17. Pierce
PIERCE
The envelope landed on my desk with my name typed on the front in block letters.
I stared at it. I pulled the papers out, scanning the first page.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
My chest tightened. The words didn't make sense. Hannah had walked out two days ago, sure, but this was—God, this was a stack of paper. She'd been upset plenty of times, never with that kind of calm in her voice. This was something else entirely.
I flipped through the pages. Legal jargon, dates, our names repeated over and over. My throat went dry. She'd actually done it. She'd hired a lawyer, signed her name, and had the papers drawn up and sent to me. The anger came up hot behind my breastbone.
This was insane.
I shoved the papers aside, reached for my phone, and pulled up my contacts. My lawyer answered on the second ring. I didn't waste time with pleasantries.
"I need you to make something go away," I said.
"What kind of something?"
"Divorce papers. My wife's lawyer sent them. I want them dismissed, withdrawn, whatever the hell needs to happen."
There was a pause on the other end. "Pierce, if she's already served you, it's not that simple."
"Make it simple." My jaw was tight, the words coming out clipped. "That's what I pay you for."
"I can try to delay the proceedings, but if she wants a divorce?—"
"She doesn't." I cut him off, my hand gripping the edge of the desk. "She's upset. She'll come around. Just buy me some time. And offer her whatever it takes. Money isn't the issue. I want these papers gone."
He sighed. "I'll see what I can do."
I hung up and sat back in my chair, staring at the papers. The whole thing was absurd. Six years don't end on a few sheets of paper. We'd figure it out. We always did.
The door to my office opened and Carter walked in without knocking. He had that look on his face, the one that said he wasn't here to make small talk.
"Heard Hannah's gone," he said, dropping into the chair across from me.
I glanced up at him. "Word travels fast."
"You going to tell me what happened?"
"She left," I said, keeping my voice even. "She'll be back."
Carter leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at me like he was sizing something up. Then he nodded at the papers on my desk.
"Those what I think they are?"
I didn't answer.
He blew out a breath. "Jesus, Pierce."
"She's been under a lot of stress with the pregnancy. She's not thinking straight."
"Maybe." Carter's tone was careful, too careful. "Or maybe she's been thinking straighter than you have."
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"How much were you throwing at this problem before she walked?"
"I offered to fix it. I told her we'd handle whatever she needed."
"With money."
"With resources, yeah. What else is there?
" My hands were flat on the desk, my pulse kicking up.
"The nursery Sienna designed is finished.
It's practical. It's already done. I told her I'd have Sienna redo the nursery if she didn't like it.
I told her we'd get more help around the house. I told her?—"
"You threw money at her," Carter said, his voice level. "That's what you did."
My chest tightened. "That's not?—"
"It is." He held my gaze. "And maybe that's the problem."
I sat back, the irritation crawling up my spine. "So what, I'm supposed to apologize for being able to provide for my wife? For making sure she has everything she needs?"
"Everything she needs," Carter repeated slowly. "You sure about that?"
I didn't answer.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "When's the last time you went to one of her appointments?"
"I know she has them. I couldn't tell you when."
"The baby, Pierce. The prenatal appointments. When's the last time you went?"
My jaw tightened. "I've been busy. She knows that."
"When's the last time you asked her about them?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The answer sat in my throat like a stone. I couldn't remember.
"When's the last time you had dinner with her?" Carter asked. "Not a work dinner, not something with clients. Just the two of you."
"We eat together."
"When?"
I didn't answer.
Carter shook his head, his voice quieter now. "When's the last time you actually listened to her? Not fixed something, not solved a problem. Just listened."
The words hit me harder than they should have. My hands curled into fists on the desk, my chest tight. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the defense wouldn't come.
"She's pregnant," I said finally, my voice rough. "She needs to be taking care of herself, not worrying about?—"
"About what? You?" Carter's eyebrows went up. "Pierce, she's your wife. She's having your kid. What the hell else is she supposed to worry about?"
I looked down at the papers on my desk, my throat tight. The anger was still there, simmering under my skin, but it wasn't aimed at Hannah.
It was aimed at myself.
Carter stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans. He left without waiting for a response, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the divorce papers. Then I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out the white handkerchief I'd been keeping there. Wrapped inside was Hannah's wedding ring, the one she'd left on the nursery shelf.
I turned it over in my fingers, the weight of it somehow heavier than it should have been. She'd worn this for six years. She'd chosen me, chosen this life, chosen to be here. And I'd—what? Assumed it was enough? Assumed she'd stay no matter what I did or didn't do?
God, I was an idiot.
I thought about the baby. Our baby. Hannah was carrying our child, and I hadn't been to a single appointment.
I didn't know when the next one was. I didn't know if she'd picked out names, if she was scared, if she needed anything.
