financial records were being subpoenaed. Marcus Dalton was under investigation for a list of things my lawyer hadn’t wanted to detail over the phone.
“He’s going to fight this,” my lawyer warned. “He’ll say you’re overreacting. That you’re unstable. That this is all a misunderstanding.”
“Let him,” I said calmly. “I have thirty-four years of misunderstandings documented. And I’m not afraid anymore.”
Because that’s what I’d finally learned: the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s clarity.
For three decades, I’d loved Jared through a fog of confusion, self-doubt, and carefully maintained denial. I’d loved the man I thought he was, or the man he claimed to be, or the man I hoped he’d become.
But love without clarity is just a beautiful word for captivity.
Now, sitting in my sister’s kitchen with the Pacific breeze coming through the open window, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: free. Free to make my own choices. Free to trust my own instincts. Free to leave conversations that diminished me and relationships that caged me.
Free to be Lorine Holloway—not someone’s wife, not someone’s project, not someone’s obstacle to be removed.
Just myself. Finally, completely, courageously myself.
The road ahead wouldn’t be easy. Divorce never is, especially after thirty-four years. There would be legal battles and financial negotiations and moments when I’d doubt my decision. Moments when the familiar, even if painful, would seem safer than the unknown.
But every time I felt that doubt creeping in, I’d remember three things:
Spencer’s hand on my wrist, risking everything to warn me.
The black briefcase and the devices hidden in my home.
And the question that had haunted me ever since: if I’d gotten on that plane to Paris, what version of myself would have come back? Or would I have come back at all?
Some traps are baited with romance. Some with concern. Some with the promise of rest or escape or the gift you’ve always wanted.
But they’re all still traps.
And the greatest gift I’d ever received wasn’t a trip to Paris.
It was a gardener’s courage. A whispered warning. A chance to choose myself.
I took it.
And I’ve never looked back.
THE END
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
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