Chapter 220

The Holcomb family’s maneuvering grew transparent. Clearly, Sally was hedging her bets, keeping Tracy on standby as the reserve daughter; the last shred of goodwill I harbored for Sally evaporated.

I understood—my resolve for divorce was absolute, and as Jared’s mother, securing his future was natural. But by actively courting Tracy, she’d relinquished any moral standing to meddle in the divorce proceedings.

Sally had intended secrecy, but Yvonne became the unforeseen leak, prematurely blowing her grandmother’s cover. I meticulously saved three photos where Tracy’s presence was undeniable.

Melissa slammed her palm on the table, incensed. “Vipers! Absolute vipers. You’re not even legally divorced, and they’re already auditioning replacements? The sheer audacity. Victoria, divorcing that man was the single wisest decision you’ve ever made.”

A profound sense of detachment settled over me. I was finally untethered. The sting of divorce couldn’t reach me now. “Indeed,” I murmured. “Let’s see what their next move is.” Then I steered the conversation elsewhere. No point squandering energy on their theatrics.

Melissa wisely avoided mentioning Nathan again. She understood my principles. I wasn’t one for blurred lines. Until the divorce was finalized, any whiff of scandal with another man could jeopardize my position.

Returning to my temporary office after lunch, I found Jared ensconced in my chair, idly flipping through one of my books. Nearby, Ryan fidgeted with a pen, his gaze locked on Jared with the wary stillness of a predator assessing a rival.

“Ms. Murphy, Mr. Holcomb has been waiting for some time,” a colleague offered pointedly as I entered.

“Mr. Holcomb’s become quite the frequent visitor lately,” another chimed in, a teasing lilt in her voice.

“You must have saved his life to earn this kind of devotion,” a third quipped.

I managed a thin smile. If only they knew the truth. He wasn’t saved by me; he damn near buried me.

Jared’s gaze lifted to meet mine, his expression unreadable.

I pushed through the door. Jared rose smoothly, surrendering my chair. Deliberately bypassing the seat he’d warmed, I dragged a side chair to the opposite side of the desk and sat. “Mr. Holcomb. To what do I owe this visit? Business, I presume?”

A shadow crossed Jared’s face. “Must you be so distant? I was merely passing by and thought to bring you something sweet.”

Only then did my gaze land on the elegant basket beside the desk. Inside nestled an assortment of exquisite miniature cakes from my go-to patisserie.

“So the art of courtship isn’t entirely lost on you,” I observed, my voice laced with icy sarcasm.

Jared stiffened momentarily, then emitted a short, humorless laugh. “I suppose attempting to remedy past oversights could be construed as progress.”

“Spare us the charade, Jared,” I stated flatly, my gaze fixed on the screen cycling through a roster of male models—each sculpted like a Greek god. In that moment, clarity struck: clinging to a single, withering branch was sheer folly when an entire forest beckoned.

My icy rejection, even of this small peace offering, sparked a flash of genuine pain in his eyes. “Victoria,” the plea was raw, stripped bare, “must it be like this? Not even a sliver of a chance to set things right?”

“There’s no love left, Jared. And spare me the family pretense—I have genuine family.” I laid the truth bare, mercilessly. “While Sally and Yvonne were scouting your next bride in Aurelia, you performed this devotion pantomime here? The irony was exquisite.”

The idea that Jared was ignorant of their machinations was absurd. Tracy wouldn’t miss a chance to flaunt her position. No, he knew. And knowing, he still arrived bearing sweetness. Was his capacity for affection truly this vast, or was this simply another calculated act?

“Have I not agreed to the divorce?” he retorted, his voice taut with suppressed anger. “All I sought was a moment of grace before we part ways. Was such harshness truly necessary?” Without waiting for a reply, he pivoted sharply and strode out.

I stared at the desktop, drawing a slow, steadying breath. I compartmentalized the unsettling encounter and forced my focus back onto the afternoon’s demanding workload.

As dusk bled into the windows, news came that the cleaning service was off sick. The office bore the evidence—desks cluttered, the floor gritty with a fine layer of construction dust tracked in from the site.

I prepared to tackle the mess myself after work, only to find Ryan already wielding the mop.

His movements were unpracticed, hinting at a privileged upbringing unaccustomed to menial tasks. Yet, the simple initiative—recognizing a need and acting—possessed an undeniable charm.

Once the outer office gleamed damply, he appeared in my doorway. “Ms. Murphy, may I tackle this floor too?”

I arched a brow, a faint smile touching my lips. “Since no one else volunteered, what motivated you?”