Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 73: The Weight He Carried

Chapter 73: The Weight He Carried

When Jerica finally reached the office, the sun had long crested its peak. The usual rush of guilt or worry she might have felt for being late was absent today. Instead, a gentle warmth suffused her; the morning with Jared still lingered in her mind.

Maybe, she thought, his suspension was a blessing in disguise. She’d never known him to take even a day off for illness, always driven, always relentless. This week might be their chance to reconnect, to steal back time that had slipped through their fingers.

Jerica stepped into the building with a poise that belied the hour, exuding the confidence of someone who had arrived early. Her manager, noticing her arrival, raised an impatient hand, signaling for her to come to his office. She nodded but barely had time to adjust her route before a firm grip on her arm stopped her in her tracks.

"Harold," she said, breath catching as he tugged her aside. His jaw was set, the familiar sharp angles of his face reminding her of Jared’s words from the night before.

Jared’s cousin.

The realization echoed in her mind, a puzzle piece locking into place.

"I was out on official business!" she called over her shoulder, offering her manager a placating smile as Harold led her down the hall, the tension in his grip unmistakable.

"I need to meet with Judge Jefferson," Jerica protested, trying to extract her arm. Harold halted abruptly, spinning to face her. His eyes, dark and calculating, studied her as though peeling away layers.

A spark of recognition flared, followed by the briefest flicker of surprise. The smirk that tugged at his lips faltered, replaced by a grim set to his mouth.

"You know, don’t you?" he finally asked, voice low and edged with disbelief.

"Yes," Jerica replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I know you’re Jared’s cousin."

A muscle in Harold’s jaw twitched, and his expression hardened, eyes narrowing as an emotion she couldn’t quite place darkened his features. He exhaled a sharp, controlled breath through flared nostrils. "If he thinks he’s going to ruin my uncle’s chance—"

"Talk to him about it," Jerica interrupted, a note of finality in her voice as she pulled her arm free and walked away.

With each step down the hallway, the weight of unanswered questions pressed on her. Jared had told her about his father, but there were gaping holes in the story, shadows where the truth should be.

What was he planning? Why this focus on the Glover family?

She forced herself to stand taller, masking the gnawing uncertainty with practiced confidence. Harold didn’t need to know that she was just as much in the dark as he was. No, she would not give him that power.

Behind her, Harold’s eyes followed her retreat, his brow furrowing as he rubbed a hand over his chest, a gesture as involuntary as it was telling. For a long moment, he stood motionless, watching her figure disappear down the hallway, feeling the distance between them stretch further with each second.

He could see now that she had no intention of lingering in his shadow, no desire to rekindle what had been extinguished long ago. The silent hallway hummed with the tension of unspoken words, and Harold’s clenched fist at his side trembled, a bitter reminder that Jerica’s heart was no longer within his reach.

*Ehem*

A sharp, deliberate clearing of the throat jolted Harold from the maze of his thoughts. "Ms. Anderson," he managed, conjuring his trademark smile with practiced ease, though the tightness in his chest lingered.

Lila’s eyes met his, softening with a smile that she tried to control. She hadn’t anticipated the quick flutter in her heart at seeing him this close, the way his weary eyes, shadowed by days of unrest, drew her in.

"You’re blocking the hallway, Mr. Braddock," she teased lightly, a nervous edge to her tone. The words felt inadequate, but they were all she could muster.

Harold’s gaze swept around them, noting the ample space for her to pass. His distraction had closed off his awareness, and now it was Lila standing there, her presence grounding him.

"You look tired, Mr. Braddock," she said, her smile deepening. Without a second thought, she rummaged through her purse and produced an apple. "Here... When you’re tired, you should eat something."

Harold blinked, momentarily stunned. The gesture was so simple, so human, yet it made something shift within him. It had been so long since someone had offered him a moment of unprompted care. The constant weight on his heart, a leaden reminder of Jerica and all the complexities that surrounded her, lifted just slightly.

He accepted the apple, staring at it for a moment before glancing up to watch Lila as she moved down the hallway, a faint skip in her step. Something warm unfurled in his chest, quiet but persistent. He took a bite, savoring the crispness, and for a fleeting second, the world didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Back in his office, Harold settled into his chair, flipping open the Forester files. He attempted to lose himself in the mechanical rhythm of taking notes, dissecting the pages as if they could pull him from the mental fatigue that gnawed at him.

The sudden trill of his phone disrupted the calm. His stomach dropped as the name lit up on the screen.

Chelsea Glover.

He drew in a long, steadying breath before answering. "Hey, Chelsea!" The forced brightness in his voice felt hollow, but necessary. Every time she called, the familiar sensation of sinking weighed him down, like an anchor tethered to his ribs.

The curt, detached tone on the other end was no surprise. "Pick me up near the Birmingham Hotel at 7 p.m. We’re expected at a fundraiser tonight."

Harold opened his mouth, half an inquiry forming on his lips, "Right! Which fundraising party is—" but the line clicked dead before he could finish.

He stared at the silent phone, the fatigue returning, heavier than before. Dragging a hand through his hair, he rested his head on the desk. The exhaustion was no longer just a physical ache; it pressed down on him, suffocating and relentless.

Did he want to escort Chelsea anywhere? No. Did he have a choice? Not really. They were both prisoners of expectation, bound by obligations that neither of them could escape.