Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 47: Gathering Courage

Chapter 47: Gathering Courage

Lydia wasn’t the type to be easily swayed, let alone hand out her personal number. Jerica scoffed softly to herself. Of course she expects me to set up the meeting. What made Lydia think Jerica would just come running?

And yet... the card felt heavy with potential.

As the dinner progressed, Jerica returned to her seat, her mind still spinning from the encounter. But to her surprise, Lydia had managed to reposition herself at the table, taking a seat right next to her.

Jerica glanced at her, startled. Lydia smiled, seemingly unfazed by the social maneuvering that had undoubtedly left others scrambling. "I’ve heard interesting things about your foundation," Lydia said, casually linking her arm with Jerica’s.

Jerica stiffened at the sudden intimacy. It wasn’t just the unexpected closeness that threw her off—it was the curious eyes from those around them, including Lydia’s PA, who seemed just as shocked. But before Jerica could respond, Lydia’s question cut through the atmosphere.

"Where’s your husband?"

Jerica’s breath caught in her throat. The casualness of the question felt almost too familiar, as if Lydia had been part of her life all along. Why did she care? And why did it bother her so much?

Before Jerica could answer, a voice pierced through the crowd—Hannah Braddock.

Hannah, always on the lookout for powerful connections, had found her way to Lydia’s side. "Mrs. Sutherland," she chirped, practically elbowing her way in, eyes flicking between Jerica and Lydia as if to say, Don’t get too comfortable.

Jerica bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. Hannah had always thrived on proximity to power, and the fact that Lydia had been talking to Jerica clearly didn’t sit well with her.

"How’s your puppy doing after the surgery?" Hannah asked, her tone sweet as honey.

Jerica couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. Hannah’s grasping at straws. She wanted to prove that she, not Jerica, was the one close to Lydia. She even knows about the puppy, for heaven’s sake.

But Lydia’s reaction was priceless. A polite smile stretched across her face, but her eyes said it all—Who are you?

"He’s fine now," Lydia answered, her gaze already drifting elsewhere, scanning the room as if searching for an escape. Her attention flicked to Jerica for a moment, then to the door. Jerica followed her line of sight, her heart sinking when she didn’t see Jared anywhere.

Hannah, ever the opportunist, didn’t notice Lydia’s lack of recognition and pressed on, her smile wide and confident. "Harold is so excited for the wedding with Chelsea. We’ll have to do dinner soon."

Lydia’s face shifted, her smile becoming genuine as she finally remembered. "Of course, Mrs. Braddock. We can arrange that."

Jerica’s eyes scanned the room, finally spotting Jared leaning against the far wall, his gaze laser-focused on her. His expression wasn’t calm—far from it. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to be smoldering with something she couldn’t quite place—jealousy? Anger? Disappointment? She couldn’t tell.

Without hesitation, she excused herself from the table and walked straight toward him, her heart racing. She needed to know what he was thinking. Why he looked so... unsettled.

But before she could say anything, Jared grabbed her hand, his grip firm as he led her out of the hall. The cold night air hit her as they reached the parking lot, and without a word, he slipped his jacket over her shoulders.

She didn’t fight him. She couldn’t. There was something in his touch, something urgent, that silenced her usual defiance.

"Get in," he said quietly, opening the passenger door to his car.

Jerica hesitated, looking up at him, trying to read his expression. His eyes were unreadable, filled with something she wasn’t used to seeing in him—vulnerability? Fear?

Jared opened the car door for Jerica with a deliberate slowness, his movements sharp and purposeful, like a storm barely contained. Jerica, clutching the jacket he had draped over her shoulders, slid into the seat, her heart racing faster than she could control. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, her mind scrambling to make sense of the tension that rippled off him in waves.

Jared walked around the car, his long strides purposeful, the clench in his jaw unmistakable. Jerica recognized that gait—it was the kind of stride he only had when something was eating away at him, when his anger threatened to boil over.

Her stomach churned, her pulse quickening. "Where are we going?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper. But the question had barely left her lips when the car door slammed shut with a force that made her jump in her seat.

He didn’t answer. The silence was unnerving.

She glanced out the window, spotting Harold sprinting from the gala’s entrance, waving his arms like a madman. His eyes were wide, filled with something she couldn’t quite place—was it fear? Panic?

Suddenly, a soft touch grazed her cheek. Jerica flinched, yelping in surprise. Jared had leaned in close, too close, his brow furrowed, his dark eyes locking onto hers. For a second, time seemed to stand still, his presence consuming her completely.

Her breath hitched, heart hammering as his intense gaze bore into her. The scent of his cologne—the one she loved—wrapped around her, making it impossible to think straight.

He paused, eyes flicking to her lips, as if he were assessing whether she was alright. The way his gaze lingered sent a flutter through her chest. He was so close—so achingly close—yet he was a world away.

His face hovered just inches from hers as he reached over to fasten her seatbelt. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin, and her entire body reacted to the proximity, tightening in response.

She couldn’t stop staring at him, the curve of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. Her mind raced, her emotions a chaotic storm. He smelled the same, looked the same, but there was a distance between them now, an invisible wall that she couldn’t seem to cross.

Once, she could reach for him, touch him without hesitation. He had been hers, her sanctuary. But now, he was like a masterpiece behind glass—untouchable, unreachable. Her fingers itched to bridge that gap, to reclaim what had been lost.

Why can’t I touch him anymore?

The thought stung. She was his wife, wasn’t she? She had every right to him, to his warmth, his touch, his love. But the man sitting beside her was no longer the one she once knew. Yet the longing surged within her.

Slowly, gathering all the courage she could, she turned towards him.