Chapter 4 The Empty Hand

(Natasha)

The door clicks shut as Chase steps back into the office.

The air tightens, like something invisible has been pulled taut across my skin.

He doesn’t bother sitting. He just stands there near the desk, looking down at me.

His eyes are empty of anything that even remotely resembles warmth.

“You met Sonia,” he says, “she wanted to get married, we will have the divorce after you give birth.”

Just like that.

No preamble. No attempt to soften the edges. He delivers the death sentence of our marriage with the exact same tone he uses when dissolving an underperforming asset.

I shrug.

The motion comes easily, which is ironic considering the chaos that had been tearing through my bloodstream barely an hour ago.

“Why wait?” I say. “I’m ready to do it now.”

For a moment, the room goes still.

It’s only a fraction of a second, but I catch it—the faint tightening of his jaw, the subtle narrowing of his eyes.

He isn’t used to this. He’s used to cruelty being met with silence, resistance, or pain. Not… agreement. And certainly not enthusiasm.

“No,” he says finally. His voice drops, settling into that familiar register of authority.

“After the birth.”

If keeping the ring on my swollen finger for a few more months helps some carefully calculated PR strategy of his, then fine. Let him have it.

A delay won’t magically resurrect our marriage. In my heart, it’s already been dead for quite some time.

“Fine,” I reply. “Have it your way. I don’t care.”

Leaving Warren Global feels like finally escaping a room with no oxygen.

The drive back to the estate is a necessary evil.

Earlier, I didn’t want to wrestle with luggage in front of Eleanor, so I left my things behind. Now I just need to collect them and find a hotel where I can disappear for a few days.

Simple. At least, that was the plan.

When I limp through the cavernous foyer, the house is quiet. But it isn’t the peaceful kind of quiet. It feels… expectant. Like the walls are waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I push open the door to the master suite. And immediately stop breathing.

The room is immaculate. My packed luggage is gone.

For a second, I just stand there, trying to process what I’m looking at.

Then I notice movement in the hallway. The housekeeper is lingering by the doorframe.

She’s trying to look neutral, but there’s a small, ugly smile twisting her thin lips. Her eyes gleam with the unmistakable satisfaction of someone who believes they’ve just witnessed a small but meaningful victory.

“Madam said to put everything back,” she explains. Her tone drips with artificial innocence.

Eleanor. Of course. She must think I’m trying to run off with things bought using Warren money.

The irony would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.

Eleanor has never worked a single day in her life. She has absolutely no concept of what I brought into this marriage—or how much I personally contributed to the empire bearing her son’s name.

And she certainly has no idea how badly I want nothing to do with her entire revolting family anymore.

The housekeeper is still watching me. Practically vibrating with anticipation for a scene. Waiting for me to start dragging suitcases out of closets, sweating and crying while fighting a pointless war of attrition.

The thought is so absurd a laugh escapes before I can stop it.

It startles her instantly. Her smug smile falters.

“Oh,” I say sweetly, tilting my head. Then I give her the most cheerful, completely unhinged smile I can manage.

“Maybe she thinks Chase would like to wear it.”

Her confusion is immediate. I don’t wait for it to turn into comprehension.

Instead, I pivot on my good heel and walk straight out of the room.

Let them guard the closet like it’s the crown jewels. I’ll buy a new wardrobe.

I leave that house with nothing but my purse.

***

The next few days dissolve into a blur of work. The conference room at Mason’s firm becomes my second home.

Spreadsheets cover the table. Valuation models stack up in messy piles. Pitch decks glow across three different screens.

Mason stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Dark ink curls across his forearms—sharp lines of tattoos that look almost surgical against his skin.

For a moment, I just watched his back. And an unexpected wave of gratitude hits me so hard it almost steals my breath.

When my mother vanished in the middle of the night, taking my older brother with her and leaving a crater behind, the world froze over. The only way to survive it was to become ice myself.

Later, when that illness nearly hollowed me out completely, I turned into a glacier just to endure the aftermath.

But Mason… Mason was the one who threw the rope.

He hauled me out of that frozen darkness piece by broken piece. His love for me has always been there. Unspoken, steady and persistent. It hums quietly beneath every conversation, every shared silence, every late-night strategy session.

To me, Mason has always felt like something else.

Not a lover. Sanctuary. Family.

Back then, my stupid, desperately blind eyes were fixed entirely on Chase. A man who never saw me as anything more than a convenient stepping stone.

I wish I could love Mason the way he deserves. He would make an incredible partner.

“Confirmed,” Mason says suddenly, turning toward me as he ends a call. The look in his eyes is electric. Predatory.

“Jeffrey Bauer is attending the Blackwood Gala tonight.”

Adrenaline shoots through my veins instantly. Jeffrey Bauer is the white whale of this entire acquisition. If we secure his backing, the entire project swings in our favor.

“Chase will be there too,” I point out, tracing the edge of a term sheet with my fingernail. “Hunting the same capital.”

“I know,” Mason says with a grin. “But we have a secret weapon.” He points at me. “You.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know if you’ve heard,” Mason continues casually, “but Chase just partnered with Nathaniel Morton for the project.”

The pieces slide together. Of course they did. Nathaniel Morton is Sonia’s brother.

My phone suddenly vibrates against the glass table. The screen lights up. 

Chase.

I pick it up and answer. “Yes?”

“Since we’ve reached an understanding regarding our marriage,” Chase says, his voice perfectly crisp and detached, “I won’t question your absence from the house. For now.”

How generous of him. Granting me permission to exist outside his property.

“However,” he continues, and the command creeps back into his voice.

“Until the paperwork is finalized, you are still my wife. Certain events require your presence. There is a gala tonight, and I expect you to attend.”

The irony is so sharp I can practically taste metal. He needs the dutiful, pregnant wife on his arm to project stability. 

To the very investors Mason and I are about to steal.

“Of course,” I reply smoothly. “I’ll meet you there at seven. Send me the address.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Apparently my cooperation is unsettling.

“Good,” he says. Then he hangs up without saying goodbye.

I toss the phone back onto the table. A jagged, delicious thrill begins to spread through my chest.

Oh, I’ll absolutely be at that gala tonight.

Just not as his wife.

And definitely not standing beside him.