Chapter 23 #2
Sinclair Wife Speaks Out
Who Is Laurel Cross?
That one makes me put my fist through the drywall in my apartment.
Wilder, who happens to be there at the time, looks at the hole and says, “Well, that’s healthy.”
I tell him to get out. He doesn’t listen to me.
The shareholders demand assurances. Owen builds a conflict management plan so detailed it could qualify as a hostage negotiation. Tate handles the Sins launch with Laurel from a distance, through emails and carefully documented calls.
She doesn’t return to the office. Doesn’t answer my calls. Hell, she doesn’t even try to call me. Every update I get comes through other people.
I know she’s staying somewhere secure. That she hired the attorney I recommended.
That she’s considering the job at Sex Activity Pro..
That she asked that I not be copied on certain emails unless legally necessary.
That one nearly drops me. Not because it’s unfair.
It’s entirely fair. But she’s drawing lines I should have drawn first. I respect them as much as I hate them.
By the third week, Jenna’s attorney becomes less theatrical. That happens after Richard requests a private meeting and slides a sealed folder across the table. I’m not there when it happens, so he tells me about it afterward.
“He showed her attorney the evidence?” Wilder asks later, sprawled across my couch like he’s moved in against my will.
“Enough of it,” I say.
“And?”
“And suddenly everyone became very interested in dignity.”
Wilder snorts. “Amazing what a six-month affair does for perspective.”
I stare at him.
He holds up both hands. “Too soon?”
“Yes.”
“Noted.”
The final settlement takes another ten days.
Jenna keeps the house. She gets a substantial payout.
She keeps the Lake Michigan property because she always loved it more than I did.
She gets a generous support arrangement for a fixed term and a charitable foundation funded in her name.
She doesn’t get my company, half my shares, and she sure as hell doesn’t get to restrict how SINsual Adult Toys handles Laurel’s employment or legal protection.
And in exchange, the evidence of Jenna’s affair stays private.
When I sign the agreement, my hand doesn’t shake. That surprises me.
Richard watches me from across the conference table. “How do you feel?”
“Poorer.”
His mouth twitches. “Emotionally.”
I set the pen down.
“I feel sad,” I say finally.
“That’s normal.”
“And relieved.”
“That is also normal.”
“And angry.”
“At Jenna?”
I think about that. “No.”
“At yourself?”
“Yes.”
Richard nods. I lean back in the chair and stare at the stack of papers that ended twenty-six years of marriage with signatures and initials.
“Do you want to know the strange part?” I ask.
Richard caps his pen. “I suspect I’m billing for it either way.”
“I’m not angry that Jenna cheated.”
“No?”
“No.” I look down at my bare hand. “I’m angry that I didn’t leave then. Or before then. Or any of the thousand times I knew we were done.”
Richard’s face softens, just slightly.
“I’m angry,” I continue, “that I waited until loving Laurel made the truth impossible to ignore.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Then he says, “Then don’t waste what the truth cost.”
That follows me out of his office.
By the time I get back to my apartment, the city is dark and my body is exhausted in a way sleep probably won’t touch. Wilder is there again because he has apparently decided I can’t be trusted alone with takeout menus and regret. I’ll never admit that I enjoy having him around.
He looks up from my couch. “Signed?”
“Yes.”
“Company intact?”
“Yes.”
“Bank account crying?”
“Softly.”
“Jenna?”
I loosen my tie. “Settled.”
He studies me. “And Laurel?”
I pour a drink I don’t want and set it down without taking a sip.
“I don’t know.”
Wilder’s expression gentles. “She hasn’t contacted you?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t contacted her?”
“She asked for distance.”
“Did she, or did the attorneys?”
I look at him.
He shrugs. “Different things, my friend.”
I walk to the windows and look out at the city. Somewhere out there, Laurel is in an apartment I don’t know, behind a door I can’t knock on, building a future I may not be part of.
She might take the job at Sex Activity Pro.
She might leave SINsual Adult Toys.
She might decide the cost of loving me is too high.
She might already have decided.
The thought is a blade turned slowly.
“I’m losing her,” I say. The words are quiet.
“Maybe,” he says.
I close my eyes. “You’re terrible at comfort.”
“I’m great at honesty.”
“I don’t want honesty.”
“Yeah, well. You’ve had enough lies.”
That one lands and I turn from the window to face him.
Wilder sits forward, elbows on his knees. “You love her?”
“Yes.”
“You told Jenna. You told us. You told your attorney. Did you ever tell Laurel?”
I say nothing.
His brows lift. “Sin.”
“She knows.”
“Does she?”
“She has to.”
“Women love when men assume their deepest emotional needs have been met by vibes.”
I glare at him.
He points at me. “Don’t glare. I’m right.”
I hate him. I also hate that he is right.
“She was publicly named, harassed, moved out of her apartment, stayed away from work, hired a lawyer, got dragged into your divorce, and may be deciding whether to leave the company she helped build a launch for.” Wilder’s voice softens.
“If you love her, maybe she deserves to hear it from you when you’re not in crisis mode. ”
“She won’t answer my calls.”
“Then write.”
I look at him.
His mouth curves faintly. “You do know what words are, right? Big CEO. Emails. Memos. Threatening little notes to suppliers.”
“A letter?”
“Old-school. Very on brand for a man who caused a scandal and then moved into a beige apartment to suffer artistically.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” He stands and grabs his coat. “Write the letter. Don’t send it until your attorney says you can. But write it.”
He leaves before I can argue.
The apartment goes silent again. This time, I don’t sit in it. I go to the desk I haven’t used since I moved in, pull open a drawer, and take out a sheet of paper.
For a long time, I stare at the blank page. Then I write her name.
Laurel.
My hand stills. Her name looks different when it isn’t in a text thread, an email chain, a legal document, or a headline. It looks like a beginning.
So I write.
I write that I’m sorry. I tell her the divorce is settling.
I tell her Jenna will be taken care of. I tell her I didn’t expose Jenna’s affair publicly because pain shouldn’t be a weapon just because someone else used it first. I tell her I should have left my marriage before touching her.
I tell her she deserved a man who came to her clean.
I tell her I failed her. I tell her I am trying to become that man anyway.
Then I stop. Because the next part is the part that matters.
I write it slowly.
I love you. I loved you before I was brave enough to call it love.
I love the way your mind works. I love your terrible jokes.
I love that you make me feel seen and challenged and wanted.
I love that you do not let me hide behind power or money or silence.
I love you enough to know that loving me may have cost you too much.
And if you decide you’re done, I will respect that.
It will hurt like hell. But I will respect it.
I stop there. Not because there is nothing else to say. Because there is too much.
The page blurs slightly. I blink hard and fold the letter once.
I don’t send it. Maybe I never will. But for the first time in weeks, I sleep. And when I wake before dawn with Laurel’s name still sitting in my chest like a wound, I realize something.
I have spent my entire life confusing possession with love.
My father possessed.
Controlled.
Took.
Jenna and I possessed a marriage long after we stopped loving inside it.
Even with Laurel, at first, I wanted to hold on because wanting her made me feel alive.
But love is not holding someone so tightly they cannot move. Love is opening my hand. Even if she leaves. The thought nearly breaks me. But beneath the pain is something steadier.
For once, I don’t want to take. I want to be worthy of what I’ve already been given. And if Laurel ever comes back to me, I want it to be because she chose me. Because she looked at the man I became after the damage and decided he was worth loving anyway.