Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 116: He’s Not Fine

Chapter 116: He’s Not Fine

Jerica stared at her phone, her breath catching in her throat. A chill ran down her spine as she tried to piece together what was going on. The way Harold had asked—so direct, so certain—set her nerves on edge.

She glanced around the empty house again, the silence feeling heavier than ever. Something was wrong. She could feel it in her gut.

Harold slipped his phone back into his coat pocket and exhaled, the sound heavy with frustration. "Catherine..." he began, his voice strained and weary, "what is it this time?" His tone carried more concern than outright hostility, but the edges were frayed with impatience.

Catherine hesitated, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She cast a quick glance around them, ensuring no one was within earshot. "I’m sorry about what Chelsea did last night," she murmured, her voice soft but trembling with emotion.

Harold’s jaw tightened, his expression shifting between anger and embarrassment. The memory of the previous night flashed through his mind like a cruel reel on repeat. At the art gallery, everything had been going smoothly—until Chelsea Glover decided to trip him, sending him sprawling face-first into a marble sculpture. The statue toppled, shattering with an ear-splitting crash that silenced the entire room. The humiliation had been unbearable. If not for his family’s influence, he was certain videos of his fall would have gone viral by now, branding him a laughingstock.

And yet, even that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part had been Chelsea’s smirk afterward, her words cutting deeper than the fall itself: "Welcome to the rest of your life with me." It was clear Chelsea didn’t want the marriage any more than he did. That night, after confronting her and demanding they call off their engagement, she’d brushed him off with an icy scoff and walked away. Moments later, he saw her passionately kissing another woman in the gallery’s dimly lit corner.

It was humiliating, degrading—but Harold had no right to be outraged. After all, he wasn’t innocent either. For months, he’d been sneaking around with Lila Anderson, a woman who had nothing to do with his family’s political alliances. Lila was his escape from the suffocating expectations and tangled web of obligations his life had become. He’d told himself that his trysts with Lila were justified, a salve for the wounds inflicted by Chelsea’s cold indifference.

Harold forced a smile when people asked about the incident at the gallery, shrugging it off as an accident. His charm had always been his armor, and he wielded it to shield himself from the whispers. But Catherine’s apology now brought it all rushing back, peeling away the mask he’d carefully crafted.

"You don’t have to deal with Chelsea anymore, Harold. Break up with her," Catherine said suddenly, her voice trembling as tears pooled in her eyes. Her sincerity, her pleading tone, only magnified the storm brewing inside him.

Harold’s composure snapped. Catherine’s words only magnified the storm of emotions Harold was barely keeping at bay, and he lashed out at her.

Because he could.

He couldn’t scream at Chelsea—not that he hadn’t wanted to. She was his fiancée, tied to him through a web of family expectations and political gain. Theirs wasn’t a love story; it was a transaction, and his family couldn’t afford for him to jeopardize it. He couldn’t rail against his parents, who insisted that the marriage with Chelsea Glover was the pinnacle of strategic alliances.

But Catherine?

She wasn’t part of that world. She wasn’t an unshakable pillar of his carefully controlled life. She was just Catherine. Someone who showed up uninvited, always pushing her way into his orbit with those pleading eyes and heartfelt words. To him, she was nothing but a complication—just a stalker.

And that made it easy, almost too easy, to turn his simmering frustration into a full boil and unleash it on her.

"Break up with her?" His voice rose sharply, his words biting. "You think it’s that simple? Do you know what I have to deal with? What my family expects from me? You think your little opinion matters?"

Catherine recoiled slightly but didn’t back down. Her lips parted as if to respond, but Harold was already spiraling, his emotions spilling out in a torrent of misplaced rage.

"You," he spat, jabbing a finger toward her chest. "You’re the one I despise more than Chelsea! You think you have the right to tell me how to live my life? Do you expect me to marry you if I leave her? Is that it? Well, guess what? I despise you. I don’t want to see your ugly face ever again!"

Before he realized what he was doing, he shoved her. It wasn’t hard, but Catherine stumbled back, her head striking a metal post behind her with a sickening clang. The sound echoed in Harold’s ears, louder than it had any right to be.

Catherine gasped, her hand flying to the back of her head. Harold froze as he saw her fingertips come away red, the sight of blood snapping him out of his anger like a bucket of ice water.

"Oh, God," he muttered, stepping forward instinctively. His hands hovered awkwardly as Catherine steadied herself against the pole, refusing his help.

"I’m fine," she said through gritted teeth, but her pale face betrayed her words.

"Stop arguing," Harold said, his voice thick with guilt.

Ignoring her protests, he guided her to his car, his mind racing with a mix of shame and panic. He’d let his temper get the better of him, and now Catherine was hurt. What had he become? Someone who beat women!

The drive to the hospital was tense and silent. Catherine sat with her head turned away, her hand still pressing against the wound. Harold’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, unable to meet her gaze.

When they arrived, Catherine unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the door before he could say a word. She paused, looking back at him with tear-streaked cheeks.

"You don’t have to come in," she said, her voice cracking. "You won’t have to see me again... But..." She hesitated, her lower lip trembling.

Harold stared at her, his heart sinking under the weight of her words. Why don’t I feel relief? he wondered.

"How could you not remember me?" Catherine whispered, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I get it—you had your childhood sweetheart. You probably didn’t even notice me. But after everything..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head, her tears falling freely now.

"Catherine..." Harold began, but she cut him off.

"Goodbye, Harold," she said firmly, stepping out and slamming the door.

Harold sat there, stunned, as cars began honking behind him. He wanted to chase after her, to demand an explanation, but the weight of his shame and confusion pinned him in place. As he drove away, her words echoed in his mind, unraveling something buried deep inside him.

What did she mean? What had he forgotten?

Catherine’s words echoed in his mind as he drove back.

How could you not remember me?

---

Jerica stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around her, her mind a whirlpool of doubt and worry. She had already sent a leave request but something about staying home gnawed at her insides. Jared was acting weird—colder than usual—and it left a sour knot in her stomach. She couldn’t just sit around while he fumed. He’s mad, but he’s also my husband.

Dressing quickly, she brushed her hair with frantic strokes, muttering under her breath, "Can’t a man just talk things out like a normal person?" She threw on her shoes, grabbed her bag, and made for the door, when her phone started buzzing on the countertop.

She glanced at the screen, her brows furrowing. Nick? Of all people. After Harold’s cryptic phone call earlier, her nerves were already frayed. Nick calling out of the blue didn’t feel right.

Jerica picked up the phone. "Is Jared safe?" she asked immediately, her heart skipping a beat. She didn’t even know why that was the first thing to come out of her mouth.

Nick’s panicked voice came through the line. "He’s not. He’s trying to kill himself."

Jerica’s blood ran cold. Her grip on the phone tightened. "Explain." It was all she could manage to get out, her mind racing through a thousand worst-case scenarios.

Nick launched into a rapid-fire explanation, his words tumbling over each other as he described Jared storming into Judge Jefferson’s office with files thick enough to double as bricks and demanding an investigation into the Glover family.

"Judge Jefferson?" Jerica repeated, her voice heavy with both understanding and exasperation. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. "Keep him in the office until I get there."

"Keep him in the office? Do you think I’m some kind of Siberian Beast whisperer?" Nick hissed, his voice barely a whisper. "He’s in full Siberian Beast mode, Jerica! I’m a single child! I have my whole life ahead of me!"

Jerica ended the call mid-rant, throwing her phone in her bag. Nick would survive. Hopefully