The first thing I noticed when I opened the office door was the junior analyst, Jett Sawyer, beneath the conference table. The kid, barely shaving, was intent on his mischief, and Cassia’s attempt to suppress her pleasure was failing dramatically. I placed the file on the desk without making eye contact. “The Soho Initiative funding request. Just sign here, please.” She was preoccupied with a much more immediate form of gratification. Distracted and humming, she grabbed the pen and signed through the pages without looking. Only then did she lift her slightly hazy eyes. “Wait… wasn’t your flight tomorrow? Why the sudden return?” I retrieved the file. “Came back to handle some urgent business.” Before turning to leave, I glanced under the desk. “Tell him to come out now.” Cassia paused, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. She was likely expecting a scene—me throwing a fit, making threats, recording the confrontation as I had done years ago. Instead, I simply added, “He’ll lose the circulation in his legs if he stays down there too long.” Feeling caught and slightly foolish, she deflected. “What urgent business are you here for?” I didn’t answer. I just closed the door and, with a gentle click, flipped the magnetic [Do Not Disturb: In Meeting] sign on the handle. She didn't realize that my urgent business had already been accomplished. ... 1 From inside the office, I heard Jett Sawyer’s voice, a childish hint of laughter threading through it. “Cassia, you scared the hell out of me just now.” Cassia’s low chuckle was intimate and throaty. “Scared of what? He’s not going to eat you.” “But he’s your husband…” “Exactly. And he’s well-trained. See? He just left on his own.” I stood motionless just outside the door. The afternoon light sliced into the hallway, leaving a sharp line by my shoes. Jett lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, are you coming home tonight?” “Business is business, but,” Cassia said, her tone utterly natural, “I always go home.” Jett scoffed from his throat. “Boss, you’re so used to being pampered, you miss him after a single day?” “Anything he can do, I can do better. Or did I not satisfy you a moment ago?” “You and him? It’s not the same.” Cassia’s lazy voice cut in. “He’s stubborn as an ox, but he can’t live without me! You know how much trouble he went to with his family just to marry me.” She paused, the implication hanging in the air. “If I don’t go back, do you think any of you little lovers would survive?” She spoke of weighty, painful history as if reciting a bedtime story. Jett’s voice was syrupy, laced with curiosity. “And do you… like that about him? The way he pretends to be the one in charge but is actually just pathetic?” The air went still for a beat. Then I heard Cassia emit a brief, dismissive laugh. She countered, “What do you think?” “I think—” Jett never finished the sentence. Because I opened the door again. Both people in the office froze instantly. Jett was half-perched on the edge of Cassia’s expansive mahogany desk. Cassia leaned back in her chair, the top two buttons of her silk blouse undone. She was startled for only a fraction of a second, then raised a knowing eyebrow. “Forget something?” I ignored the question, walking straight toward the side table where the key bowl was. My car keys were indeed there. I picked them up and turned to leave once more. “Declan.” Cassia stood, walking around the desk to me. Her arms instantly wrapped around my waist. She always did this at the office. Affectionate public displays of ownership—she was never stingy with those. I gently disengaged. After his encounter with her, Jett carried the distinct scent of the men’s cologne she’d given me. The exact same bottle. Last month, when she presented it to me as a birthday gift, she’d called the fragrance “irreplaceable” and uniquely mine. Now, I realized she must have bought them in bulk. “I’ll be home for dinner tonight.” Her voice adopted its usual, soft coaxing tone. “What do you want to eat? I’ll cook it myself, hmm?” Jett let out a small, contemptuous huff beside us. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I have plans tonight.” Her smile faded slightly, though her lips remained curved upward. “What is it? Are you upset?” She leaned closer. “Because of Jett? I told you, he’s nothing but a—” “I know,” I interrupted softly. “He’s an intern analyst. He needs your hands-on guidance.” What sort of skills she chose to instruct him in was entirely up to her. She seemed momentarily stunned. She probably hadn't expected me to skip the protest, the argument, and even the sarcasm this time. She raised a hand to touch my cheek, but I had already taken a step forward. “Fine,” she shrugged, switching her grip to my forearm. “Whatever it is, be home before nine.” Jett snickered nearby. I looked at him, and he met my gaze. Compared to the other men I had quietly dealt with over the years, he was remarkably protected. His eyes held undisguised triumph and provocation. Youth is a powerful thing. Looking at his arrogant, fresh face, I was transported back to the summer I was twenty, when Cassia pulled me out of the psychiatric clinic. 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.” 