IRISH LOVESTORY - Suzanne

 

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Suzanne

Jack would have done anything for his new business—nothing was off-limits, no line too thin to cross. Around that time, he became acquainted with an influential, older woman named Suzanne. I had never met her in person, yet her name began surfacing in our conversations with an unsettling frequency. She was the wife of an Indian billionaire, and to Jack, she was a prize worth pursuing. Every mention carried a calculating gleam in his eye. He insisted it was all business necessity, that winning her favor was crucial—but I could see the pattern clearly: his hunger for wealth had a way of swallowing reason, decency, everything.

To Suzanne, Jack was a handsome, pliable plaything—someone to flaunt before friends over drinks, a token of charm and influence. He confessed he had accompanied her a few times, swearing the encounters were degrading, that he had resisted the urge to run. Yet the obsession persisted. I could not fathom the source of this relentless drive, this willingness to trample over anything—or anyone—in pursuit of success. It was the same scheme I had witnessed before: Jack chasing a prize, a golden opportunity, with no thought for the cost.

“Suzanne has connections, and, more importantly, money. If you saw her, you wouldn’t be jealous, trust me,” he reassured me, again and again, as if repetition could somehow make it easier to swallow.

But his obsession with opportunity had a way of clouding everything else. When Suzanne invited him to the Rose of Tralee, Ireland’s most prestigious festival, I gave him permission to go—not that my consent ever mattered. He would have gone regardless. I stayed behind, counting the hours, the minutes, until his return, trying not to imagine the worst.

“You won’t believe what Suzanne tried on me,” he announced, triumphant, as he pushed through the door.

“She touched me under the table, but I pushed her hand away,” he said, as if this defiance were a badge of honor, a story of moral victory rather than impropriety.

I neither wanted nor dared to imagine what had really transpired. The room felt smaller, tighter, as if the air itself had been compromised by the truth he refused to name. My chest ached—not with anger, but with the helplessness of watching him pursue the world while leaving me to wrestle with the shadows it cast.

The breaking point came later, when my mother and sister arrived in Ireland for a holiday. I had asked Jack to care for them while I worked: drive them, make them comfortable, and, at the very least, refrain from smoking in their presence. I expected some small diligence, a basic courtesy—but what unfolded tested my patience more than I had anticipated.

To his credit, he collected them from the airport and entertained them for a few days, charming them with his quick wit and knowledge of Ireland. He even suggested a family trip to Mayo, his mother’s birthplace, so they could glimpse the “real” Ireland and meet his relatives. The idea delighted me; I thought perhaps, for a moment, that Jack could be dependable, that he could inhabit this role of caring host without incident.

We set off for the west coast, staying in two adjacent rooms at a stately eighteenth-century hotel. The grounds were magnificent, sprawling, and steeped in history. Neatly trimmed lawns and small garden patches framed the building, the kind of place that invited quiet reflection. My mother and sister wandered happily, marveling at every detail, while I secretly relished the thought of a temporary escape from the relentless workdays.

But Suzanne would not let go. Her presence, though invisible, was oppressive. She called incessantly, interrupting lunches with shrill insistence, intruding on car rides with questions and demands that Jack answer immediately. It mattered little that he was surrounded by my family, that we were supposed to be enjoying rare, unbroken hours together—perhaps her audacity made it all the more intoxicating for him. And Jack, ever seduced by the promise of future wealth, never found the courage to end her calls, never set boundaries, never even tried.

Eventually, I had no choice but to explain the situation to my mother, who observed the pattern with a quiet, appraising eye. She found his obsession with Suzanne baffling, unsettling, almost unnatural. I could not deny it myself—the way Jack’s attention fractured, pulled toward someone who existed only as ambition, as opportunity, as a game to be won. The juxtaposition of my family’s warmth against Suzanne’s intrusion made every moment tense, every smile strained. I realized, with reluctant clarity, that this was not merely a distraction—it was a reflection of the man I had chosen to love, and the price we all paid for his dreams.

A few days later, Jack insisted I meet her. He tried to reassure me that Suzanne posed no threat, that I had nothing to fear. Reluctance warred with curiosity, and I agreed. We arranged to meet all together—Jack, Suzanne, Gary, my mother, my sister, and I—at Leverett’s pub during the day.

Suzanne was diminutive, overdressed, over-perfumed, and clingy in a way that made my skin crawl. Time and again, I brushed her hand from my shoulder, yet her boldness seemed endless, unnervingly self-assured. I could not fathom why Jack thought it wise—or necessary—to parade her in front of me.

The breaking point came late one night, close to midnight. The doorbell rang sharply, slicing through the quiet of the apartment. From my room, I could hear Suzanne’s voice—and Pete’s—making themselves at home downstairs, speaking as if the apartment belonged to them. My mother and sister slept in their rooms, and a flash of protectiveness surged through me. I had to restore order.

I stormed out, shouting for Jack to throw them out immediately. Instead, he cornered me in our bedroom, leaning far too close, shouting in my face that Suzanne was his guest and would not be asked to leave. The room shrank around us, his anger and insistence pressing in. My mother emerged, alarmed by the commotion, and immediately sided with me. One might have expected Jack to temper himself, but he only grew louder. Below, I heard Suzanne and Pete muttering, finally preparing to leave. I rushed to the window and, as she fled in her glittering stilettos, hurled one last volley of insults. That was the last I saw of her.

My mother told me I should leave, to get away from him and take back my life. I knew she was right. I wanted to listen. I wanted to just walk out. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up on the relationship I’d worked so hard for—not like that, not while I still cared for him. So instead I curled up alone on the living room couch, tears streaming down my face. From the radio drifted Listen to Your Heart by Roxette, its lyrics embedding themselves in my chest, each word resonating like prophecy.

In that moment, I convinced myself I had to stay until the end. I could not walk away from the battlefield I had entered willingly, the love I had invested so completely. Everything I held dear seemed to hinge upon this struggle. I thought I was fighting for love. Only later would I understand: this was the beginning of the fight to love myself.