Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

The hospital chair was designed to be uncomfortable. It was hard plastic, angled in a way that made slouching impossible and sleeping a torture.

Catarina shifted for the hundredth time. Her back ached. Her feet, still encased in the Jimmy Choo heels, were throbbing.

It was 2:00 AM.

Jorden was asleep. Or at least, his eyes were closed. His breathing was rhythmic, matching the slow beep of the monitor.

Catarina watched him.

His face was bruised-a nasty purple and yellow blotch on his left cheekbone. But he looked peaceful. More peaceful than she had seen him in years. Usually, he slept with a furrowed brow, grinding his teeth, stressed about her schedule or her moods.

Now, his face was slack. Relaxed.

He didn't care.

That realization stung more than the insults. He wasn't angry anymore. He was indifferent.

She pulled out her phone. She needed a distraction.

She opened Instagram again. The comments on Chloe's post were blowing up.

User123: "Wait, did the husband actually comment 'Best Wishes'? Is he being sarcastic or is he a cuck?"

GossipGirlNY: "I heard he was in a massive crash tonight. And she's posting karaoke vids? Savage."

TeamAtticus: "Finally! Cat needs a real man, not a purse holder."

Catarina felt sick. The narrative was spinning out of control. She looked like a monster.

She texted Chloe.

Cat: Delete the post. Now.

Chloe: But it has 10k likes! And Atticus looks so good!

Cat: I don't care. Delete it. And you're fired.

She typed the last sentence before she could stop herself. Then she backspaced.

Cat: And your quarterly bonus is suspended.

She hit send.

It felt petty. It felt small. But she needed to hurt someone, and she couldn't hurt Jorden right now.

Jorden stirred in the bed. He groaned low in his throat.

Catarina jumped up. "Jorden? Do you need water?"

He opened his eyes. For a second, there was a flicker of confusion. Then, the ice returned.

"No," he said. "I need you to stop hovering. You're blocking the airflow."

Catarina recoiled. "I'm just trying to help."

"You're trying to assuage your guilt," Jorden said. "It's not working."

He reached for the button to raise the bed. He winced as his ribs protested.

"Atticus called me," Catarina blurted out. She didn't know why she said it. Maybe to make him jealous. Maybe to remind him of the competition.

Jorden looked at her. "And?"

"He... he wants to visit. He feels bad about the car."

Jorden laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "He feels bad about the car? Did he ask about the driver?"

"He's worried about you, Jorden. He's a good friend."

"He's a thief," Jorden said.

"Excuse me?"

"He's stealing from you, Cat."

Catarina stiffened. "Don't start with the conspiracy theories. Just because you're jealous of his talent-"

"Talent?" Jorden scoffed. "The man paints circles on canvas and calls it 'The Void'. He's laundering money through that gallery in Chelsea. Why do you think he insists on cash transactions for the 'private' sales?"

Catarina froze. "How... how would you know anything about his gallery finances?"

"I had a lot of time to think in the ambulance," Jorden said, his voice deceptively casual. "And even more time to browse public records just now."

He tapped his phone screen.

"I accessed the state business registry. Did you know Atticus's gallery shares a registered agent address with three shell companies formed last month? And if you cross-reference his 'sold out' show dates with the timestamped photos on his own Instagram, the gallery was empty during the supposed buying frenzy. It's sloppy, Cat. Basic forensic accounting would tear him apart."

Catarina stared at him. He wasn't guessing. He was citing data. The old Jorden barely knew how to balance a checkbook.

"Check the books, Cat," Jorden said, closing his eyes again. "Look for recurring payments to 'Smith Holdings.' I bet you'll find his secretary, Deborah, is the signatory."

"Deborah?" Catarina whispered. "How do you know about Deborah?"

"She's tagged in his photos," Jorden lied smoothly. In reality, he had traced the digital footprint of the shell company to a personal email address listed on a forgotten LinkedIn profile.

"You're delusional," Catarina said, standing up, though her voice lacked conviction. "The concussion has made you paranoid."

"Then verify it," Jorden said. "Ask to see the ledger."

Catarina stared at him. Specifics. He gave specifics.

"I'm going home," Catarina said. Her voice shook. "I can't listen to this poison."

"Good," Jorden said. "Take the door with you. It's drafty."

Catarina grabbed her bag and stormed out.

She marched down the hallway, her heels clicking like gunshots.

She got into the elevator. She was shaking.

Smith Holdings.

Why did that name sound familiar?

She pulled out her phone. She logged into her company's vendor portal. She searched for "Smith Holdings."

Nothing.

She switched to the public business registry.

Smith Holdings LLC. Registered Agent: Deborah Maldonado.

Deborah. Atticus's secretary. The one with the fake nails and the chewing gum.

Catarina's breath hitched.

Why was Atticus's secretary buying his paintings for fifty thousand dollars a pop?

She leaned against the elevator wall. The metal was cool against her burning skin.

Jorden was right.

How was he right?

And more importantly... why didn't she care that he was right?

She realized, with a sinking feeling, that she wasn't angry at Atticus for stealing. She was angry at Jorden for ruining the fantasy.

She wanted the lie. She wanted the romance. She wanted the white knight.

And Jorden, damn him, was forcing her to look at the rust on the armor.