3 “Last Friday afternoon, the moment you left, Jett Sawyer came strutting in wearing your custom-made Italian Chelsea boots. I couldn’t help myself, I asked him why he was wearing your shoes. He had a ready answer…” The assistant paused, then relayed his words with disgust. “‘Ms. Lane said they look good on me. Mr. Holt? He’d never sweat the small stuff.’” She looked up, her expression a mix of sympathy and frustration on my behalf. “Mr. Holt, are you… really not going to sweat the small stuff?” I looked at the earnest, young woman who was standing up for me. I offered a small, bloodless smile, my tone completely level. “They always rubbed my heel a little. If he likes them, he can have them.” Before I left on the trip, I had no idea these two were involved. The company had been focused on a major market expansion, and I hadn’t paid my usual attention to Cassia. Besides, she’d had a seemingly steady lover installed in an apartment near the office complex. Judging by Jett’s audacity, the previous man had clearly been dispatched. “Wipe your eyes,” I handed her a tissue. “I’ll be out of the office next week. Keep an eye on things.” She looked puzzled. “Where are you going?” I didn’t answer. I simply looked out the window. The sunlight was perfect, just like the afternoon seven years ago when we went to the courthouse. Cassia had gone alone to the family estate. She knelt on the cold stone floor of my father’s library for three hours, begging for his approval. “Sir, I know you despise my background, but Declan and I love each other deeply. I swear I will never let him down.” Ultimately, my father had her escorted out. But he stood by the window for a long time that day. Later, he took her poorly constructed business plan, revised it in the library, and secretly mailed it to me. Bringing up these old wounds now feels like demanding payment for kindness, tainting sincerity with calculation. But if I don’t mention it… If I don’t mention it, she will truly believe she is a self-made prodigy. She will believe that all the data, the connections, the seed capital—she earned it all on her own merit. 4 Shortly after the assistant left, Cassia called me from the car. “Jett was completely spooked by your little surprise visit today,” her voice was low, laced with a playful intimacy. “I need to spend some time coaxing him back to normal. I’ll be late. Leave the front door unlocked for me.” I waited three seconds before speaking. “Didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t get pregnant?” Silence on the other end. “What are you talking about?” Her voice remained steady. “The OB-GYN visits Jett made—they can’t be without cause, can they?” A two-second pause. Then, a sudden chuckle. “You looked into him?” “It was on the company ledger,” I replied calmly. “A fifty-thousand-dollar premium prenatal package. Filed under employee benefits. You were very generous with the approval, Cassia.” Perhaps she signed the expense without looking at the details at all. She softened her tone, adopting a persuasive, honeyed sound. “Declan, that was an accident! He’s young, completely naïve. He thought if he got me pregnant, he could somehow force my hand.” “And?” “I’m handling it,” she said decisively. “Don’t worry, no one is going to threaten your position.” “Cassia.” I spoke her name. “Hmm?” “Do you remember,” I said slowly, deliberately, “how we lost our first child?” Her breathing hitched on the other end of the line. “Stop it, Declan. That’s in the past. Bringing it up again and again is pointless.” “You’re right.” I allowed myself a brief, dry laugh. “It’s all in the past.” The child who never made it. The vows she knelt and swore to me. The thing she held against me for so many years… “Get some rest,” she said. “I’ll come home once I’m done with him.” She hung up. I raised my hand and, for the first time, and the last, blocked her number. Then, I replied to the message that had been waiting for my confirmation for an entire week: [It’s handled. I will be on time for the wedding.] 5 When I left the office, all my personal effects had been discreetly packed and taken care of. The elevator descended, the gentle drop of gravity a comforting sensation of loss of control. There was a time, in this very elevator, when she pressed me against the mirrored wall, kissing me passionately, whispering: “Declan, I must have earned so much good karma in this life and the last to marry you.” Her eyes were so bright back then. Bright enough that she almost seemed to believe the lie she was telling. I had planned to meet a friend for a farewell dinner. The restaurant was downtown, overlooking the waterfront. I had barely settled in when I saw Jett Sawyer walk in, his arm draped around Cassia’s waist. He was leaning in to hear what she was saying, a lazy, entitled smile on his face. Cassia saw me first. She stopped for a moment, then her smile widened. Instead of avoiding me, she walked straight to my table. “Your ‘plans’ were to eat dinner by yourself?” She pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. “The steak here is good,” Cassia said, picking up the bottle of wine on my table. “But this vintage you ordered is too mild. I’m having the server open a proper one.” The server brought the bottle she ordered. Cassia poured two glasses herself. One she pushed toward me, the other she handed to Jett. She looked at me. “How’s the taste?” “It’s fine.” “Just ‘fine’?” Her smile deepened. “I remember you used to love this. You said it had a certain… bittersweet almond note.” “People’s palates change,” I put the glass down. “Things you once thought were good, you look at now and realize they’re just mediocre.” Cassia’s eyes darkened slightly. But she quickly laughed, wrapping her arm around Jett’s shoulder. “Did you hear that?” She gently turned Jett’s face toward me. “Your brother is teaching you a lesson: don’t take women too seriously.” Jett looked at her, his eyes possessive. “What about you? Can I take you seriously?” “Me?” Cassia met my gaze, but her words were for him. “A woman like me is best enjoyed in passing, Jett.” 