Part 2Sorry Ex He Married Me

Brandon pinned the box against the glass counter with enough force to produce a dull thud.

"My patience is thin," he murmured, his voice laced with the quiet menace of an absolute ruler. "I don't give a damn what gutter you've been crawling through these past three years. But now that Danielle is home, I will not have you dancing like a circus clown in front of her, pulling these cheap, juvenile stunts."

Danielle let out a delicate sigh. She slipped her fingers from Brandon's sleeve and took two steps toward me. A waft of clean, smoky cedar drifted over—Brandon’s signature cologne, lingering on her clothes.

"Grace, are you still holding a grudge over my return?" Her eyes glistened, shimmering with an innocence that bordered on art. "I’ve always wanted to apologize in person. Brandon and I have been inseparable since childhood, but you were the one who looked after his home while I was away. When you vanished without a word, he pretended not to care, but deep down, he felt indebted to you."

She unclasped her Kelly bag, pulling out a slim leather checkbook and a Montblanc pen.

"This watch—regardless of whose hands it slipped through—I will buy it."

She scrawled a series of zeroes across the paper with fluid ease, tore the check free, and held it out to me.

"Five hundred thousand dollars. Well above the current market estimate. Consider it a retroactive compensation package for the three years you spent taking care of Brandon." She offered a soft, imploring look. "Take the money. Go find a respectable career. Stop getting yourself tangled in these shady, unseemly trades. Please?"

She held the check suspended in midair.

The posture was unmistakable: an heiress tossing coins into a beggar's tin cup to clear the sidewalk.

Mrs. Walsh was quick to chime in, her face beaming with sycophantic praise. "Miss Ross, you truly possess an angel’s grace. To pay half a million dollars out of pocket just to clear a questionable item..." She swung her glare back toward me, her tone dripping with venom. "Ms. Grace, to encounter patrons as remarkably generous as Mr. Crawford and Miss Ross is a miracle. Take the check and be grateful."

I looked at the slip of paper fluttering between Danielle’s manicured fingers.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

The price to purchase my compliance, to rubber-stamp an imaginary crime, and to let them walk away feeling like benevolent saints.

A truly generous sum.

I didn't reach for it.

Instead, I looked straight into Danielle’s immaculate, porcelain facade.

"Miss Ross, I suggest you keep that check to pay for your own supplements," I said calmly. "This watch is not stolen. And I do not accept charity."

Danielle’s hand froze in midair.

The outright refusal caught her off guard. Within seconds, her lower lip trembled, and a fresh layer of moisture gathered in her eyes.

"Grace, I... I was honestly only trying to help you—"

"Enough."

Brandon seized Danielle’s shoulder and pulled her firmly behind his back, his face darkening with fury.

"Grace, you really don't know what’s good for you, do you?"

He snatched the check from Danielle's hand, took his black card, and threw them both directly at my chest.

The heavy titanium card and the parchment paper struck my lapel and fluttered down, landing squarely on the polished floor by my boots.

"Pick them up," Brandon commanded, his jaw set in stone. "When Danielle offers you a way out, you get on your knees and accept it. Do not stand there parading this pathetic, counterfeit pride."

I lowered my eyes, gazing at the plastic and paper on the marble.

How eerily identical this felt to that morning in his office.

Back then, I had spent an entire month tracking down specialty green coffee beans from a single estate in Ethiopia, hand-roasting them in tiny batches over hours, all because he had offhandedly mentioned that the coffee in corporate lounges tasted burnt.

I had arrived at his corner office, carrying the sealed glass jar with trembling, eager hands.

Danielle had been sitting in his ergonomic leather armchair, spinning casually. She had glanced at the jar, wrinkled her nose, and pinched her nostrils.

"Brandon, the aroma is so pungent. You don't think these are cheap beans soaked in artificial oils, do you? Your stomach lining is so sensitive; you can't be putting this kind of garage trash into your body."

Brandon hadn't even bothered to open the seal.

With a flick of his cufflinked wrist, he had swept my hours of labor straight into the brushed-steel wastebasket.

"Danielle is sensitive to strong smells. Don't bring your cheap experiments into my workspace again."

On that afternoon, I had stood with my head bowed, staring at my shattered efforts in the trash, feeling the exact same burn that now sat at the base of my throat.

I closed my eyes, letting the last residual ripple of that ancient grief evaporate into nothingness.

I didn't bend down.

I stepped right past him, planting my hands flat against the mahogany counter.

"Mrs. Walsh, since you refuse the consignment, return the watch to me."

Instead of complying, Mrs. Walsh snatched the velvet box off the counter, clutching it protectively to her chest.

"I’m afraid that won't be happening, Ms. Grace," she sneered. "Mr. Crawford himself noted that the origin of this piece is suspect. As a reputable, licensed luxury dealer, I have an ethical obligation to hold any flagged merchandise until the authorities can verify the serial numbers."

She cast a fawning glance in Brandon’s direction.

"Isn't that right, Mr. Crawford? We cannot allow people with sticky fingers to compromise the integrity of our clientele."

Brandon didn't speak, but the smug tilt of his chin was tacit approval. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, staring down at me like an emperor awaiting execution.

"Apologize to Danielle," his voice was flat, devoid of cadence. "Pick up the money. Do it now, or you won't be walking out of these doors today."