Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 113: Lydia’s Desperation

Chapter 113: Lydia’s Desperation

"I’ll get you the proof you need. It’s the least I can do." Henry’s voice faltered, and for a brief moment, the mask of composure slipped, revealing a man burdened by guilt. "I should have protected her better back then. I failed her. But I won’t fail her again—not before I die."

Arthur studied Henry’s face, his own emotions a tangled mess. He didn’t understand the bond Henry and Lydia shared. It was complicated, elusive, like smoke slipping through his fingers. It gnawed at him, the unease twisting into something dangerously close to jealousy.

"Show me what you’re worth, Bassinger," Arthur said, his tone cold and final as he rose from his seat. Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the door, his coat trailing behind him.

As he stepped into the corridor, the weight of the conversation pressed heavily on him. He was about to summon his driver when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered it swiftly, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Arthur." Lydia’s voice crackled through the line, trembling and thin.

Arthur froze mid-step, the phone pressed tightly to his ear. "Lydia? What’s wrong?" he asked, his voice sharpening with concern. He hadn’t heard her like this—breathless and panicked—in years. It sent a chill racing down his spine.

Her response came in a torrent, words tumbling out faster than he could process. "It’s Jerica. She has cancer! Cancer, Artie! Stage IV!" Her voice broke on the words, trembling with disbelief. "I’ve already contacted our doctor and every oncologist I know. It can’t be true. I saw her days ago, and she was fine. How could she have cancer? How could this happen?"

Arthur’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the phone, his mind racing. Cancer? Right on the heels of his conversation with Henry, this was the news he was meant to hear? The timing felt too cruel, too coincidental.

"Did she tell you?" Arthur asked, his voice steady despite the storm brewing within him. He forced his emotions into the back of his mind. Now wasn’t the time to react, not while Lydia was unraveling. His wife was his first priority.

"Of course not!" Lydia replied, her voice rising, cracking under the strain. "She’s not talking to me. I—I heard about the tests she took and kept tabs on her, but she didn’t... Arthur, that’s not important right now. What’s important is finding a way to save her.

" Her tone shifted, determined but frantic. "I have to go to her. I need to talk to her about her plans. She’s my... I need to do something. We need to do something. We’ll take the jet to her, or—"

"Lydia," Arthur interjected, rubbing his forehead as a deep sigh escaped him. "I’ll be there soon. We can talk then."

The line went silent for a moment before Lydia whispered, "You’ll come, won’t you?"

"Of course, I will," Arthur replied firmly, though the weight in his chest grew heavier with every passing second. "We’ll figure this out. Together."

When the call ended, Arthur lowered the phone, staring at it in silence. His mind churned, old ghosts stirring alongside fresh wounds. Lydia’s desperation was palpable, and he could feel her slipping, consumed by fear and guilt. He clenched his fists. He couldn’t let her drown in this—not like before.

A knot of dread twisted in his stomach. This isn’t the same, he reminded himself, though his thoughts betrayed him. He’d made mistakes before. He hadn’t acted when he should have and put someone else in danger.

That guilt had haunted him, a shadow he couldn’t shake. And now? Now, it felt as though history was repeating itself. Like before, it was Lydia who stood at the edge.

"No," he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. Not again. Not this time.

Arthur strode toward the waiting car, his steps resolute. "To the airport," he barked at the driver as he slid into the seat. His mind whirred with plans, strategies, possibilities. Jerica, Lydia, Henry—everything seemed to be colliding at once, but he pushed the chaos aside.

Lydia’s voice echoed in his ears: "It can’t be true... I have to save her..."

And deep within him, Arthur vowed that he wouldn’t let his wife face this alone.

-----

Days passed, and the stalemate between Jerica and Jared persisted like an invisible wall neither could tear down. Jared continued to beg her to seek treatment, his voice raw with quiet desperation, while Jerica firmly refused, her resolve like steel. Yet, even amidst their unspoken conflict, they didn’t let silence consume them. Meals were still shared, conversations still happened, and their routines—though tenderly strained—remained intact. There was no yelling, no cold shoulders, just the unrelenting ache of unspoken words that settled between them like a ghost.

That evening, Jared cooked dinner. The aroma of garlic and herbs filled the small apartment, though the quiet clatter of his movements spoke of a man burdened by a weight he couldn’t put down. When he cleaned the kitchen and made his way into the living room, Jerica was folding laundry. The hum of the dryer was the only sound as her hands moved with absentminded precision—fold, smooth, stack.

Jared watched her for a moment, leaning in the doorway. Her movements looked peaceful on the surface, but he knew better. The shadows under her eyes, the slight downturn of her mouth—these tiny cracks betrayed the war she fought inside.

With a quiet sigh, Jared approached and, without a word, pushed the half-folded laundry aside. He lay down on the couch, resting his head on her lap.

Jerica blinked, surprised, but the faintest smile curved her lips as she adjusted to make him more comfortable. She began running her fingers through his hair, gentle and rhythmic, as if trying to soothe him without words. Jared closed his eyes, a slight shudder in his chest as he breathed in the moment. Her touch felt like the only peace in a world otherwise slipping out of control.

They sat like that for a while, the silence stretching between them, not heavy but fragile, like glass that could shatter if either of them said too much.

"You already know I want to get back at the Glovers, don’t you?" Jared asked suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. His eyes remained closed, as though saying the words was easier if he didn’t look at her.

Jerica’s fingers froze for the briefest second before she resumed her soothing motions. The Glovers. Of all the topics he could have brought up, she hadn’t expected this. She had been bracing for him to bring up her diagnosis again, for more begging, more pleading for her to fight. A part of her was grateful he hadn’t, but this? This wasn’t any more comfortable. The subject of the Glover family was a wound of its own.

She stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. Should she lie, pretend ignorance to spare him? Or did he already know the truth—that she had looked into it, that she had uncovered the tragedy he had been carrying all these years?

Jared let out a slow breath and reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers tightly as though he needed the contact to keep steady. "It’s fine... I know you looked into it," he murmured. "I bet you haven’t figured out why I’m doing this though. Why I’m chasing something so dangerous."

Jerica hummed softly, the weight in her chest pressing harder against her ribs. She didn’t trust her voice to speak. The truth was, she did know. She had found out everything she needed the night she met Nick—the night the puzzle finally came together.

Jared opened his eyes then, staring up at her. There was a faint sadness in his expression, a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. "My mother used to work for Brandon Glover," he began quietly. His voice was steady, but Jerica could hear the tremor underneath, the pain threaded into every word. "You might have heard of him—Brandon Glover, the third son of the family. The man behind the secret organization in the government. Nothing happens without his approval... not even wars."

Jerica said nothing, her hand tightening slightly around his in silent support as she continued to stroke his hair.

"Somehow, my mother—a simple maid in their household—caught his eye." Jared’s jaw tensed, and his voice dropped lower, tinged with something close to loathing. "That pig. He started harassing her, stalking her, asking her to give in to him as though she were some possession he could take. When my mother refused, he didn’t stop. No—he threatened her instead. Said he would accuse her of treason, call her a spy."

Jared paused to take a shaky breath, the weight of his own words pulling at him like chains. Jerica’s heart clenched in her chest as she watched him struggle to hold himself together. She reached down, squeezing his hand tightly, grounding him. He held onto her fingers as though she was his anchor.

"My mother... as an Eastern European immigrant, she was the perfect scapegoat," he whispered, his voice cracking now. "All he had to do was say the word, and her life would have been over. But she never gave in to him. Not once."