9. No Signature Required #2
Toby stood in the threshold holding a black velvet box in his right hand. He looked out of breath, having sprinted from the elevator bank to reach me upstairs.
“You made good time,” I said, stepping back to clear the doorway. “Did the boutique give you any trouble at this hour?”
Toby crossed the carpet, holding the velvet box out to me. “No, sir. The manager kept the register open. The boutique packed it in their best presentation box, sir. I also took the liberty of laying out your suit for the VIP reception.”
I took the package from his hand. The velvet felt soft against my thumb. I found the latch and pushed the lid open. The chandelier above us cast bright light down into the interior, catching the sparkle of the diamonds resting against the lining.
I stared at the jewelry. The tension left my shoulders. I was at the peak of my career. There wasn’t a single domestic issue I couldn’t solve with my checkbook.
This necklace was the ultimate olive branch. It would finally put an end to Sutton’s dramatic, isolated road trip.
I pictured driving up the coast to whatever bed-and-breakfast she had booked. I would hand her the box and offer a sincere apology for missing the dinner, and she would forgive me. We would go right back to normal.
I set the box on the table, admiring the stones. “This is exactly what I needed to smooth things over with Sutton when we get back.”
Toby nodded, watching me snap the lid shut. “It is a beautiful piece, sir. Shall I head downstairs and tell Eleanor you will be down in ten minutes?”
I looked down at the coffee table.
“Tell her I just need to change my shirt, and I’ll meet her in the lobby,” I said, setting the diamonds down and preparing to finish the night.
Toby stepped backward, his hand resting on the handle of the suite door.
He pulled it open, ready to head back down to the lobby to appease my mother.
Before Toby could clear the threshold, a man in a plain suit stepped into the gap.
The stranger blocked the exit. He ignored my PR handler, his gaze fixed dead on me.
“Hey, you can’t be up here!” Toby shouted. He shifted his weight, trying to crowd the doorway. “This floor is restricted to private access. You need to turn around right now.”
The man held his ground against Toby’s attempt to block the doorway. He clutched a FedEx envelope pressed flat against his side. The dim light from the corridor cast long shadows across his unsmiling face.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said. He remained level and practiced, completely ignoring Toby’s shouting. “Mr. Hayes Gallagher? I need you to confirm your identity.”
Toby raised his arm, moving to shove the man out into the corridor, but the stranger simply brushed Toby’s wrist away without breaking eye contact.
I turned away from the glass coffee table, leaving the diamond necklace sitting under the chandelier light.
The intruder possessed zero interest in a photograph or a tabloid quote.
He looked completely unimpressed by the PR handler.
I assumed the studio had dispatched a courier to force a last-minute script revision into my hands.
“It’s fine, Toby—relax,” I said, closing the distance between us. “I am Hayes Gallagher.”
Without a word, the man thrust the envelope into my chest. I brought my hands up to catch it.
“No signature required, sir,” the man said, taking a single step backward into the corridor. “You have officially been served. Have a good evening.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward the elevator bank. Toby stood frozen in the doorway, his mouth hanging open. The soundproofed door remained wide open, leaking the muffled roar of the VIP reception from the floors below. I looked down at the package resting in my hands.
There was no return address. A red pull-tab spanned the top flap.
She sent me a letter. The thought flashed through my mind, instantly clearing up my confusion. My mother insisted Sutton would cool off. I assumed my wife had reached her breaking point on the road and mailed a list of demands.
I hooked my index finger under it and pulled. The cardboard tore with a loud, jagged rip that cut through the muffled roar of the reception. I reached inside the opening and grabbed a stack of folded paper. I pulled the documents free and let the ruined envelope drop to the carpet.
The paper was crisp. I unfolded the top sheet. Bold black ink screamed up from the page.
The edges of the pages fluttered against each other. The dry rustling filled the quiet entryway, betraying the sudden tremor in my hands. I gripped the paper tighter, but the printed text refused to stay in focus, the black letters blurring into illegible shapes.
This was not a letter. It was a court filing.
I stared blankly at the legal header, searching for her name.
Sutton had not gone on a temporary road trip.
She had not booked a quiet coastal bed-and-breakfast to wait for my inevitable apology.
She had hired a lawyer. She had filed the paperwork to permanently end our marriage while I stood across an ocean, letting another woman cling to my arm for the cameras. My mother was wrong.
I skipped past the jurisdictional stamps, frantically scanning the page for her name. Underneath the bold print identifying the Petitioner, a residential address was listed: Driftwood Blooms Farm.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage,” I whispered to the empty room, staring at the address located in Mendocino County.
I dropped the stack of legal documents onto the glass. The pages landed with a flat slap, settling directly next to the open box. The overhead light caught the brilliant cut of the necklace resting inside the lining.
I stared at the expensive jewelry. The sparkle looked pathetic against the reality of the black ink on the court filing.
The floor dropped out from beneath me. All the secure, predictable plans I had been making for us suddenly meant nothing.
I had traded her quiet, genuine loyalty to stand on red carpets and appease studio executives.
Now, she was legally severing our lives while I played the leading man thousands of miles away.
“Sir? What is it?” Toby asked from the entryway.
The low, rhythmic thumping of the bass from the VIP party leaked through the propped-open door. Toby checked his phone, rapidly scrolling through his messages.
“We need to get downstairs,” he continued, taking a hesitant step into the suite. “Eleanor is texting me that the studio heads are asking for you.”
I turned away from the table. The muffled bass from the party faded out, swallowed by a ringing silence. I didn’t care about the executives. The tour, the movies, the money—it all meant nothing if I didn’t have a wife to come home to.
“It’s my wife,” I said to the quiet room. “She wants us to get a divorce.”
Toby froze in the middle of the carpet, his hands clamped around his phone.
“Cancel the reception and call the pilot!” I shouted, the volume of my own voice shattering the silence. “We are flying to California right now.”
Toby stammered, pulling his phone against his chest, terrified of abandoning the master schedule.
“Sir, Eleanor is waiting for you downstairs!” Toby argued, his voice rising in panic. “She will absolutely fire both of us if you leave without her approval.”
I stepped into his space, ripping my collar wider. I had spent three years following my mother’s script, letting her curate my marriage into a convenient secret to protect a studio asset. I was done following her orders.
“I don’t give a damn what Eleanor said, or who she fires!” I roared, pointing a finger directly at his chest. “You get that plane ready right now, or I will find my own way to the airport!”
Toby flinched at the volume. He didn’t argue again. He raised his phone to his ear, backed out of the doorway, and sprinted down the corridor to alert the private airfield.
I spun around and marched to the sofa. I snatched my canvas travel bag off the carpet, gripping the strap as I stared across the penthouse, terrified that I was already too late.