Working With My Ex Again

"Did you hear? Mr. Blackwell is finally divorcing her."

"About time. How shameless can she be, clinging to a man who clearly doesn’t want her?"

"I heard she begged him to stay… imagine having no pride."

"Please, if she had any dignity, she would’ve left long ago."

A soft laugh followed. "Gold diggers don’t walk away from billionaires."

The elevator doors slid open. Silence fell immediately.

Click.

The sound of heels against polished marble cut through the murmurs.

Isla Mercer stepped out.

Poised. Elegant. Untouched.

Her expression? Neutral.

Too neutral.

The kind that made people uncomfortable without knowing why.

The whispers didn’t stop completely.

They just… lowered.

Shifted.

Curled into corners.

"She’s here…"

"She heard that, right?"

"She has to have—"

Isla didn’t look at any of them. As if they didn't exist as well as their words.

She was going to sign the divorce papers and this had to be the best thing that happened to her for a long time.

But her fingers, wrapped around her bag, tightened just slightly. Barely noticeable.

Shameless?

Her father’s face flashed in her mind. The day he came home with empty hands. The day everything collapsed.

The nights her mother pretended not to be hungry so her children could eat.

Shameless?

Her lips almost curved. Almost. But she kept walking.

She was going to sign the divorce papers and this had to be the best thing that happened to her for a long time.

***

The pen was heavier than it should have been.

Not because Isla Mercer's hand was trembling, it wasn't. Not because she was second-guessing anything, she wasn't. The pen was heavy because it was a Mont Blanc, and Darian Blackwell could not own a simple Bic like a normal human being.

"Page four requires initials, not a full signature." The lawyer, Mr. Holt, grey suit, forgettable tie, slid the document half an inch closer to her side of the table, as if she hadn't already read every single page three times the night before.

"I know," Isla said pleasantly.

She initialled page four.

The office was quiet in that particular way that expensive rooms were quiet, thick carpet, floor-to-ceiling glass, forty stories of New York humming somewhere far below like a frequency only the building could hear. Outside the windows the skyline was doing its thing, gold and grey and relentless, a city that did not particularly care that Isla Mercer's marriage was ending on the ninth floor.

She had always respected that about New York.

Inside, the room felt like a courtroom. Three chairs, one table, one document that had taken two years to arrive at. Mr. Holt sat to her left, pen poised, the picture of professional neutrality. Darian sat directly across from her.

She could feel him watching her.

She didn't look up.

Page five. Page six. She turned each one with the same energy she'd give a grocery list. Calm. Unhurried. Completely, devastatingly unbothered. Beside her, Mr. Holt's pen scratched faint notes she didn't bother reading. The air conditioning hummed. Somewhere outside the office a phone rang twice and stopped.

She heard Darian shift in his chair.

Good, she thought.

"Ms. Mercer."

His voice came from across the table. Low. Controlled. The particular register he used when he wanted to sound like he wasn't bothered either, like he was simply making an observation, not testing something.

She looked up.

Darian Blackwell was many things. She had spent two years cataloguing all of them whether she'd meant to or not. He was tall in a way that filled doorframes. He wore charcoal like it had been invented specifically for his shoulders. His jaw was doing that thing, the slight clench along the bone that happened when he was working hard at appearing neutral.

It happened often, around her. Lately, almost constantly.

He was also, at this particular moment, watching her like she was a document he couldn't find the fine print in. Like something was wrong with the page and he couldn't locate which line.

"Take your time," he said.

It wasn't an offer. It was bait.

"I'm fine," she said, and turned to page seven.

Mr. Holt cleared his throat softly and redirected his gaze to a fixed point on the wall slightly above and to the left of anyone in the room.

Smart man, Isla thought.

She read page seven the way she read everything, fully, without skimming, because she had learned early that the dangerous things always lived in the parts people assumed you wouldn't bother with. Page eight was the same. Page nine, a repeat of clauses she had already memorised.

The last page.

She read the final paragraph twice. Not because she needed to. Because she wanted to.

Then she pressed the Mont Blanc down and signed her full name.

Isla Mercer.

Clean. Unhurried. Final.

She set the pen beside the document, aligned it parallel to the edge of the page out of habit, and folded her hands on the table.

Done.

The silence that followed lasted three seconds. She counted them. In those three seconds she watched something move behind Darian's eyes, something that crossed his face too quickly to name but not quickly enough to hide. He killed it almost immediately.

Almost.

He'd expected something from her. She had understood that the moment she walked in and saw how he was sitting, too still, too composed, the kind of stillness that was actually the opposite of calm. He'd expected something. Tears, maybe. A hesitation. A question she didn't want to ask but couldn't stop herself from asking. A please dressed up as dignity.

Two years of marriage and he still hadn't learned how she was built.

That would work very nicely in her favour.

Mr. Holt began gathering the papers with the quiet, practised efficiency of a man who had witnessed enough endings to know when to disappear into his work. "I'll have certified copies couriered to both parties by end of week. If there are no further..."

"That's fine." Isla was already reaching for her bag.

"Ms. Mercer."

She paused. Hand on her bag. She looked across the table and found Darian watching her with an expression she couldn't immediately categorise, which was unusual. She had a category for most of his expressions.

"There's one more thing," he said.

"There usually is," she said.

His hand was resting on a file he hadn’t looked at in minutes, his gaze fixed on her, unyielding.

"Your role as my personal assistant remains effective as of Monday," he said. His voice was even. Deliberate. The voice of a man delivering terms, not having a conversation. "The employment contract was never dissolved. The divorce doesn't change that."

The room was very still.

Mr. Holt had returned to his fixed point on the wall.

For the first time she walked into the room, Isla’s composure slipped. Not completely but enough.

Her fingers stilled against the door. Her shoulders tensed, just a fraction.

Her eyes flickered.

A brief, unmistakable flash of shock.

Like she’d just been struck by something she hadn’t seen coming.

Assistant?

The word echoed louder than it should.

Her mind moved fast, too fast.

Contract.

Clauses.

Isla looked at the contract. She looked at the date on it. She looked at the clause, third paragraph from the bottom, the one she had read three times last night under her bedside lamp and then she let out a soft breath and looked at Darian.

"Is that so?"

Her voice was steady.

Too steady.

Darian’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. It was something darker. Satisfied.

Because he saw it.

That flicker.

That crack.

And he knew, he had caught her off guard.

"It’s in the contract," he added lazily. "You should’ve read it more carefully."

A beat.

Their eyes locked.

A silent war.

She looked graceful, composed, but her pulse? They were doing another job. Racing.

"Then I suppose," she said, tilting her head slightly, "I’ll see you on Monday… Mr. Blackwell."

The formality. Deliberate. A line drawn.

His eyes darkened just slightly but he said nothing.

And that silence?

It was louder than anything else.

She picked up her bag and looped it over one shoulder.

"Ms. Mercer..."

"Have a good day, Mr. Holt." She smiled at the lawyer warmly. He looked faintly relieved to be acknowledged. "You too," she added, without looking at Darian, and walked to the door.

She opened it and stepped through closing it behind her with a soft click. The elevator was empty.

The doors slid shut and Isla Mercer stood alone in the mirrored box and looked at herself, dress perfect, posture perfect, face perfect, and let out a breath so long and so quiet it barely made a sound.

Then she laughed.

Not loudly. Not the kind of laugh that needed an audience. Just a small, private, dangerous thing that started somewhere in her chest and ended before it reached her throat. The laugh she would never in a million years have let him see.

He thought she'd beg.