Saint Jeremiah

Jeremiah leaned against the glass railing of his penthouse balcony, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

He took a slow sip, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. He felt free, like he had just cut the last chain tying him to his past.

Nora was finally gone.

His phone vibrated on the table behind him. He ignored it at first, letting the moment settle in. He wasn’t in a rush—he knew exactly what the message was. After a minute, he turned and picked up the phone.

Mr. Flint: Nora signed the papers. She says she doesn’t want anything from you.

Jeremiah let out a low chuckle.

"Classic Nora. So Fucking stubborn."

He knew Nora better than anyone. She never let things go. Never walked away from a fight. She’d rather die clawing for a win than accept a loss.

For a second, he imagined her reaction. The way her face would twist in rage, the way her hands probably shook as she signed the papers. He could see it perfectly—her eyes dark, her lips pressed together, barely holding herself together. She would cry for him. Wondering why he changed.

A part of him—deeply, buried under years of resentment—knew she didn’t deserve this. But he shoved that thought away.

Nora had controlled his entire fucking life. He owed her everything, and that was the problem. She never let him forget it.

She made him, sure. Paid for his education. Convinced her father to invest in his company. But she also owned him because of it. She pulled the strings, made the decisions, and acted like he was just another one of her projects—something to fix.

He had spent years feeling like a charity case in his own marriage.

No more.

"You're in a good mood," a voice murmured behind him.

Kimberly.

She was stretched out on his bed, wrapped in the silk sheets he had bought just last week. Her blonde hair spilled over the pillows, her lips curved in a lazy smile. She was beautiful—perfect in a way that felt effortless.

Unlike Nora, who had always been too much—too strong, too intense, too demanding.

Jeremiah smirked and set his drink down. "I am in a good mood."

"She signed the papers?" Kimberly asked.

"Of course she did," he said smoothly, slipping back into bed beside her. "She doesn’t have a choice."

Kimberly giggled and kissed his shoulder. "Then it’s really over."

He didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed his phone and reread the message one more time.

"She says she doesn’t want anything from you?"

"She's just mad. Once she calms down she'll realise she needs money and will come running back. And offcourse I'd give her."

"Oh, your such a saint Jeremiah. Too Kind." Kimberly purred running her hand through his hair.

She leaned in, pressing her lips to his neck. He let her, closing his eyes as her hands moved lower.

"You deserve better than her," she whispered. "That bitch never knew how to please a man like you."

Jeremiah froze.

His jaw tightened. His entire body went rigid, and Kimberly, noticing the shift, pulled back slightly.

"Why the fuck would you say something like that?" His voice was low, dangerous.

Kimberly blinked, clearly thrown off. "I—I just meant—"

"You don’t know shit about Nora," he snapped, pushing himself off the bed.

She sat up, confused. "Jeremiah, I thought—"

"You thought what?" He yanked on his shirt. "That I’d get off on you trashing my ex-wife? That I’d enjoy hearing you talk about her like that?"

Kimberly scoffed, pulling the sheet around herself. "Are you serious right now? You hate her."

Jeremiah’s hands clenched into fists.

Hate? He didn't think so.

Maybe.

But she was still his to hate.

"You know what?" He grabbed his keys from the nightstand. "I don’t have time for this."

"Oh, come on," Kimberly groaned. "You’re really leaving? Over this?"

"Yeah," he said coldly, heading for the door. "I have work to do."

And just like that, he walked out.

—

Andrew, Jeremiah's assistant, was already waiting in the sleek black Rolls-Royce when Jeremiah stepped outside.

The moment he slid into the backseat, Andrew glanced at him through the rearview mirror.

"Everything alright, sir?"

Jeremiah exhaled sharply, loosening his tie. "Just drive."

Andrew nodded but hesitated.

"Something wrong?" Jeremiah asked, noticing his assistant’s tense posture.

Andrew cleared his throat. "Sir, there’s something you should probably know."

Jeremiah frowned. "Then spit it out."

Andrew’s fingers tightened around the wheel.

"It’s about Nora," he said carefully.

Jeremiah’s entire body went still.

"What about her?"

Andrew’s voice was grave.

"She was in an accident."

There was a long pause.

Jeremiah exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Is she alive?"

Andrew hesitated. "Not sure, sir. I only know because the crash was caught on camera."

Jeremiah scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course it was." He leaned back against the leather seat, rubbing his forehead as if this whole situation was just another inconvenience.

"Find out what hospital she's in," he said flatly, already bored of the conversation. "And send someone to make sure she's still breathing or whatever. But don’t expect me to drop everything just because Nora decided to be dramatic. Again."

Andrew stayed quiet.

Jeremiah let out a low, bitter laugh. "I can’t believe this. She actually crashed her car just to get my attention. That’s a new low, even for her."

"You think she would do that, sir?" Andrew asked carefully.

Jeremiah smirked. "Oh, please. Nora would throw herself off a fucking balcony if it meant I’d look at her for five seconds."

Andrew said nothing.

Jeremiah sighed, shaking his head as if the whole thing deeply annoyed him. "Just get the hospital name. And tell them to keep me out of it. I don’t need the media spinning some sob story about me 'rushing to her side' like some lovesick idiot."

He loosened his tie, glancing out the window.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath.