The Unwanted Wife Walks Away Free

The electronic billboard above the Jarvis Group plaza usually displayed stock prices or corporate slogans about innovation and legacy. Today it showed Branson Jarvis with his hand on a woman's waist, both of them laughing on a Beverly Hills hotel balcony.

The image was grainy, clearly telephoto, but the Cartier Love bracelets on their wrists caught the morning sun with vicious clarity. Page Six's logo burned in the corner. The headline scrolled beneath: WALL STREET WOLF FINDS NEW PACK: BRANSON JARVIS & JASMYN KENT'S COASTAL TRYST.

Faith stopped walking.

Around her, financial district workers slowed their morning rush, phones emerging from pockets, fingers pointing. She heard the words clearly-"his wife," "finally," "knew it"-carried on wind that smelled of exhaust and expensive coffee.

Holly made a sound like she'd been punched. "Those lying bastards, that screen is Jarvis property, they have no right-" She started forward, shoulders squared, seventeen years of loyalty transforming into protective fury.

Faith caught her wrist. The bones moved beneath her fingers, fragile and bird-like.

"Mrs. Jarvis, we can demand they shut it down, there's a protocol for-"

"No."

Faith looked at the image. Branson's head was thrown back in that laugh she'd learned to recognize as performance-too loud, too long, designed to be photographed. The woman's face was turned up to his, adoring, familiar. Jasmyn Kent. Twenty-three years old. Oscar nominee. The face of Jarvis Media's biggest franchise.

Three weeks ago, Faith had found the bracelet in Branson's study drawer. Gold, small, clearly feminine. She'd held it for thirty seconds before replacing it exactly as she'd found it. She hadn't asked. He wouldn't have answered, or would have answered with that look-bored, impatient, wondering why she was wasting his time.

The screen flickered. NASDAQ numbers replaced the photograph, green and red scrolling too fast to read.

Faith turned toward the building.

"Mrs. Jarvis-" Holly's voice cracked.

"Julian." Faith didn't look back. "The elevator."

Her lawyer fell into step beside her, briefcase swinging with metronomic precision. Holly scrambled after them, the manila envelopes clutched to her chest like armor.

The lobby was cathedral-sized, all marble and indirect lighting, the kind of space designed to make visitors feel small. Faith had been here twice before—once for the company’s IPO celebration, once for a Christmas party where she’d stood by the champagne fountain for two hours smiling at people whose names she’d memorized from spreadsheets.

Every head turned as she crossed the floor.

She felt their eyes—curious, calculating, already composing the emails and text messages that would spread through the building before she reached the top floor. Mrs. Jarvis here. Alone. Without appointment.

Let them look. Let them talk.

She walked straight through the center of the lobby, past the leather seating area where Julian had originally suggested they meet. He kept pace beside her, adjusting his cuffs, his face arranged in the careful neutrality of a man who’d learned that wealthy people’s marriages were battlefields.

"Mrs. Jarvis." He didn't offer his hand this time. "Ready?"

"Ready."

They moved toward the private elevator bank, three figures in formation—lawyer, client, assistant—walking like they had every right to be there. Which they did. Which Branson had probably never considered she would claim.

The front desk supervisor intercepted them ten feet from the elevator doors. Young, nervous, clearly recognizing faces from company newsletters.

"Mrs. Jarvis, I'm so sorry, but Mr. Jarvis is in a board meeting, a video conference with the London office, if you'd like to leave a message I can-"

Julian produced a business card between two fingers, held it like a weapon. "Morrison, Price & Cole. We're here for a private legal consultation with my client. Obstructing attorney-client communication raises questions about corporate interference in personal matters that I'm certain Mr. Jarvis would prefer not to explore."

The supervisor's mouth opened. Closed. He looked at the card, at Julian's expression, at Faith's face.

"I-of course. Let me just-"

He stepped aside.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Faith walked inside, turned, and watched Holly and Julian follow. The doors closed on the supervisor's pale face, on the lobby's curious stares, on the life she'd constructed from other people's expectations.

The ascent was silent. Faith watched the floor numbers climb-20, 35, 50-and felt something loosen in her chest with each passing level. She was doing this. She was really doing this.

At floor 60, Julian opened his briefcase. "The zero-compensation clause is on page seventeen. I've highlighted the relevant sections. He'll try to argue duress, but the prenup's ironclad-we just need his signature."

Faith nodded. Her fingers found the envelope's edge again, tracing, tracing.

The elevator slowed. The doors opened onto a corridor of gray carpet and recessed lighting, the kind of anonymous luxury that cost thousands per square foot to achieve. At the far end, double doors of Brazilian rosewood marked the corner office.

Faith stepped out. Her heels made no sound on the carpet.

Behind her, Holly whispered something-prayer or curse, Faith couldn't tell. Julian's briefcase clicked shut.

She walked toward the doors. Toward Branson. Toward the end of everything she'd been and the beginning of whatever came next.