Page 152 of Dial F for Finance

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

“Let me help, Jenna. We can hang up the blouses⁠—”

“Ma, please. I said I have it.”

The sharpness in my tone makes her flinch, and immediate guilt curdles in my stomach. She’s only trying to help me carry something she can’t even see. I exhale, running a shaky hand through my hair. “Sorry. I just . . . I want to do it myself. Thank you.”

She nods, offering a small, tight smile before retreating to the safety of her kitchen. The sink water turns on—a polite, domestic acoustic shield.

I turn back to the leather weekender. It feels like a bomb waiting to detonate on the floral upholstery. I reach out, my fingers catching the cold metal of the zipper. I pull it along the track, the sound unnervingly loud in the small house.

I fold back the leather flap.

My breath hitches. It’s exactly as I knew it would be. Every sweater, every blouse, every pair of slacks is perfectly, painstakingly folded. Smooth edges. Impeccable alignment. The sheer, deliberate care of it feels like a blow to the sternum. It’s Dominic in textile form—methodical, intentional, impossible to ignore.

My hands are trembling again. I force them to be still, reaching for the smaller front compartment, intending to start small with my chargers and toiletries. I pull the zipper back.

Instead of my makeup bag, my fingers brush against heavy card stock.

I freeze. Slowly, I pull out a thick manila folder. It’s heavy. Official. In the pocket with it is a small, black velvet box. And right beside the box, gleaming against the dark nylon lining, is a solid gold wedding band.

His wedding band.

The air leaves the room. I stare at the ring, the universe narrowing to that single, heavy circle of metal. My thumb traces the edge of the manila folder, and I open it. A bright yellow Post-it note is the first thing I see.

I never wanted to win.

I just wanted you.

You’re free.

The handwriting is his. Sharp, confident, unmistakably Dominic.

I pull the Post-it from the page and the annulment papers stare back at me. On the bottom line, in thick black ink, is his signature. Witnessed by Logan. Final.

He signed them. The man who refused to lose, the man who I was certain would orchestrate a loophole, a fight, a grand theatrical gesture—he simply surrendered. He gave me exactly what I asked for in the beginning.

He undid it.

A sound escapes me—a jagged, broken gasp that I can’t suppress. The hairline cracks in my armor don’t just spread, they shatter completely. I sink onto the floor, clutching my knees to my chest as the first sob tears its way out of my throat.

“Jenna? Baby, what is it—” Ma’s instantly at my side, reading over my shoulder, and I feel the moment she assembles it, the sharp intake, the hand flying to her sternum. “Oh. Oh, honey.”

“It’s fine.” My voice comes out strained. “It’s what I asked for.”

“That bastard,” Ma snaps. “How could he?” Her voice rises as she shifts instantly into battle mode. “You give them your best years and they just discard you when it gets hard. You can’t trust a single one of them, Jenna. Always lying, always cheating, always looking for a way out while they make you feel like you’re the one who isn’t enough.”

“Stop,” I whisper.

“No, I won’t stop! My baby girl is hurting and it’s only one man’s fault. I know how these men operate. They promise you the world and then⁠—”

“Ma, stop.” I say it louder this time, my voice cracking straight down the middle. She goes silent, blinking at me in shock. “Please. Stop.”

I can’t listen to this. I can’t let her rewrite him to fit her narrative of broken, untrustworthy men. Dominic is none of those things. He didn’t lie. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t abandon me. He did the absolute most terrifying thing a man like him could do: he surrendered. I’m the one who ran. I packed my bags in the middle of a thunderstorm because I looked at the man I loved and realized he held the power to destroy me. I had fallen so deep that one careless word, one shift in his affection, and I would be utterly obliterated. I was so terrified of the fall that I pushed myself off the ledge.

“I just . . . I need to be alone right now,” I manage, hauling the heavy weekender bags off the couch.

“Jenna, let me make you some tea⁠—”