Chapter 10
Miles away from the pristine heights of the penthouse, the reality of the ground floor was stark, unforgiving, and relentless. Julian sat at a sticky laminate table in a twenty-four-hour diner three blocks from the bus station, staring down at a cold cup of diner coffee that he hadn't touched in twenty minutes. His gray collared shirt, once crisp and professional, was now wrinkled at the cuffs and stained with a faint smudge of coffee from his hurried morning commute on the subway. His phone sat face-up on the table, completely silent, its battery icon hovering stubbornly at twelve percent.
The door of the diner jingled as another weary commuter walked in, letting in a gust of damp morning air. Julian flinched at the sound, his nerves frayed to the breaking point. The past twenty-four hours had been a masterclass in humiliation. After Chloe had walked out of the hotel lobby at midnight—leaving behind a curt text message saying she didn't date men with negative net worths—Julian had spent the remaining hours of the night trying to find a friend, an acquaintance, or a former business rival who would take his call. Every single door had been slammed shut. In the cutthroat world they both inhabited, failure was contagious, and Julian had become a carrier.
A shadow fell across the laminate table. Julian looked up, expecting a waitress with the check, but instead saw Marcus standing there holding a thin manila folder. The attorney looked impeccably groomed, his dark suit contrasting sharply with the faded vinyl booths and fluorescent lighting of the diner.
"Mind if I sit, Julian?" Marcus asked, already pulling out the opposite bench without waiting for an answer.
Julian swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Did Rebecca send you to gloat? Or is there something else you forgot to strip from me?"
"Neither," Marcus replied calmly, placing the manila folder on the table between them. "I’m here on my own accord as a professional courtesy. Rebecca isn't interested in kicking you while you're down, Julian. That’s not who she is. But she is interested in finalizing the legal separation cleanly so neither of you has to drag this through a public court battle."
Julian opened the folder with trembling fingers. Inside were standard settlement documents—not the punitive, total-destruction papers he had feared, but a measured division of what little personal property remained in his name, alongside a modest relocation stipend to keep him from immediate homelessness. It was far more generous than he deserved, and that mercy stung worse than any malice.
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"Why?" Julian whispered, staring down at the papers. "Why give me anything? After everything I did."
Marcus leaned back against the booth, his expression neutral. "Because Rebecca isn't defined by your mistakes, Julian. She won the game because she played it better, but she has no interest in destroying you. She just wants you out of her life permanently. Sign the papers, take the stipend, and start over. It’s the last charity you’ll ever get from her."