6 She spoke lightly, flippantly, likely expecting me to do what I always did—rise coldly and leave. To give them their private space. But I refused to be accommodating. I picked up the wine glass and took another sip. Only when I received a text that my friend couldn't make it did I stand up. “He got held up,” I said. “If you’ll excuse me.” I turned to walk away. Jett suddenly spoke. “Bro, Cassia’s birthday is next week. We’re throwing a yacht party. You should come.” I paused. “You have to come,” Jett added, his voice loaded with suggestion. “Cassia said her most desired gift this year is…” He drew out the pause, looking to Cassia. Cassia lightly squeezed his shoulder, cutting him off. “Stop playing games.” I nodded. “I can be there. As long as you’re not afraid of me making the party even more ‘exciting’.” With that, I walked out. The glass door sealed shut, cutting off their laughter and conversation into a different world. I arrived at the house at seven. Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, was in the kitchen simmering broth. “Mr. Holt, you’re back?” “Ms. Lane called and said she’ll be late. Should I save the soup for her?” “No,” I set down my bag. “She won’t be coming home.” Mrs. Gable looked uncertain. “Are you… sleeping here tonight, sir?” I paused, halfway through taking off my coat. “What do you mean?” “The days you were traveling,” Mrs. Gable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Sawyer… he moved in.” The air was still for two seconds. I continued to unbutton my coat, one, two. “Which room is he in?” “The primary suite… four nights in a row. Ms. Lane… was there too.” I nodded slowly. “Ms. Lane,” Mrs. Gable hesitated. “I didn’t want to tell you, but she said you’d be upset, and she told me to…” “It’s alright. I don’t blame you.” I looked up, surveying the living room. Every piece of furniture here was chosen by me, every painting hung by me. She loved it. She always said, “Declan, this house only feels like a home when you’re in it.” Now, the house was no different from a high-end motel. Anyone could check in for a few nights. “Sir, don’t hold it in. If you want to yell, or even cry, it would be better than this…” Cry? I saw my reflection in the glass of the painting. My eyes were empty. A well that had been dry for years—how could it possibly produce water now? “Mrs. Gable, you can go home for the night.” I headed upstairs. Opening the door to the primary suite, a strange, unfamiliar scent washed over me. The sheets had been changed, and seven or eight boxes of unopened Durex were haphazardly scattered on the nightstand. I pushed the window open, letting the night wind rush in. It blew away the stale, unpleasant air. I pulled open the deepest drawer in the walk-in closet. Seven small journals, arranged by year. They were still there. The cover of the top one was a slightly dated deep-sea blue, the edges worn from use. That was the first year of our marriage. I had diligently recorded everything I did for this ‘home,’ like a student conducting a project: the light fixtures I fixed, the dishes she loved I taught myself to cook, the trips we planned… On the last page, a line of pencil read: [Seven-Year Plan, Completion: 1/7] In the second notebook, the focus shifted abruptly to me. It was filled with workout plans, excerpts from self-help books on maintaining intimacy… From the third book onward, the entries became sparse, the dates increasingly sporadic— Not because life was boring, but because my emotional energy was being spent elsewhere. I had thought seven years of beautiful records could fight off the seven-year itch. But I had stopped updating it four years ago. Those years had been dedicated to more practical matters— Tracking hotel charges on her bank statements, locating the apartments where her assistant delivered the flowers she’d ordered for her lovers… The men I had confronted during those years of escalating conflict were too many to count. I gently dropped the notebooks into the waste bin. Seven years. My plan had only reached one-seventh completion. I was the only one in the marriage striving for salvation. She, meanwhile, had long since opened her own private harem, seeking universal spiritual comfort. My phone chimed with a flight notification: [Mr. Holt, your urgent flight has been confirmed. Departure at midnight.] I replied, “Thank you.” While performing a final check of my luggage, I felt a hard object at the bottom of the suitcase. It was the silver ring Cassia had handed me, the one she made me use to propose to her. I tossed it onto the bed, grabbed the suitcase, and walked out. The rideshare was waiting by the curb. The driver asked, “The airport, sir?” “Yes.” ... As expected, Cassia, wrapped up with Jett, didn’t come home. She woke up just after noon the next day, her phone buzzing. An automatic bank alert: [Your account ending in 8818 made a transfer of $1.00 USD to ‘Declan Holt’ at 03:47 AM. Memo: Divorce Settlement Payment.] She frowned, thinking she’d misread it. Just as she was about to scrutinize the screen, a breaking news alert popped up— [Tycoon Tête-à-Tête: The Holt Group Finalizes Strategic Split; Holt and Caldwell Families Announce Formal Union] “What is it?” Jett Sawyer’s voice was close, his chin resting on her shoulder, still thick with sleep. “Who’s being such a buzzkill so early…” Cassia rubbed her temples. The screen lit up again. It was a text from her lawyer: [Ms. Lane, the divorce petition with both signatures, authorized by Mr. Holt, has been filed with the court. You are required to file your response within seven days.]
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