Chapter 3 3

The door to the CEO's office was heavy mahogany, a barrier meant to intimidate. Alexia didn't knock.

She pushed it open and walked in.

Jensen was behind his desk, signing a stack of documents. He didn't look up.

"I didn't order coffee," he said. "Get out."

Alexia walked to the desk. Her legs felt like lead, but her mind was strangely clear. The pain in her side had sharpened into a singular point of focus. It clarified things.

She placed the blue folder on top of the document he was signing.

He stopped writing. He stared at the blue folder for a second before looking up. His eyes were narrowed.

"What is this? Another invoice for one of your charities?"

Alexia took a breath. "It's a divorce agreement, Jensen. I've already signed it."

For a moment, there was no sound but the hum of the central air. Jensen stared at her. Then, a short, sharp laugh escaped his lips.

He flipped the folder open, glancing at the pages with a look of utter boredom. "Is this the new strategy? Brinkmanship?"

He didn't read it. He didn't see the clauses where Alexia waived her rights to the spousal support. He didn't see the section where she relinquished claim to the penthouse.

"If you want a higher allowance, Alexia, talk to the CFO. Don't waste my time with theatrics."

Alexia reached out and placed her hand on the folder. "I don't want your money. I'm leaving with what I came with. Nothing."

He looked at her then. Really looked at her. For a second, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. But he crushed it instantly, replacing it with arrogance.

"You? Leave?"

He stood up and walked around the desk. He towered over her. He smelled of expensive soap and authority.

"You wouldn't last a week without the Carlson name," he said softly. "You like the credit cards. You like the galas. You like pretending you belong."

Alexia looked up at him. She saw the man she had loved since she was nineteen. The man she had given up a PhD for. The man she had written code for in the middle of the night so he could take credit in the morning.

"I don't want any of it," she said. "I just want to breathe."

His jaw tightened. He grabbed the folder from the desk.

"You are my wife," he said. "That is a lifetime contract. We have a merger pending. We have the shareholder meeting next week."

He walked to the shredder in the corner of the room.

"Jensen, don't," Alexia said, but her voice was calm.

He fed the document into the machine. The grinding noise was loud, violent. It ate the paper, strip by strip.

"There," he said, dusting his hands off. "Negotiation over."

He walked back to her, leaning in close. His voice was a low growl. "Stop acting like a child. Go home. Get ready for the dinner on Friday. And never pull a stunt like this again."

He turned his back to her.

Alexia watched him. She realized then that he didn't keep her because he loved her. He kept her because he owned her. She was an asset. A depreciating one, perhaps, but still his.

"I have another copy," she whispered.

He didn't turn around. "Get out."

Alexia walked out. She closed the door softly behind her.

She leaned against the wall in the corridor, her knees giving way. She slid down until she was crouching on the floor. She couldn't breathe. The pain was blinding now.

But through the pain, she felt something else. Rage.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely type. She scrolled past Jensen's name. She scrolled past Eleanor's.

She pressed the contact for the one person in the Carlson family who hated Jensen almost as much as she did right now.

Clark.

She put the phone to her ear.

"Clark," she said when he answered. "I need a favor."