Chapter Four - The Quiet Discipline of Wanting Nothing

Jordan’s days followed a pattern so precise it almost felt intentional.

She woke at six-thirty, before the alarm, before Jay stirred, and if he was there at all. She showered quickly, quietly, mindful of the way sound carried in the apartment. By seven, she was dressed in something neutral, hair smoothed into place, face carefully composed into an expression that would not invite questions. She drank her coffee standing at the counter, scrolling through headlines she barely absorbed, and left the apartment by seven-forty-five.

Every morning was the same.

The predictability used to comfort her. Routine had once felt like proof of stability. Now it felt like containment.

Jordan volunteered twice a week at the community arts center downtown, an administrative role, nothing that required too much visibility or ambition. Jay liked it that way. Flexible, he’d called it. Low stress. He said it with approval, as though stress were something only men were equipped to carry.

On the other days, she ran errands that didn’t need running and attended lunches that blurred together. Grocery shopping. Dry cleaning. The bank. Appointments she scheduled because empty afternoons frightened her more than obligation ever had.

She filled time the way one fills silence, and carefully, so it wouldn’t echo.

At the arts center, she organized supplies, answered emails, and smiled at people whose names she remembered just well enough to seem present. They liked her. She was agreeable. Reliable. Invisible in the way that made everyone comfortable.

“Jordan, you’re a lifesaver,” the director said one afternoon, handing her a stack of forms. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

Jordan smiled, warm and practiced. Neither do

I, she thought, but the answer stayed locked behind her teeth.

She went home early that day. The apartment greeted her with its familiar hush. Sunlight slanted across the floor in neat lines, illuminating a space that looked staged rather than lived in. Nothing out of place. Nothing excessive.

She dropped her bag on the chair and stood there for a moment, unsure what to do next.

There were things she wanted. Small things. A painting class she’d seen advertised. A weekend trip somewhere loud and unfamiliar.

The urge to write again, and to sit down and spill words onto a page without worrying whether they mattered.

She pushed the thoughts aside.

Wanting things required negotiation.

Explanation. Risk.

She reheated leftovers and ate alone, scrolling through her phone. A notification from Jay’s firm popped up, and another press mention. Jay Johnson Secures Landmark Settlement for Corporate Client.

She clicked it, skimming the article.

Jay was quoted, of course. Calm. Authoritative. A master of discretion. The piece praised his ability to “navigate complex legal landscapes with unwavering control,” highlighting his role in protecting high-level interests from

“unnecessary exposure.”

Jordan frowned slightly at the phrasing.

Unnecessary exposure.

She’d heard him use those words before.

When Jay came home that night, it was close to ten. Jordan heard the door before she saw him, the quiet efficiency of his movements unmistakable. He loosened his tie as he crossed the living room, eyes already scanning his phone.

“You eat?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you have?”

“Pasta.”

He nodded, satisfied, as though the answer had been correct. “I’ll grab something quick.”

She watched him move through the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking the fridge. He knew exactly where everything was, even though he rarely cooked. Control didn’t require participation, and just awareness.

“How was your day?” he asked, his back still to her.

“Fine,” she replied.

He hummed, the sound noncommittal. “Mine was long.”

She waited. He didn’t elaborate.

Jordan shifted on the couch. “I saw the article.”

Jay glanced over his shoulder. “Which one?”

“The settlement.”

“Oh.” He shrugged. “PR fluff.”

“It said you helped keep certain information from becoming public.”

Jay closed the fridge and turned to face her fully. “That’s my job.”

“I know. I just….. ” She hesitated. “Sometimes it sounds… heavy.”

A flicker passed through his expression. Annoyance, quickly masked. “You don’t need to worry about my work.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“I said you don’t need to,” he repeated, voice firmer now.

The air tightened.

Jordan nodded. “Right.”

Jay studied her for a moment, then softened his tone. “I protect people from chaos, Jordan. From consequences they don’t deserve. That’s not something you need to carry.”

She looked at him, really looked at him, and wondered who decided what people deserved.

He crossed the room and kissed her forehead, and briefly, absentminded. “I’m going to shower.”

She sat there long after he disappeared down the hall, the echo of his words settling uneasily in her chest.

Protect people from chaos.

Later, as Jay slept beside her, Jordan stared into the dark and replayed fragments of conversations she’d half-overheard over the years. Phone calls taken in other rooms. Meetings that ran late. Names he never explained. Documents he locked away with careful precision.

She had never asked.

She told herself that trust meant not questioning. That love meant not prying. That being a good wife meant understanding there were things she didn’t need to know.

But lately, not knowing felt less like protection and more like exclusion.

The next morning, she found herself standing in front of her closet longer than usual, fingers brushing fabrics she never chose. Colors she hadn’t worn in years. Dresses that hinted at a version of herself she barely remembered.

She reached for one, and soft green, slightly fitted, then a pause.

Jay would notice.

She put it back and selected navy instead.

At lunch, she met Marissa again, this time at a quieter place.

“You look tired,” Marissa said.

“I slept,” Jordan replied.

“That’s not the same thing.”

Jordan stirred her soup. “Jay’s been stressed.”

Marissa snorted. “Jay is always stressed. That doesn’t explain why you look like you’re bracing for impact.”

Jordan smiled faintly. “I’m just… adjusting.”

“To what?”

She thought of Calloway’s voice. You’ve been holding your breath for a long time.

“To my life,” she said.

Marissa watched her carefully. “Do you even like your life?”

The question landed harder than any accusation.

Jordan opened her mouth, then closed it. “It’s stable.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

That evening, Jordan sat at the small desk in the spare room, and the one she’d once imagined turning into a writing space. The laptop sat unopened, dust gathering in its corners. She placed her hands on the surface, feeling the smooth wood beneath her palms.

Just ten minutes, she told herself. No one would know.

She opened a blank document.

The cursor blinked, patient and expectant.

Jordan stared at it, heart racing. Words crowded her mind, and memories, questions, wants she’d spent years disciplining herself not to feel.

She typed one sentence.

I don’t know when I started disappearing.

Her breath caught.

The door clicked open behind her.

She slammed the laptop shut, pulse spiking.

Jay stood in the doorway, jacket still on. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said too quickly.

His gaze dropped to the laptop. “Are you working on something?”

“No.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the small room. “You don’t need to keep yourself busy, Jordan. That’s not why I married you.”

The words were meant to reassure.

They felt like erasure.

She nodded. “I know.”

Jay smiled faintly, satisfied. “Good.”

When he left, Jordan opened the laptop again.

The document was gone. She hadn’t saved it.

She stared at the blank screen, something tight and aching settling deep in her chest.

Suppressing her needs had become second nature, an instinct sharpened by years of learning what mattered and what didn’t. She knew how to be quiet. How to be agreeable. How to fold herself into the life Jay had built and call it partnership.

But beneath the routine, beneath the discipline of wanting nothing, fault lines were spreading.

And one day soon, the weight of silence would be more than she could hold.