Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love
Chapter 78: What She Was Willing To Do For Him

Chapter 78: What She Was Willing To Do For Him

Lydia’s eyes softened, and a silence settled over them that felt strangely intimate. She rested her chin on her hand, her pose informal, almost wistful. It was such an unexpected shift from her usual poised elegance that it disarmed Jerica. Lydia no longer looked like a formidable matriarch wielding influence with the flick of a wrist; she looked like a woman who had seen love bloom and wither, who knew the sharp edges of loyalty and the raw ache of betrayal.

"You know," Lydia began, her voice gentler now, as if they were sharing secrets over tea, "once, a long time ago, I thought I understood what it meant to hold someone so close that the world could burn and you wouldn’t notice."

Jerica’s throat tightened, and she felt herself drawn into Lydia’s story despite herself. There was a depth in the older woman’s eyes that hinted at buried sorrows and carefully hidden regrets, cracks in the fortress of her meticulously composed exterior. The revelation, as subtle as it was, made Jerica wonder what kind of pain and love lay behind Lydia’s formidable armor.

"Love like that," Lydia continued, her smile faint and brittle as if it could shatter under the weight of memory, "it makes you reckless. Makes you brave. But it also makes you weak in the eyes of those who know how to use it against you."

The warmth in Jerica’s expression faltered, replaced by a cold, creeping realization. Lydia’s words were both a confession and a warning, wrapping around her heart like a vice. She thought of Jared—their stolen moments, his distant silences that lingered like shadows at the edges of their happiness, the way she clung to the memory of his touch as if it were a lifeline cast in stormy seas. The room seemed to close in, the weight of Lydia’s gaze and the implications behind it pressing down on her.

The scent of roasted coffee and fresh pastries, once comforting, now seemed cloying and thick. Jerica glanced at the pale sunlight filtering through the blinds, its soft glow unable to pierce the tension that lay between them.

"Tell me," Lydia said, leaning back now, the elegance returning to her posture as she folded her hands neatly in her lap. The steel in her eyes belied the casualness of her movement. "What are you willing to do for the man you love, Jerica?"

A shiver traced its way down Jerica’s spine. The question was deceptively simple, but it laid bare the truth she had always known. She had moved past pretense, past doubt. The battle lines were drawn, yet the stakes had never been clearer—her heart, tethered so irrevocably to Jared’s, was already on the field.

"I’ll be by his side, wherever he goes, whatever he does," she said, her voice steady and unyielding. It was more than just words—it was a promise she had made in the quiet hours of the night, wrapped in the sheets that still carried his scent. It was a conviction born from every shared look, every argument that ended in silence, every tender moment that made the darkness bearable. Jared might not know it, might not even understand the depths to which her love reached, but she was willing to go to the ends of the earth for him. If he ended up six feet under, she would follow without question, without hesitation. It wasn’t desperation—it was the resolute acknowledgment that without him, her tether to life would unravel.

Lydia’s gaze held steady, a silent observer who understood the deeper meaning embedded in Jerica’s words. Yet, there was no triumph in her eyes, no trace of challenge—only a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like admiration. The silence between them thickened, electric and fragile, as if the air itself dared not break it.

Finally, Lydia’s lips curved into a smile, soft and wistful. "You remind me of myself," she whispered, a confession that seemed to surprise even her. She stood, the movement breaking the spell that had woven around them, and smoothed the silk fabric of her dress as if gathering herself. "But be careful, Jerica. Love that deep can become its own prison."

Jerica’s chest ached with the weight of Lydia’s words, even as the older woman turned and walked away, leaving the faint scent of jasmine in her wake. The room seemed emptier without her presence, and yet the heaviness remained, a ghostly echo of their conversation lingering in the air.

Jerica exhaled, only now realizing she had been holding her breath. The café around her came back into focus—the quiet murmur of conversations, the clink of porcelain cups on saucers, the soft hum of the espresso machine. Yet none of it reached her. She stood, feeling unsteady on her feet, and glanced at the spot where Lydia had been, as if expecting her to materialize again with another cryptic warning.

But Lydia was gone, leaving Jerica with nothing but the sharp pulse of her heartbeat and the unanswered question that lingered: What did Lydia truly want from her?

The answer eluded her, shrouded in the same enigma that wrapped itself around Jared’s silences. Jerica ran her fingers over the table’s polished surface, tracing the grain of the wood as if it could ground her. It was past lunch hours, and her stomach growled in protest, but she couldn’t muster the appetite. The thought of food felt inconsequential against the gnawing unease that settled in her chest. What she craved was the comfort of Jared’s presence, the familiarity of home, the small rituals that spoke of love in their own quiet way.

She glanced at her phone. No message from him. She had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that he would send her something. Even just a "Thinking of you" would have been enough to soothe the frayed edges of her heart. But the screen remained stubbornly blank.

But Lydia... What was her aim?

Jerica stood there, confusion clouding her mind, but she pushed it aside as she prepared to head back to her office. It was past lunch hours, and though she didn’t feel hungry, her heart warmed at the thought of Jared cooking for her. He was home the entire day, and he would be preparing her a feast.

Thinking about the dinner, Jerica’s lips curved into a soft smile. Her steps faltered, however, when she noticed the car with the diplomatic flag still parked outside. The chauffeur stepped forward, opening the door and bowing politely.

They’re going to drop me off too? Jerica was sweetly perplexed but accepted the gesture with a nod. Why pay unnecessarily for a taxi?

When Jerica stepped out of the car at her office, she caught sight of Henry Bassinger, the elderly, sharp-eyed man who worked in records. His gaze shifted from the car to her, narrowing. Without warning, he started toward her, his face set with an uncharacteristic intensity.

Panic thrummed through Jerica’s veins. Was he angry because she had given him the wrong documents earlier? Without waiting to find out, she spun on her heel and bolted across the street. A bus screeched to a halt in front of her, and without a second thought, she leapt aboard, her heart racing. Through the window, she saw Henry standing at the curb, eyes wide with disbelief.

But as the city blurred past her, a grin returned to Jerica’s face. Thoughts of Jared and the evening ahead washed over her, melting her anxiety away.

When she arrived home, anticipation fizzled into confusion. The house was dark and silent. Jared wasn’t there.

Disappointment settled in her chest, heavy and cold. Jerica wandered to the bedroom, telling herself that he must have gone out to buy groceries for dinner. She sank onto the bed, its familiar scent wrapping around her like a warm embrace. It smelled like him—clean, crisp, with a hint of sandalwood—and her lips curled into a smile as she hugged his pillow.

Before she knew it, sleep claimed her. When she woke, the sky outside had turned a deep shade of blue, and silence draped over the house like a shroud. Jerica sat up, stretching, half-expecting the delicious aroma of dinner to fill the air. But there was nothing.

The emptiness pressed in on her, and she rose to shake off the unease. Cleaning would distract her. She moved from room to room until she reached his study, where papers lay scattered, an uncharacteristic disarray that spoke of a hurried departure. As she tidied, she noticed one of the drawers slightly ajar.

Curiosity pricked at her. Jerica hesitated, her conscience warring with the need for answers. Finally, she slid the drawer open and found it—a journal. Jared’s journal.

Her heart thudded as she thumbed through its pages. It wasn’t filled with reflections or musings, just neat entries of dates and events, coded notes she couldn’t decipher. Yet it was intimate in its own way, a record of what he deemed important.

She flipped to the last page and found a calendar, meticulously marked. Her eyes skimmed over the dates, and a chill skated down her spine.

Her menstrual cycle.