Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
JENSEN
I sit back, hands clasped in front of me, eyes on her profile. She won’t look at me—not when I’m watching. But I’ve caught her glancing over, her gaze flicking my way, lingering. I’m no expert at reading people, but I know Alley.
I know her better than anyone.
I know the scar on her ankle and the one on her knee from a scooter crash when she was twelve. I know the birthmark on her ass—it’s small, looks like a mole, and it’s cute as hell. I know how to make her laugh until she cries.
And I know this is killing her. The act. The pretending she doesn’t care.
I study her, not caring that I’ve been staring for most of the meeting, or that she’s caught me more than once. I’m not trying to hide it. She’s my wife. I want her to see me looking at her, admiring her. If this is the only way I can show her how much I love her, then I’ll keep staring.
She looks gorgeous, but that’s no surprise.
One of my favorite versions of Alley is in the mornings—half-asleep, hair kinked, fresh face, oversized T-shirt and no pants.
There’s something vulnerable about it. The way she hides her face, thinking she looks like shit.
How she’s self-conscious about morning breath, and I couldn’t care less.
When I see her like that, I just want to wrap myself around her and kiss her until she believes she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.
Her hair’s longer, the longest it’s ever been. Her black sleeveless dress hugs her perfectly, teasing every bit of what’s underneath.
Her eyes shift from the lawyer’s to mine. She narrows them slightly, brow furrowed as she takes a deep breath, then flicks her gaze to the table.
Shit. If that wasn’t lust written all over my face…
But it was all over hers too.
I should know better than to read too much into a look. But the few times I’ve caught her gaze… it doesn’t feel like hate. Doesn’t feel like someone who wants to get a divorce. If anything, it feels like the opposite of that.
Like someone who wouldn’t mind getting fucked in a utility closet instead of sitting here in this stuffy office.
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. She doesn’t really want this.
I cling to that thought, because it’s the only thing giving me enough confidence to get through this meeting still a married man.
I didn’t know what to expect today. I’ve been scared shitless, telling myself for months that Alley still loves me. That if I could just see her, talk to her, things would be different.
I know it’s not that simple. Especially after weeks of being ignored, texts left on read, calls sent to voicemail. It’s been fucking brutal. And now, seeing her like this? Avoidant. Standoffish.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. That’s for damn sure.
I’ve fucked up more than anyone ever should. I know I don’t deserve Alley—not after everything I’ve done, everything I’ve put her through. But I also know I can make her happy. When things are good between us, they’re really good. We can get back there. I know we can.
This is my last chance to show her who I’ve become. I don’t need to win her over today. I just need to delay the signing. Plant seeds. Remind her of what we were. Show her who I am now. Prove I’m still someone worth loving.
“We appreciate the revised offer,” Keith says.
“As you know, Mr. Adams has always maintained that he wants a fair resolution. Given the reasons behind the divorce, he still believes you deserve more than fifty percent. But he’s prepared to accept these terms, assuming we can clarify the division of the primary assets, specifically the furniture and joint investment accounts. ”
“I don’t want any of the furniture,” she says.
“Al,” I say gently. “Come on. You picked it out. It’s just as much yours as it is mine.”
She finally meets my gaze. Her voice is soft, but steady. “We picked it out. And I don’t want it.”
“I’ll pay to have it moved. You’ll have enough to hire movers either way.”
“It’s not about that, Jensen.”
I nod. “Then what’s it about?”
She swallows, eyes locked on mine. She doesn’t answer right away.
“I don’t want reminders,” she says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of us.” Her gaze drops to the table. “It’s too hard.”
My throat locks, but I hold it together. “Well then… at least sell it. Don’t short—”
“Jensen.” She looks up, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Just keep it, okay? Please.”
“Okay.” It’s all I can manage, not because I agree, but because I’ll lose it if I try to say anything else.
“Well, it sounds like we’ve come to an agreement,” the mediator says, glancing between us like it’s just business. “Let’s review the listed assets to ensure we’re all on the same page before proceeding.”
Her lawyer slides a printed packet across the table. “We’ve itemized everything—bank accounts, home furnishings, vehicle equity, retirement and investment accounts.”
“We’ve cross-referenced with our own copy,” Keith replies. “I believe we’re aligned on most of the valuations.”
I nod along as they start going through the accounts—the stocks, the retirement breakdown. But something about hearing it out loud makes my stomach turn. It’s like watching someone list off the contents of your life at an estate sale—only I’m still alive.
