Chapter Two

I thought the moment he signed his name would feel like relief. But life—especially the life I shared with Lucas Cole—never followed a script.

I locked the divorce petition deep in the station’s storage locker. There were still seventy-two hours before I could file it with the court. Those three days became a strange kind of reprieve… and Sophia Ross, my “guest,” became an ever-present jailer.

“Morning, Isabella.” On Tuesday I’d barely walked into the newsroom when I heard her overly bright voice. She was leaning against the partition of my workspace, holding a limited-edition mug stamped with the Cole Tech logo.

“That mug…” I couldn’t help it.

“Oh, this?” She smiled without the slightest guilt. “I saw it in Luca’s study yesterday. He said no one uses it anyway, so I borrowed it for tea. You don’t mind, right?”

What could I say? That he was my husband, this was my home, my… ex-husband-in-waiting? The petition wasn’t effective yet, and my pride wouldn’t let me claim territory like a resentful wife.

“Go ahead,” I said, sitting down and turning on my computer.

“Right,” she added, still not leaving. “Luca said Cole Tech’s earnings call pre-release coverage next quarter can be an exclusive with our station. He specifically named me to lead it. Do you think a traditional studio interview is better, or would an on-site headquarters feature be more original?”

My fingers froze on the keyboard. Pre-earnings coverage for Cole Tech was a top-tier resource—usually handled personally by the business news chief. Even veteran anchors didn’t always get to touch it.

“Lucas ‘named’ you?” My voice came out dry.

“Mm-hm.” She sipped her tea, eyes curving into crescents. “He said my interview approach is ‘insightful.’ Oh—and the Wicks Energy special airs at eight tonight. Don’t forget to watch.”

She finally drifted away, leaving behind a faint cedar scent—the same diffuser Lucas used in his study.

Chloe leaned over from the next desk, lowering her voice. “Jesus. Is she listing her trophies for you?”

“Pretty much.” I stared at the screen. The words on my document blurred.

“You need to talk to Lucas,” Chloe said flatly.

“Talk about what?” I tugged at the corner of my mouth. “ ‘Hey, the man who’s still my husband on paper—could you maybe stop handing out your business resources like candy to your first love while stepping on my career path?’”

“Better than suffocating.”

I shook my head. I’d tried too many times—about respect, boundaries, my work, the career he always treated as if it never carried enough “weight.” His answers never changed: “Isabella, don’t be emotional. Sophia just got back; she needs to build industry credibility. You have time.”

Was my time really cheaper than hers?

*

That weekend, the station threw a small party to celebrate the Wicks Energy interview. Sophia was the unquestioned star, surrounded on all sides.

“So you and Mr. Cole really were college sweethearts?” a new entertainment reporter asked, thrilled.

Sophia’s cheeks pinked; her eyes drifted toward me drinking alone not far away. “That was all in the past. Young love is beautiful… but fragile.” She paused, her voice threaded with exactly the right wistfulness. “Back then we were too proud. We thought the future was endless.”

“I heard he’s married now?” someone pressed, gaze sliding toward me.

The room went strangely quiet for a heartbeat.

Then a low, familiar voice answered from the doorway:

“That was a long time ago.”

Lucas Cole walked in, immaculate in a suit. His gaze cut through the crowd with precision—first landing on Sophia, then, as if with a belated hesitation, turning to me.

A low murmur rose. “Whoa…”

“Mr. Cole, so you and Sophia really—”

Lucas stopped beside Sophia and, naturally, rested his hand along the back of the chair behind her. He didn’t look at me. The corner of his mouth held a curve I’d never seen before—almost gentle.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but every person in the room heard it clearly. “She was the first person I ever truly loved.”

Applause, whistles, and cheers exploded. Sophia dipped her head shyly and gave his arm a light tap.

I stood still, my champagne icy enough to hurt. Chloe’s grip tightened around my wrist, her nails almost biting into skin.

Lucas finally looked at me. His eyes were complicated—warning, apology, and maybe a kind of pleading I couldn’t read. Pleading for what? For me to play along? To stay quiet?

I tilted my head back and finished the entire glass in one swallow. The bubbles burned down my throat.

Then I set the glass down and, in the middle of all that noise, said clearly and calmly to Chloe, “Let’s go. The air in here is bad.”

I didn’t look at him again. I didn’t look at the woman soaking in everyone’s envy.

Outside, Manhattan’s night wind hit my face. Chloe was shaking with anger. “How can he—? That bastard! Does he even know what he just said?”

I knew. He knew.

He was drawing lines. In public, under rules he understood and controlled, he chose his past, his debts, his… Sophia.

And I was only the wife—the woman who supposedly “isn’t suited” to deep interviews, who needs to “change her approach,” who wasn’t even worth having her name spoken aloud.

Or rather: the woman about to become an ex-wife.

Back at the apartment, I locked my bedroom door. From the living room came Lucas and Sophia returning late, laughing, and the bright clink of ice in a bucket.

I opened my laptop, logged into the station’s internal system, and pulled up the completed Hazard Zone Deployment Application.

The cursor hovered over “Submit.”

Outside the window, the city lights glittered—countless cold, unreachable dreams.