Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

The silence in the room was heavy after the phone stopped buzzing.

Jorden lay still. The pain medication was starting to drip into his veins, a cool sensation creeping up his arm. It dulled the sharp edges of the agony in his chest, but it didn't touch the sharpness of his mind.

Nurse Joy came back in to check the IV. She reached for the dial to increase the flow.

"Stop," Jorden said.

She jumped. "I'm just adjusting the-"

"The drip rate is too high for a saline solution with that concentration of analgesic," Jorden said. He didn't look at her; he stared at the ceiling. "If you increase it, my blood pressure will drop too rapidly given the concussion. Keep it at 20 drops per minute."

Nurse Joy blinked. She looked at the monitor, then back at him. "Are you... are you a doctor, Mr. Nash?"

"No," Jorden said. "Just observant."

The phone on the table vibrated again. It rattled against the metal surface like an angry hornet.

Jorden sighed. He reached out and flipped it over.

Chloe Vance.

She wasn't giving up. Of course she wasn't. Chloe was a pit bull in high heels, trained by Catarina to bite anything that inconvenienced her.

Jorden slid his thumb across the screen. He answered.

He didn't bring the phone to his ear. He held it in front of his face.

"Jorden!" Chloe's scream was loud enough that Dr. Stein, standing at the foot of the bed, looked up from his chart. "Are you insane? Do you know what time it is? Catarina is furious. She is literally shaking."

In the background, Jorden could hear the clinking of crystal glasses and the low murmur of a jazz band. The sounds of the life he used to beg to be part of.

"Atticus is asking where the hell his matching vest is," Chloe continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "You had one job. One simple job. Pick up the dry cleaning. How do you manage to screw up everything you touch?"

Jorden listened. He analyzed the frequency of her voice. High pitch. Rapid cadence. Stress indicators. She's terrified of Catarina.

"Speak!" Chloe snapped. "Don't just breathe at me. Where are you?"

Jorden licked his dry lips. "Chloe."

"What?" she snapped.

"Shut your mouth."

The line went dead silent.

It wasn't a silence of confusion. It was the silence of shock. Jorden Nash-the doormat, the 'yes man', the husband who apologized when she stepped on his foot-had just told her to shut up.

"Excuse me?" Chloe's voice came back, lower, dangerous. "I think the reception is bad. Did you just tell me to-"

"I said shut your mouth," Jorden repeated. His voice wasn't loud. It was calm. It was the voice of a man giving an order to a subordinate. "And listen carefully."

"You are going to regret this," Chloe hissed. "Catarina is going to-"

"The dress," Jorden cut over her, "is in the trunk of my car."

"Finally," Chloe huffed. "Well, bring it here. Now. And don't expect to be let in the VIP area, just drop it at the-"

"My car," Jorden continued, "is currently wrapped around a guardrail on Interstate 95, about forty miles north of the city."

There was a pause.

"What?" Chloe asked. The anger faltered for a second.

"It's a total loss," Jorden said. "The trunk is crushed. The dress is likely covered in hydraulic fluid and rainwater. If Catarina wants it, she is welcome to drive up here and pry it out of the wreckage with the Jaws of Life."

"Are you... are you serious?" Chloe stammered. "You wrecked the car? With the dress inside?"

She didn't ask if he was okay. She didn't ask if he was hurt.

She asked about the car. And the dress.

Jorden closed his eyes. A final, severing snap echoed in his chest. It wasn't a rib. It was the last thread of his attachment to these people.

"Goodbye, Chloe," Jorden said.

"Wait! You can't just-"

He hung up.

Then, with a few precise taps, he blocked her number.

He dropped the phone onto the bed.

"Mr. Nash," Dr. Stein said softly. "Was that..."

"Work," Jorden said. "Just work."

Manhattan. The Obsidian Club.

The VIP lounge was a study in excess. Velvet walls, gold fixtures, and people who cost more to insure than most small towns.

Chloe Vance stood near the bar, her phone pressed to her ear, her mouth agape. She stared at the screen that now read Call Ended.

She turned slowly.

Catarina Evans was sitting on a plush emerald sofa. She looked like a queen on her throne. Her silver dress shimmered under the chandelier lights, perfect and expensive. But her face was a mask of irritation.

She swirled a glass of Pinot Noir, her eyes fixed on the entrance, waiting for a husband she despised to walk in with her property.

Next to her sat Atticus Deleon. He was handsome in a way that required maintenance. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his smile practiced. He had a hand resting casually on the back of the sofa, just inches from Catarina's bare shoulder.

"Well?" Catarina asked, not looking at Chloe. "Is the idiot on his way?"

Chloe swallowed hard. Her face flushed. "Ms. Evans... he... he hung up on me."

The chatter in the immediate vicinity died down. A few of Catarina's friends-socialites who treated drama like oxygen-leaned in.

Catarina's hand stopped swirling the wine. She turned her head slowly. Her eyes were sharp, dangerous.

"He did what?"

"He hung up," Chloe said, her voice trembling. "He said the car is wrecked. On I-95. He said the dress is... ruined."

"Ruined?" Atticus chimed in, leaning forward. "That was a twelve-thousand-dollar custom piece. And my vest?"

"He said..." Chloe hesitated, glancing around the room. "He said if you want it, you can go pry it out of the wreckage yourself."

A gasp rippled through the small circle.

Catarina set her glass down on the marble table with a sharp clack.

She wasn't worried about the car crash. She assumed it was a fender bender. Jorden was a dramatic driver. He was probably exaggerating to get out of trouble.

But the attitude? The disrespect?

Heat rushed up her neck. Jorden Nash didn't have a backbone. She had made sure of that years ago. He existed to serve her, to look at her with puppy-dog eyes, to be the safe, boring backup plan while she navigated her complicated feelings for Atticus.

He didn't get to hang up.

"Give me the phone," Catarina demanded, extending her hand.

"He... he blocked me, I think," Chloe whispered.

Catarina laughed. It was a cold, incredulous sound. "He blocked you? The man who pays for his Netflix subscription with my supplementary credit card blocked my assistant?"

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her own phone. The latest iPhone, encased in leather.

"Atticus," she said, her voice tight. "Order another bottle. I need to handle a toddler."

She dialed Jorden.

It rang once. Twice.

Then, the automated voice. The subscriber you have called is not available.

He had sent her to voicemail.

Catarina stared at the phone. Her reflection in the black screen looked distorted, angry.

"He's dead," she muttered, not meaning it literally. "When he gets home, he is absolutely dead."

Atticus chuckled, reaching for her hand. "Relax, Cat. Let him have his little tantrum. It makes him look pathetic. You, on the other hand..." He squeezed her fingers. "You look magnificent even when you're angry."

Catarina looked at Atticus. His touch was warm. His smile was dazzling.

But for the first time in years, she felt a strange, cold knot in her stomach.

Why wasn't Jorden picking up? He always picked up. Even when she was screaming. Even when she was cruel. He was the constant.

The silence on the other end of the line felt heavy. It felt... final.

She pulled her hand away from Atticus, grabbing her wine glass again.

"I need a drink," she said, downing the wine in one unladylike gulp.