Chapter 9
I’d taken the job, so no use screwing around. Money talked, and I needed it bad
The surgery had knocked me flat, left me weak as a kitten, but my brain hadn’t gone to shit just yet.
When I called Ellen Potter, her voice wobbled like she was one sniff away from a meltdown.
“Adal Jesus, you’re finally calling! I thought you’d fucking bailed on me!” she blubbered.
Ellen was my intern find from last year, now my full–time assistant. A little all over the place, sure, but real as they come and dedicated.
The best part? She could handle the soul–crushing silence of design work, those long stretches where it’s just one and the blank page. She was born for it.
When I’d walked away from the company, I’d made sure someone had her back, but from the sound of it, things weren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound like I had my shit together. “Grab the old Bright Group proposal and blueprints. Bring them to me?
She paused, voice shaky. “Ada, didn’t you ditch that project! If 1 go poking around for those files, they’ll probably tell me to fuck off.”
“Just say Jude’s the one asking. And tell HR T’in working from home for a bit. You’re back as my assistant, got it?”
If I was wading back into this mess, I needed my own squad. No more flying solo like some stubborn idiot.
And honestly? I might have to keep grinding just to afford my next hospital bill. Work or die, that was the deal now.
When Ellen showed up at the hospital, she looked like she’d been hit by a truck. “Ada.. you. tumor? Hospital?” she choked out, eyes like saucers.
I stretched out a trembling hand. “Files. Gimme”
ry went fine. I’m not keeling over yet,” I said, faking a grin.
“Chill, the surgery w
Yer. That word hung in my head like a guillotine. This thing could come back swinging, and I knew it.
All I had was today, and I’d damn well make it count—starting with stacking cash to keep breathing.
Ellen was a hot mess, tears streaming as she thrust the files and a beat–up laptop at me,
“Figured you didn’t have one, so use mine, she mumbled, scrubbing at her face. “But, like, how the hell are you supposed to design shit from a hospital bed? Mr. Carson’s such a goddamn asshole!”
She got louder, spitting venom.
Word was, Jude had dachell everything to play house with Vivian. Diving in crystal waters, sipping cocktails on fancy cruises–Vivian was blowing up her Instagram with those desperate sen- -photo carousels every day, acting like she was’kaming in some cheesy rom–com.
“You’re stuck in this hellhole, and he’s out there dicking around with his sidepiece! Ellen fumed. “Men are fucking garbage!”
I smacked her head lightly with my pen. “Pump the brakes, kid. Not all guys suck–just Jude’s a special kind of scumbag”
She choked back a sob, then bolted out to buy half a fruit market. When she came back, she managed a wobbly smile, but every time she looked at me, her eyes screamed she was holding something in.
“Ellen, you’ve butchered this apple to hell,” I said, staring at the pathetic core she’d whittled down to nothing,
She glanced at it, sheepish, and took a bite. “Shir, my bad. 111 book you up with a better one. This was just practice.”
Then she got real quiet. “Ada, aren’t you, like, pissed? You and Mr. Carson are you guys done? Like, divorce–level done!”
My pen stopped dead. Divorce? The word hit like a punch I didn’t see coming. My chest tightened, and I stared at the files in my lap, willing
To give me an answer.
Cold logic told me to get divorce.
We’d racked up a fortune together, and I wasn’t some gold–digger–Ed just take what I needed to keep the hospital from hounding me.
them
Hut my stupid heart wouldn’t budge. Jude could treat me like garbage, but he was still the only one who’d ever burrowed into my soul and stayed
there.
Fuck, why couldn’t I shake him! He was off living his new life, and was still chained to feelings he would never even notice.
11/2
Chapter 9
Traught my reflection in the hospital window and let out a dry, bitter chuckle.
shaking my head. Look at this wreck of a body. What was the point of Laying my heart hare! Even if I tried, he’d just brush me off like lint.
I thrust the dog–eared files at Ellen, my voice clipped. “Fix these sections, and don’t half–ass it. Someone upstairs is sniffing around the Bright Group project, and we’re not gonna be the ones who screw the ponch
“Tm out of commission for designing full–time, so you’re stepping up,” I added. “My office in design should still be empty. Take it over, but zip your lips about me being laid up here.”
Ellen clutched the files like they’d save her life, her eyes wide as dinner plates. “Even from Mr. Carson? He’s in the dark, right”
“He knows,” I said, my voice flat as a board as I snapped my laptop shut. “No need to stir that pot”
I’d told him I was checking into this place, but he probably thought I was pulling some drama queen stunt. I wasn’t about to beg him to give a
damn.
Ellen loitered like she was glued to the spot, dragging it out for another half hour until a nurse finally gave her the boot
But right as she hit the doorway, she spun around and shoved her phone in my face, practically vibrating with outrage.
“Ada, I know you’re above this shit, but Jude’s gone fucking nuclear, she spat. “That money’s half yours, right?
“How’s he blowing hundreds of thousands on a goddamn apartment for that tramp Vivian? 650 grand, minimum?”
1 glanced at her phone, and there it was: Vivian’s Instagram, screaming smug vibes.
A sleek loft, all warm lights and plush furniture—not some impulse purchase, that’s for sure.
The caption was like a kick to the teeth: “Our cory little love nest. And in one shot, clear as day, was Jude’s profile, caught mid–laugh.
“Get back to work,” I mumbled, my voice barely holding together. That’s what matters.”
I sank into the bed, a sharp pain slicing through my chest, 650 grand! Jude was throwing cash at his mistress like she was his soulmate.
Was he really gone for her? Head–over–heels, write–her–a–love–song gone! The thought burned, a slow, ugly fire in my gut.
Then I saw my mom’s face–her final days in that dingy rental, her frame so frail it barely dented the mattress.
Mrs. Waison, once the life of every party, reduced to a ghost in a closet–sized apartment with nothing but a lumpy bed.
She’d wanted one last look at our old villa, but we didn’t have a dime. I’d choked down every shred of dignity and begged Jude, clinging to the faint hope our marriage meant something.
And what did I get?
“You and your pathetic moin don’t deserve a fucking cent, he’d sneered. “You’re lucky I haven’t cut you off completely. You’ve got debts to pay your sins.
e
