Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 74: The Phone Call

Chapter 74: The Phone Call

Straightening up, Harold patted his cheeks, forcing himself into motion. Self-pity could wait; for now, he needed to be prepared. He sent a quick series of messages to his uncle, seeking details about the event. If he was going to show up and play his part, he would at least do it right.

And so, the facade would continue. For now, that was all there was.

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Jerica strode down the marble-floored hallway toward Judge Jefferson’s office, her heels striking a confident rhythm that echoed through the silent corridor.

Each step resonated with her determination; she needed to know if they had pieced it together yet, or if she would need to reveal the truth—that she was Jared’s wife and that whatever they had caught on camera was eyebrow-raising but neither illegal nor immoral.

As she approached the imposing double doors, the judge’s secretary—a young man with perpetually anxious eyes—stepped into her path. He looked at her with a mixture of hesitation and caution. "Ma’am, Judge Jefferson is in the middle of—"

"Uncle Jefferson is expecting me," Jerica interrupted, her tone coldly assertive, her lips curling into a smile that dared him to challenge her.

She exuded the confidence of someone who believed, with every fiber of her being, that she had the upper hand—at least where Jefferson was concerned.

The quiet hum of the office shifted, attention rippling outward as heads turned to witness the standoff. The staff exchanged wide-eyed glances. They all knew Judge Jefferson commanded his court with an iron fist, fueled by the necessity of guarding his secrets.

Fear was his currency, though respect rarely followed in its wake.

"Ms. Jerica Evans?" The personal assistant, a wiry man with deep-set eyes, emerged from the side room. Recognition flared across his face as he recalled seeing her in court the previous day.

"Yes." Jerica barely spared him a glance, sidestepping him and reaching for the polished brass handle.

"Wait, Ms. Evans," the assistant said, his fingers darting to block hers on the door handle.

Jerica tilted her head, leaning in close, her voice low enough to keep their exchange private but firm enough to unsettle him. "Why? Is it a bad time? Is he with a woman? In the morning itself? In his office?"

The assistant’s eyes widened, and a flicker of panic crossed his face as he swallowed hard, looking back at the door as if it might suddenly swing open. His anxiety deepened, but before he could muster a response, a voice thundered from inside.

"Let her in, Mike!"

The assistant recoiled as if struck, his grip on the handle loosening as he stepped aside, resignation etched in his features. The silence thickened around them, the staff now frozen in place, watching Jerica as if she were an untouchable force, challenging the sanctity of the judge’s domain.

Jerica entered with an air of defiance, eyes scanning the room as she spoke. "Uncle Jefferson... So..." She allowed her gaze to drift toward the meticulously arranged frames on the walls, where accolades and honorary doctorates gleamed under the light. They were monuments to his legacy, each one a trophy of influence.

Judge Jefferson’s eyes, sharp and scrutinizing, followed her every move as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He grunted, his expression hardening at her casual inspection. To Jerica, those frames were curated relics of self-importance; to him, they were symbols of the battles he had fought and won.

"You have an incredible collection, Uncle," Jerica continued, a hint of sarcasm coloring her words.

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. Collection, she had called them, as if they were mere souvenirs from a holiday, not the embodiment of decades of relentless work and the power he wielded. He opened his mouth, ready to respond with a sharp retort, but before he could speak, Jerica’s phone buzzed sharply, slicing through the tension like a blade.

Jerica glanced down, noting the unfamiliar number displayed on her screen. There was something about the number, polished and almost ostentatious, that made her hesitate. It was the type of number that spoke of wealth or status—something bought for its impression.

"Hello?" Jerica said, her voice cautious.

"Come meet me." The voice on the other end was unmistakably authoritative, clipped and commanding. It sent a jolt through her, a tone she hadn’t heard directed at her since her mother’s stern calls from years past.

Jerica frowned, pulling the phone away for a moment to recheck the number. The commanding edge of the voice stirred a dissonant mix of curiosity and apprehension within her. Victoria, her stepmother, had spoken like that once, but even she had mellowed over the years. And yet, this caller had an icy finality to their demand, as if her compliance was not an option.

"I’m sorry, who do you want, ma’am?" Jerica asked, her words tinged with controlled suspicion.

There was an audible sigh, tinged with irritation, before the voice spoke again. "Jerica Evans, do not play coy. You are smarter than this. Meet me at the Island Café in an hour."

The line clicked dead before Jerica could muster a response. For a moment, the room, with all its gilded frames and simmering tension, receded into the background as her mind raced.

Who was this, and why now?

Judge Jefferson noticed the change in her expression and waited for her to compose herself. Jerica shrugged and let it go. She had a feeling that woman might be Lydia Sutherland. But she wasn’t sure.

Why would that lady call her out of nowhere?

"Have you figured it out yet?" Jerica’s question cut through the silence, light but laced with implication.

"Figured out what?" Jefferson snapped, a vein throbbing at his temple. His patience was as thin as the morning light filtering through the heavy curtains. He had more pressing matters—calls to take, decisions that kept his power intact.

"About the affair I supposedly had," Jerica continued, ignoring the tension winding tighter in the room.

"Affairs are no joke, Jerica," Jefferson said, his voice faltering as anger gave way to something else: a flicker of guilt, a shadow of old mistakes. "Your mother and I... What we did was wrong. Did we ruin it for you?"

The question fell between them, a brittle admission that stole the breath from Jerica’s lungs.