Part 3You Never Asked My Name

The condo was pitch-black when I got home.

It was a three-thousand-square-foot loft in the city’s high-rent district, deeded under Jocelyn’s name as part of the family settlement. Floor-to-ceiling glass, Italian slate, bespoke Scandinavian minimalism.

I had lived here for seven days, and not once had the air felt like something you could call a home.

I sat on the dark grey sectional without turning on the lamps. Outside, the skyline sprawled in cold, geometric ribbons of neon and headlights, washing the ceiling in faint blue shadows.

I pulled a cigarette from the silver case in my coat, struck a match, took two slow drags, and snubbed it out in the ceramic tray.

I wasn’t grieving.

I was simply solving an equation: Was she worth the balance?

Before the papers were signed, my father had told me: Give the girl ninety days. If she has the mettle to be a partner, show her your hand. If she’s just another spoiled heir riding the momentum of her grandfather’s empire, cut the cord clean.

I had fully intended to honor that ninety-day window.

Tonight had simply accelerated the calendar.

It wasn't Trevor’s pathetic posturing that had provoked me. I had crossed paths with corporate sociopaths and private equity predators ten times more vicious than an insecure personal assistant. Trevor was an insect buzzing against a windowpane.

What closed the ledger was Jocelyn’s silence.

In an auditorium of three hundred subordinates, while her legal husband was being publicly dissected, she had chosen preservation of procedure over basic human decency.

What did that tell me?

It told me that keeping the schedule running smoothly mattered more to her than my basic dignity.

More directly: I didn't even exist on her priority list.

That was all the data I required.

I didn't need a woman who worshiped me. But I refused to walk beside a partner who couldn't recognize my humanity.

I stood up, walked into the study, and booted up my private laptop.

The standard resignation letter was already saved in an encrypted folder. It wasn't clairvoyance; it was simply good risk management. I updated the effective date, cleaned up the operational language, and printed the single sheet on heavy linen stock.

I signed my name with my fountain pen, folded the page, and slid it into my leather briefcase.

Then I picked up my phone and dialed Nolan Cole.

He answered on the second ring.

“Chase.”

“I’m submitting my notice first thing in the morning,” I said evenly. “Prep the desk. Wait for my call.”

A brief, heavy pause hung over the line.

“…You’re certain?”

“Completely.”

“Understood. We’ll be ready.”

I hung up, resting my forearms on the desk, watching the city breathe through the plate glass.

If I was honest with myself, there was a sting of disappointment. I understood that she didn't know me before the wedding. But in seven days under the same roof, she hadn't shown the slightest curiosity to learn.

Seven days. The times she had looked me in the eye could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare.

I wasn't going to give her an eighth.

At twelve-thirty, the electronic lock on the front door beeped.

The heavy door opened and closed. High heels tapped across the hardwood foyer, crisp and purposeful.

She must have noticed the living room was dark.

She didn't come in.

She walked straight past the archway, her shadow gliding across the floorboards, and went into her suite.

We had kept separate bedrooms since the wedding night.

The click of her door latching was soft and final.

From start to finish, she never knocked on my door. No debrief. No apology. Not even a passing, Are you alright?

I smiled faintly in the darkness, shut the laptop, and went into my room.

I slept eight hours without waking once.

Men who have made up their minds don't suffer from insomnia.