I just arrived in Majorca, Spain, dreams of paella, sangria and long overdue sex on my mind. I’d been working round the clock on some stupid merger for three months. I’d barely seen my fiancée for weeks—and she was seconds away from returning the expensive ring I’d just bought for her. So I planned a two-week trip to Spain (with the partner’s prior consent) to reconnect with the woman of my dreams—and my humanity.
First stop: Majorca. We arrived at 6 am Saturday morning. I was overwhelmed by the beauty, the tranquility, the lack of noise… The hotel was even more beautiful than the website suggested. We stepped into the lobby, smiling ear-to-ear, uttering I love you’s all over the place. Until the woman at the front desk told me I had a message waiting for me from a Mr. Pell, i.e., the partner in charge of the merger deal from hell. My heart started thumping, as my fiancée’s voice began to tremble. “Whatever you do, don’t call him back. Please. Just ignore it.” But I couldn’t. I had to know what he wanted. Maybe he just needed a question answered—or just wanted to say “hi.” Nope. He wanted me to get on a plane and return to New York right away. Deal had just gone haywire. All hands on deck. When I broke the news, my fiancée—er, ex-fiancée—started crying. We then got back in the cab, drove to the airport and flew home. She moved out nine days later.
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