I didn't know her anymore, and that realization knocked the wind out of me.
I folded the handkerchief back over the ring and set it on the desk, my hands shaking slightly. Then I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through my calendar.
If Hannah wasn't coming back—and the papers said she wasn't—then I'd have to handle things myself, because she was pregnant and shouldn't be carrying it anyway.
The dinners, the events, the social calendar she'd been managing for years.
I'd never paid attention to how much she did, never thought about it.
I opened my email and started going through the list. Three dinners this month, two charity events, a gala next week. All of them coordinated by Hannah, all of them running smoothly because she made sure they did. It sank in slowly, and then all at once, just how much I'd been leaning on her.
The first call was to the caterer for Thursday's dinner. I had the contact information only because it was buried in an old email chain Hannah had forwarded to me months ago.
"Catering office," the woman answered.
"This is Pierce Langford. I'm calling about the dinner on Thursday."
"Oh, Mr. Langford." Her voice was warm, familiar. "Is everything all right? Mrs. Langford usually?—"
"She's unavailable," I said, cutting her off. My jaw was tight. "I need to confirm the details."
There was a pause. "Of course. We have the menu finalized, dietary restrictions noted for your guests, wine pairings selected. Mrs. Langford approved everything two weeks ago. The setup is at six, service at seven-thirty."
I wrote it down, my handwriting messy. "And the guest list?"
"Mrs. Langford sent that over two weeks ago, sir. Twelve guests, seating arrangements included."
I hadn't known there were seating arrangements. "Right. Thank you."
The next call was to the venue for the charity gala. The coordinator picked up on the first ring, and I went through the same script. Mrs. Langford usually handles this. The phrase was like a knife every time I heard it.
"We have the table reserved under your name, ten seats, and Mrs. Langford already selected the auction items you'll be sponsoring," the coordinator said. "She also confirmed your speech for the evening."
"My what?"
"Your speech, Mr. Langford. You're presenting the education grant this year. Mrs. Langford submitted your talking points last month."
I closed my eyes, my free hand pressed against my forehead. "Right. Of course."
By the fourth call, I was gritting my teeth. Every conversation was the same. Hannah had handled it. Hannah had confirmed it. Hannah had thought of the detail I didn't even know existed. I'd been walking through my life while she built the framework that held it together, and I'd never noticed.
I pulled up the shared calendar on my laptop, the one I barely looked at, and started scrolling. Every event had notes attached. Confirm final headcount. Send thank-you notes. Remind Pierce about the toast. Small things, a hundred small things, all of them managed quietly while I focused on work.
The dinner Sienna had planned for my business partners was scheduled for Friday.
I stared at the calendar entry, my jaw tight.
Sienna had insisted on handling it herself, had brushed off Hannah's offers to help.
At the time, I'd thought it was efficient.
Hannah had been busy with the pregnancy, and Sienna was good at her job. It made sense.
Now, looking at it, I felt something cold settle in my gut.
I called the restaurant and canceled the reservation.
"Sir, this is very short notice," the manager said, her voice strained. "Are you certain?"
"I'm certain."
"We'll still have to charge for the cancellation."
"That's fine."
I hung up and sent an email to my business partners, apologizing for the change in plans and suggesting we reschedule. The responses came back within the hour, polite but cool. By the end of the day, I had a message from my CFO.
We lost the deal. They're going with Mitchell & Cross instead.
I stared at the message, my hands flat on the desk. The partnership had been worth millions, a deal we'd been working toward for six months. And I'd just tanked it.
For a moment, I wanted to be angry. Wanted to blame someone, anyone. But I couldn't. This was on me. All of it.
I left the office late, the city lights blurring past as I drove home. The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway, and I sat in the car for a minute, staring at it. It looked the same as it always did. Clean, expensive, perfectly maintained. Empty.
I let myself in and walked through the hall, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood. The living room was spotless. The kitchen was pristine. Everything in its place, everything exactly as it should be.
Because Hannah had made it that way.
I stopped in the kitchen and put my keys down on the counter. The quiet had a shape to it now. Behind all of it sat a shared calendar I barely opened, with notes in her hand about dinners and guest lists and toasts, and every one of them had been done before I knew it needed doing.
Twelve guests for Thursday, seating arrangements included. A speech I hadn't known I was giving, its talking points sent in a month ago. A hundred small things, kept going quietly, for six years, while I called it my life.
I stood there with my hand flat on the cold counter and looked at the room the way she must have seen it every day.
The polish on the surfaces. The order. None of it had happened by itself.
She'd given up her classroom for this house and this calendar, and I had never once said thank you, because I had never once seen it.
I pulled out a stool and sat down, my elbows on the counter, my head in my hands. It settled over me like a weight, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe.
I stayed there for a long time, the silence pressing in around me, and let myself feel it.