Divorcing the Richest Man in Manhattan

When I ended up in the hospital, Declan was in the middle of giving me the silent treatment over his ex-girlfriend.

At the height of our worst fight, he’d looked down at me, his voice thick with contempt:

“Nora, if I actually wanted something to happen with Serena, you wouldn’t even be wearing that ring right now.”

After that, I became extremely “understanding.”

I stopped checking up on him. I stopped asking questions. I couldn’t even be bothered to notice the perfume on his clothes.

Declan seemed to sense something unsettling in that dead calm.

Out of some belated urge to make amends, he started trying to smooth things over.

On my birthday, he walked away from a merger at his European branch and took a red-eye back to New York.

He even set up a birthday surprise for me in that cold penthouse of ours, just the two of us.

But all I felt was awkward. Cornered. Suffocated.

I couldn’t help ducking behind the kitchen island to send my best friend a voice memo.

“We’re about to get divorced. Why is he even bothering with all this?”

She laughed. “Sure, he’s a total jerk. But he’s the richest jerk in Manhattan. Are you really sure about this? You’re giving up a black card with no limit. You won’t regret it?”

I thought about it, then said, “We’re not right for each other. If we actually get divorced, all I’ll feel is relief.”

Behind me came the dull clink of glass against glass.

I spun around. Declan was standing a few feet away, and the color was slowly draining from his face.

—

In the kitchen, we were forced to face each other.

Declan looked down at me, his expression unreadable.

I picked up the bottle of red on the counter, poured him a glass too, and said sheepishly, “Want some?”

He didn’t say no. He walked over and sat down next to me.

After a while, he spoke. “Does being with me wear you out that much?”

My heart clenched.

I avoided his eyes. “You’re overthinking it.”

Declan studied me with a heavy gaze. Neither of us said anything else.

He seemed to relax a little, as if he’d decided what I’d said was just girl talk, me venting to my friend.

Then a phone buzzed on the island.

I reached for it on reflex. When I saw the name on the screen, Serena, my head jerked up, and I found myself staring straight into Declan’s eyes.

“Sorry. Wrong phone.” I shoved it awkwardly back into his hand.

Declan glanced at the screen, a faint crease between his brows. “It’s work. Don’t read into it.”

I nodded. “Sure. Take it. If she’s calling this late, it must be urgent. I’ll give you some privacy.”

Before he could answer, I set down my glass and stood, ever so considerate, to give him the room.

But Declan grabbed my arm. His voice was low. “Stay. There’s nothing between us you can’t hear.”

I frowned. Before I could stop myself, I shot back coldly, “Declan, have you ever met a woman who’d sit and listen while her husband talked to his ex?”

His grip on my wrist tightened. His throat moved, and he said quietly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“I won’t.”

I shook his hand off and walked out of the room.