Clause by Clause
(Jane’s POV)
stepped out of the glass–paneled law office with my jaw clenched and my pulse jackhammering in my ears.
The New York sunlight hit like a spotlight. Cruel. Exposing.
As if the whole world needed a better view of my humiliation.
The folder in my hand weighed nothing, yet felt like a stone lodged in my chest.
Inside? The full terms of the divorce Nathan Frank had planned like a business transaction.
Methodical. Brutal. Clean.
No penthouse,
No car.
No stake in the Frank–Peterson Real Estate Trust.
Not even the damn German Shepherd we’d picked out from the Pasadena shelter two years ago.
Everything? Gone.
Apparently, I was worth precisely zero after 2 years of marriage and over a decade building a life as his close friend.
I stood on the pavement like a woman uninvited to her own funeral, watching as luxury cars hissed by–sleek, indifferent machines slicing
甘
through Manhattan’s cold pulse. A Bentley glided past, followed by a Rolls. I almost laughed.
Maybe I should’ve arrived in a cab. But habit is a stubborn thing. I’d driven myself there in the Range Rover–our Range Rover, still registered in both our names. Black–on–black. Heated leather seats. The same car
Nathan once insisted I have because “a woman like you doesn’t belong in anything average.”
Now, I couldn’t tell if the heat I felt pressing against my spine was from the car’s settings or the indignation pulsing in my chest.
I’d parked it right in front of the firm’s marble steps, daring someone to ticket me. Let them try. Let the city take something else from me today.
I wanted to scream. Or laugh. Maybe both.
He was cutting me off completely. Like I’d been some stain on his pristine empire.
Like the Jane he used to wake up beside–tangled in Egyptian sheets, fingers tracing his spine–never existed.
I opened the folder again, my fingers stiff and trembling. The words. swam, but the meaning was crystal clear: No claim to the penthouse. No claim to the vehicles. No access to the art collection. Frozen accounts. No. spousal support.
Just one paragraph near the end:
“The petitioner waives any future financial obligation to the respondent.”
Nathan had not only drawn a line–he’d built a wall, poured gasoline over it, and lit a match.
“No alimony or spousal support recommended due to prior independent
income and absence of childbearing obligations.”
My grip tightened on the edge of the folder, knuckles whitening. My nails dug crescents into the fake leather, but I didn’t care.
So that was it?
All the years I’d stood beside him–supporting, enduring, playing the dutiful wife while he built an empire off the back of my silence–meant nothing. No children. No claim. No stake. According to Nathan’s world. I was just… excess inventory.
I swallowed the knot in my throat and let out a low, humorless laugh.
“Independent income,” I muttered to no one. “If you count part–time freelance design jobs between hosting charity brunches and attending gala nights with your sociopathic husband.”
I shoved the folder onto the passenger seat of my Range Rover. The leather seats still smelled like new. As I merged into traffic on Jacob’s Street, my fingers trembled on the wheel. I needed… something. Air. Food. Anything to convince my body I wasn’t about to fall apart.
Dr. Victoria Green’s voice floated into my mind like a lifeline.
“This isn’t about forgetting, Jane, It’s about releasing. When we hold on to pain like a relic, it becomes sacred in the wrong way. Jane, who do you want to be now?”
I exhaled shakily. Who do I want to be now? Certainly not the woman begging a man to recognize her worth. Not again.
My phone buzzed on the center console. A call from one of my colleagues at work.
I stared at the screen. Watched it vibrate once… twice… until it st
I do ou afdweg
Cute by Clame
screen fading into black like a pulse flatlining.
I couldn’t pick up. Not right now. Not when my lungs still felt like they’d been vacuum–sealed by the lawyer’s words.
Instead, I turned sharply down St Gregory Drive, the city swallowing met up as I pulled into a narrow alley tucked between a nail spa and a boarded–up bookstore. There, crouched in the shadow of Manhattan’s glittering façade, Kathrine’s Eatry–the kind of restaurant only those in the know ever talked about.
