In the Wake of Truth

(Jane's POV)They say you remember moments of trauma in pieces—like glass shattering, each shard catching a different reflection. Maybe it’s your breath hitching in your throat.Maybe it’s the sound of your own heartbeat turning into thunder. Or maybe it’s the way the ground suddenly feels like it's tilting beneath your feet, and you're just... falling.I wasn’t supposed to be home tonight. My work trip to Boston was meant to last four days—stiff suits, bland hotel breakfasts, investor pitches. But I finished the presentation in half the time. Two days flat. Efficient. Strategic. I was proud.I imagined Nathan’s surprise when I walked through the door, maybe even a little turned on. I wanted to be spontaneous again. The wife who used to wake him with kisses, not reminders about dry cleaning.So I went all out.Merlot from the overpriced wine shop on 13th. The silky black nightgown he once said made me “too tempting to function.” My heels in one hand, the wine in the other. My heart hu

(Jane’s POV)I stared at the screen long after the message faded, spit trailing down my mouth as hot tears streamed down my cheeks, smudging the already ruined mascara. My fingers clenched around the phone, knuckles aching.“Maybe the divorce will give us both the peace...”The words hung in the air like the stench of something decayed.It was one thing to be lied to, to walk in on the man you swore you could vouch for buried in someone else’s arms. But this?This was him giving up.And maybe that was what hurt the most.Not the act itself—But how easily he was unwilling to take responsibility for his actions.If anyone should be asking for a divorce, it ought to be me. I’m the one who’s been hurt here.I paced the room like a woman on the brink—six steps to the window, six steps back. The city glittered beneath me in a thousand indifferent lights, each mocking my unraveling sanity. Just outside my door, the faint murmur of heels clicking and laughter echoed through the hallway.“Gir

(Jane’s POV)“I was the one,” Julia muttered. “In the house. That night. With Nathan.”The clink of glasses, the hum of quiet conversations, and the soft jazz floating from the ceiling speakers all seemed to collapse into a heavy silence. The air inside Café Brago thickened, pressing in around me until I could only hear the slow, thunderous beat of my heart, pounding louder than everything else.I stared at her.Not blinking. Not breathing.The coffee in my cup had become cold, barely touched. My fingers trembled slightly over the porcelain handle, but I remained motionless. My joints have failed me. My body clenched as if to keep me from cracking wide open.Julia's eyes did not look at mine.They drifted just below, on the table, on the floor, or anywhere else but my face.I opened my mouth, but words failed me. Julia shifted in her seat. She appeared... lighter, as if she had just unloaded a boulder. My pain, it seemed, was her freedom."I should go," she said, reaching for her bag.

(Jane’s POV)I didn’t expect the law firm to look so… polished. Like wealth had sterilized the walls. Sleek. Quiet. The kind of place where lives got split in half, neatly and without fuss.The receptionist glanced up when I stepped in, her face unreadable. “Hi. Can I help you?”“I’m here to pick up some documents. And a box.” My voice sounded more composed than I felt. “It was arranged through Nathan Frank’s personal attorney.”She tapped her keyboard, nodded. “Jane Frank?”“For now,” I muttered.She slid a clipboard across the counter. “Please sign here. You can wait in the glass conference room down the hall. Mr. Frank’s attorney, Mr. Gustavo, will be with you shortly.”I nodded, inked my name, and followed the hallway lined with glass offices. All around me were men in suits speaking in hushed tones, tapping away at laptops, or pretending not to notice the woman walking toward the end of her marriage.The conference room door was already open. I entered, closed the door, and discov

(Andrew Dole's Point of View)“Mr. Dole, the Hong Kong call is in ten,”Veronica’s voice floated through the intercom—soft, precise, unbothered by urgency.I didn’t lift my eyes from the papers spread before me. “Have them hold.”A slight pause. “Right away, sir.”The intercom clicked off. Silence reclaimed the room.The rye whiskey sat in its crystal tumbler, dark and promising. My fingers brushed the rim, but I didn’t reach for it. Clarity was what I needed, not the fog of liquor.The boardroom door creaked open."Claus walked in like he owned the tension in the room—sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened, jaw set. As both my friend and associate, he never wasted time on formalities."“We going through with this circus or not?”"So," he started, dropping a thick folder on the table, "are we really doing this?""We’re already doing it," I said, spinning the Montblanc pen between my fingers.He looked at me like I’d announced I was marrying a ghost. "A contract marriage? To Jane F