The One Dollar Divorce Settlement Chapter 2

It was the third day my father had sent me there for “treatment.” Treatment for my “pathological love” and my “disease” of wanting to marry a woman from the wrong side of the tracks.

Cassia had waited all night, hidden in the air ducts, until the morning nurse change. She pried open my window.

We slid down the wall on a rope woven from knotted bedsheets.

She landed hard, fracturing her elbow, but never once let go of my hand.

When we reached safety, her clothes were soaked with sweat.

She shakily grabbed my hand and pressed it against her heart. It was beating fast and heavy.

“Declan,” her eyes were bloodshot. “Listen to me. If we can get out of this place today, nothing will ever be able to separate us.”

She fumbled in her pocket, then opened her palm.

A thin, cheap silver ring, bought from a flea market stand.

“Declan, put it on me!” She looked into my eyes, enunciating every word. “I want to tell the world I’m with you because I love you, not for your money.”

“From this day on, every step we take—the good and the bad—it counts.”

My fingers trembled as I put the ring on her.

“When I have money someday, I promise I’ll replace it with the largest diamond ring in the world.”

My voice caught. I felt she deserved so much better than the shame my family was putting her through.

The sun that day was just like today, bright and blinding, shining on her young face, illuminating the fierce light in her eyes.

I thought that was forever.

...

I didn’t stay in my own office long. My assistant knocked shortly after I got back.

“Mr. Holt, this is the summary of the expense reports that were fast-tracked during your week away.”

She placed the tablet in front of me. “Specifically… Mr. Sawyer’s spending requires your review.”

I scrolled through the screen.

Customized Italian personal grooming treatments, an exclusive wellness spa retreat, an extended lease on a Ritz-Carlton suite…

Scrolling down further, my finger stopped on the last entry:

Private OB-GYN Consultation & Services…

The assistant cautiously added, “Finance said… these accounts were routed through the ‘Employee Wellness’ budget, authorized with Ms. Lane’s special approval.”

I put down my coffee cup. “Jett Sawyer. How long has he been with us?”

“Three months.”

I nodded, asking nothing else. “If Ms. Lane approved it, process the expenses as normal.”

The assistant hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of her jacket.

“Mr. Holt… I’m not sure I should say this.”

“Go on.”

“The first day you were gone, he… he had Ms. Lane with him on your chair…”

The assistant sniffled, her face flushed with discomfort. “I heard the noise when I passed. He was laughing, saying he wanted to take the thrill as far as it could go.”

I subconsciously looked over at my executive chair.

It was the one Cassia had specially ordered from Milan when we first started the company.

She’d said, “You always have lower back pain. This chair is ergonomically designed for spinal support.”

I already knew what my assistant was telling me.

Jett Sawyer was barely twenty-two.

Unlike the men who came before him—the ones who feared Cassia’s temper or losing their jobs—he was brazen, shameless. He wanted every love bite to be a close-up photo.

Why wouldn’t he want to immediately send such a stimulating ‘trophy’ to me?

Last Wednesday, at two in the morning.

I was pulling an all-nighter on a proposal in my hotel room abroad when my phone screen lit up.

A photo from an anonymous number.

The moment I opened it, I couldn’t immediately process what I was seeing.

Until I recognized it—my office.

The man, his face obscured, was straddling my chair. Cassia sat on his lap, facing him, in a compromising position.

The accompanying text message read: [It really is extra comfortable on this chair, isn’t it!]

I didn't see his face, but I knew exactly who it was.

I didn't reply.

But in that moment, the dam I had been holding back for seven years suddenly burst.

That was when I decided to return and handle the urgent business of ‘divorce’—

And she, lost in her own smugness, had no idea that the divorce papers were hidden beneath the stack of “Soho Initiative funding requests.”