Panic sets in, a cold sweat rushing through me. Fuck. They’re not just talking about dividing furniture. They’re dividing us. This is happening.
I told Keith to do whatever it takes to avoid signing today. I don’t know what he has up his sleeve, but this very much feels like we’re headed straight for pen and paper. The nausea crawling up my throat is anything but calming.
I swallow hard, my hands tightening in my lap. It takes everything in me not to walk around this table and remind her—beg her—to come home with me. Watch football with me. Just hang out. Talk to me.
“Could we—” I interrupt, glancing at our lawyers, then back to Alley. “Could we have a few minutes alone?” I ask them, but I’m only looking at her. “Just you and me. Please.” My voice cracks on the last word, and it’s pathetic.
“Jensen,” she says softly.
“That’s up to Ms. Adams,” her lawyer says.
“Please, babe. Please.” I hold her gaze with the desperation of a man heading off to war.
She holds it, her eyes glistening.
Her attention suddenly shifts to her watch, brows pinching. Then she’s digging through her purse. “I’m so sorry,” she says, pulling out her phone. “I need to take this call. It’s important.” She stands, already heading for the door as she answers. “Hey. What’s going on?”
The door closes behind her, leaving me in the thick, awkward silence of my insufferable desperation.
“This is going reasonably well,” the mediator says, his voice slicing through the tension.
No, actually. It’s not going well. At least not for me. Jesus.
Alley’s lawyer shuffles some papers, and Keith turns toward me. “How you holding up? You okay?”
I let out a slow breath. “What does that word even mean right now?” I rub my hands over my face, pressing my fingers into my forehead. “This is happening, isn’t it? I’m going to walk out of here divorced.”
He takes a beat before answering. “That’s a very probable outcome.” Then he leans in, lowering his voice. “Don’t panic. I said I’d stall.” He leans back again, giving me a firm nod—subtle, steady, like he’s still got this under control.
The door opens, and Alley steps back in, moving quickly toward her purse.
“I’m sorry. I have a family emergency. I have to go.”
Her eyes are wet, and she wipes at her cheek like she doesn’t want anyone to see.
I stand. “Al. What is it?”
She looks at me, and for a second, it feels like she might actually come to me. Fall apart in my arms and tell me everything. Like before.
But her gaze shifts to her lawyer instead. “We’ll have to reschedule. I’m flexible.”
“Is everything okay, Ms. Adams?” her lawyer asks gently, concern pulling at his features.
“I’m not really sure.”
My chest swells. My fists clench at my sides. She’s falling apart—and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
She glances at me one last time before turning back to him. “Let’s just try to get this over with as soon as possible. I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. She’s already pulling the door open.
I’m across the room before I can think. “Alley,” I call after her as she rushes down the hall.
She glances over her shoulder. “Jensen, please. We can talk later.”
“Alley, wait—”
She reaches the elevators and stabs the down button.
“Please,” I say, softer now as I catch up. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Her lips part, then close again. She shakes her head. “It’s my dad.”
The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open. She steps inside, turning back toward me. “We’ll reschedule,” she says, voice strained, then meets my gaze as I take a step forward. “Jensen, please… don’t follow me.”
I stop cold, chest aching to be there for her. I nod, forcing myself to stay rooted in place.
“Wait,” I say again, as I throw my arm out to stop the doors from closing.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out the folded envelope. The last letter I wrote to her. “I wanted to give this to you.” I hold it out. “I wrote it in rehab.”
Her eyes flick down to the envelope, then back up to mine.
“You don’t have to read it. But it’s yours. Just… take it.”
She hesitates, then steps forward and takes it from my hand. Doesn’t say a word. Just clutches it, eyes glossy.
The door closes.
And she’s gone.
My wife’s fucking gone again.
My eyes close. “Shit.” I back up, hands laced behind my head as I suck in a shaky breath.
God, I wanted to prove I’d changed. Instead, I just proved I could still lose her.
My arms fall to my sides, and I turn in defeat. How many times can you lose something before it’s no longer yours to lose?
I make my way back to the office, shoulders sagging. I pull out my phone and text Matt.
Hey man. I was in mediation with Alley. She had to rush out—some kind of emergency with her dad. Can you find out what’s going on?
Matt
Sure thing. I’ll reach out to Leo so I’m not bothering her if it’s serious.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Thanks.