Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 112: She Lost Her Fight

Chapter 112: She Lost Her Fight

"It must be hard for you," Jerica whispered, her voice cracking as fresh tears welled in her eyes. She squeezed him tighter, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her again. She couldn’t believe it—she was going to leave Jared. The thought was unbearable.

Jared turned to face her, his hands trembling as he cupped her face. His bloodshot eyes locked onto hers, brimming with desperation and unyielding love. "We can fight this, Jerica," he said firmly, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "You must fight this. You have to."

Jerica smiled through her tears, her fingers gently tracing the lines of his weary face. He looked so vulnerable, so broken, yet so strong in his resolve. "What if I don’t want to?" she asked softly, her voice a mixture of sorrow and resignation.

The question hung in the air like a heavy weight, crashing into Jared’s chest. His grip on her cheeks tightened slightly, his expression a mix of fear and frustration. "Don’t say that," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please, don’t even think that."

Jerica let out a shaky breath, leaning her forehead against Jared’s. "Jared, I’m so tired," she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions. "I don’t know if I have the strength for this."

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. Jared reeled back slightly, his shoulders stiffening, his expression frozen in disbelief.

"I’ve thought about it," Jerica continued, clearing her throat as if trying to steady herself. Her voice cracked again, betraying the storm in her chest. "I want to spend the rest of my life peacefully, without pain, without fear..."

Jared’s eyes widened, and he took a step toward her. "You’re not going to fight?" His voice was low, tinged with confusion and something darker—hurt, disbelief. "Are you saying you’re giving up?"

Jerica bowed her head, unable to meet his gaze. Her tears blurred her vision as she whispered, "I have no fight left, Jared. I’m sorry..."

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that presses down like a storm cloud. Then Jared’s voice broke through, sharp and cutting, his chest heaving with raw emotion. "Will you say the same if we had a child?" he asked, his words trembling with accusation. He felt a bitter knot tighten in his throat. "Is this your punishment for me? For not giving you what you wanted most?"

Jerica flinched as if he had struck her, but she didn’t turn to face him. Instead, she let out a deep, weary sigh and raised her hands slightly, a gesture of surrender. "I can’t deal with this now," she said, her voice hollow and tired. Without another word, she walked away, her steps slow but deliberate.

Jared stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. Her retreating figure filled him with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, anger, and guilt. He couldn’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, she would have fought harder if there had been a child to fight for—a tangible piece of her legacy, of their love.

Jerica, meanwhile, shuffled toward the bedroom, her head spinning with Jared’s words. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her body heavy with exhaustion. She hated the way his words lingered, cutting through her resolve like a blade. Maybe he was right. If she’d had a child, wouldn’t she have fought harder, given everything to stay alive?

But the thought only deepened her pain. She didn’t want to face the truth of it, didn’t want to unravel the threads of her own decision-making. Shaking her head, she pulled the covers over herself, willing the world away. For now, she just wanted to escape the noise—both inside her mind and in the world around her. She didn’t want to think anymore.

And in the quiet of their home, they each wrestled with their own demons, separated by walls yet bound by the same unbearable weight.

She truly didn’t have any fight left in her. All her life had been one endless battle after another, and she was exhausted—bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted. Jerica lay still in the silence of the bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the memories swirled around her like a relentless tide.

She had fought for everything—scraped, clawed, and struggled—but life always seemed to close its fist tightly around the things she desired most. Her parents’ affection had been the first battlefield. She had yearned for their warmth, their approval, but no matter how hard she tried, she was always left standing in the cold shadow of their indifference.

Then came her first love—the one person she had believed could heal her wounds, could make her feel seen. But that, too, had been torn from her grasp. She had fought tooth and nail to hold onto it, to preserve it, but love alone wasn’t enough when the odds were stacked so heavily against her.

And now, the family she had longed for—the vision she had cherished of holding a child in her arms, creating a life full of joy and belonging—was slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. Every time she thought she was close, life had found a way to take it from her.

So what was the point? What was the use of fighting for her life when all her previous battles had only led to disappointment and pain? What was there to hope for when hope had always betrayed her?

Jerica felt her chest tighten, her breath shallow and uneven. The tears came again, burning her eyes as they slipped down her cheeks. She didn’t try to stop them. She didn’t even wipe them away. She just let them fall, let them flow like the torrents of all the grief, frustration, and futility she had kept bottled up for so long.

She wanted to stop fighting. To let go. To stop hoping for a better outcome because, deep down, she no longer believed there would be one. Her hands trembled as she clenched the blanket tighter, her nails digging into the fabric.

For once in her life, Jerica wanted to rest. To surrender. To stop forcing herself to carry the weight of a world that had never been kind to her. And maybe, just maybe, it was okay to feel this way.

But even in that fragile, raw moment, the thought of leaving Jared alone, broken and shattered by her decision, gnawed at her heart. She didn’t know how to reconcile her need to let go with the love she still felt for him.

The dilemma tore at her, leaving her stranded in a storm of doubt and despair. What was she supposed to do when there were no good answers, only the suffocating weight of impossible choices?

---

The room was heavy with unspoken tension, the dim amber light casting long shadows across the table where Arthur sat with Henry. The opulence of the setting—a crystal chandelier dangling above, deep mahogany walls lined with gilded frames—seemed almost ironic given the nature of their conversation.

Arthur’s fingers drummed against the table, a steady rhythm that betrayed the storm brewing in his mind. He didn’t like Henry Bassinger. The man’s smug demeanor grated on him, his every word a calculated strike. Yet, for all his disdain, Arthur had chosen this room—a far cry from the grim basement he’d considered—out of deference to the man’s age. And, perhaps, because Lydia respected him so deeply. That thought alone was enough to sour Arthur’s mood further.

His voice cut through the quiet. "You’re saying you don’t have definite proof?"

Henry leaned back in his chair, a faint, lopsided smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, though clouded with age, carried a sharpness that was unnerving. "It’s not the olden days, Arthur. Proof is easier to obtain now. Science has come a long way." His tone was light, almost mocking, and it set Arthur’s teeth on edge.

Arthur’s patience snapped, his palm slamming onto the table with a loud thud. The sound reverberated through the room, causing the chandelier to sway slightly. "Can you do it without Lydia’s knowledge?" he demanded, his voice low but charged with intensity.

Henry’s smirk faded, replaced by a measured calm. "That’s exactly why I’m doing this the old-fashioned way," he replied, leaning forward. "There’s too much at stake to make a mistake. I was ninety percent sure when I started. Now..." He paused, his expression darkening. "Now, I’m certain."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, his pulse quickening. "How?"

Henry’s gaze bore into him, heavy with meaning. "Your interest, Arthur. It confirms it. Lydia knows something, doesn’t she?" His lips curled into a knowing smirk. "I wouldn’t be here with you if she didn’t."

Arthur’s hand clenched into a fist. "It’s Lady Sutherland to you, imp," he growled, his tone dripping with disdain. He hated the casual way Henry spoke her name, as if he had some claim to her. As if he knew her in a way Arthur never could.

Henry bowed his head slightly, the smirk fading. For the first time, his age seemed to weigh on him. His fingers fidgeted, tapping an uneven rhythm on the table. "Don’t tell her I’m back," he said softly. There was a tinge of regret in his voice, a hint of something deeper.