It wasn’t flashy. No grand signage or velvet ropes. Just a small iron plaque nailed to brick and the scent–God, the scent–wafting out from under the door: slow–roasted meats, warm spices, garlic, and smoke. The kind of aroma that grabbed your gut and whispered, home.
I stepped inside.
The lighting was low and golden, flickering slightly from overhead Edison bulbs. Wood–paneled walls, hand–painted Mediterranean tiles, and smooth jazz curling through the speakers. It was intimate, unapologetically old–world, and barely half full.
A tall woman in a navy apron greeted me from behind the counter. Her skin was warm olive, her dark hair piled in a knot. A gold chain peeked from under her collar.
“Dinner to go?” she asked with a warm smile.
“Yes, please,” I said, brushing damp strands of hair from my face. “Something comforting. Lamb, maybe?”
“Ah.” she nodded knowingly. “Then you want our signature–slow- braised lamb shank with saffron rice and roasted carrots. Comes with lemon yogurt sauce. People say it tastes like a hug.”
1040
A small smile broke across my lips before I could stop it. “That sounds…. great.”
She tilted her head. “Rough day?”
“Rough few weeks,” I said softly.
She offered a sympathetic nod and rang up the order. “It’ll be ten minutes. Want a drink while you wait?”
“No, thank you,” I murmured, moving to a small bench near the window.
The smells, the quiet jazz, the heat from the open kitchen–it all wrapped around me like a balm. I sat there, feeling the ache in my shoulders slowly uncoil.
As I waited, my eyes drifted to the chalkboard menu near the door. My gaze locked on an old favorite scribbled at the bottom in bold cursive:
Grilled eggplant moussaka – My Favorite,
My heart snagged on the memory. This had been our spot once. Nathan and I. Before he turned into a stranger. Before he started drawing battle lines in lawyer–speak.
Ten minutes later, my name was called, and I collected the warm bag with a quiet “thank you.” The woman behind the counter added a
complimentary almond pastry wrapped in wax paper.
“Something sweet to end your rough day,” she said.
I nodded, throat tight. “Thanks. Really.”
The cold night air felt sharper when I stepped back outside, but the food in my hand grounded me–something tangible, something warm.
1024
Charly Clause
I drove to the Musk Hotel in silence, the city humming around me like it didn’t care.
The moment I entered the suite, I placed the bag on the glass table and stood motionless. The silence wrapped around me differently now–less comforting, more like waiting.
I didn’t open the food. Not yet.
Instead, my thoughts drifted, uninvited but persistent, toward Andrew Dole.
“You need protection right now–real protection. Nathan’s got resources, connections, lawyers who would bleed you dry in a real divorce. I have more power than he realizes. We use my name, my assets, my reputation. You become untouchable.”
At the time, I’d laughed. Called him dramatic. Didn’t give it much thoughts.
But now? Now that I’d read Nathan’s calculated erasure of me from his world, the offer didn’t seem so far–fetched.
I walked slowly to the bathroom, unzipping my jacket and letting it fall where it landed. A hot bath. That’s what I needed.
The Musk’s suite bathroom was indulgent–marbled walls, black stone counters, and a sunken tub beneath a skylight. I turned on the taps and poured in lavender bath oil until the water turned hazy and fragrant. Steam curled into the air like ghosts of forgotten selves.
I slipped into the tub and let the heat devour me. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was thick. Almost too thick. My pulse slowed, but the tension behind my eyes throbbed like a warning light.
Eyes closed, I leaned back, floating in the warmth.
What if I did it? Signed Andrew’s contract?
What if pretending gave me a way to stop bleeding from all the places
Nathan had cut me?
What if it didn’t feel like pretending for long?
Then-
Knock Knock, Knock.
Sharp. Sudden. Precise.
I froze, fingers tightening around the porcelain edge.
The second knock came harder.
I sat upright, water sloshing.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Not tonight. Not here.
Heart pounding, I reached for my robe, fingers trembling as water dripped
from my skin onto the marble floor.
Then came the voice–muffled, but unmistakably clear.
“Jane… open the door. It’s me.”
