Page 62 of Parker
The line goes silent and after a few moments, she disconnects the call.
I stare at the envelope on my desk. The last thing I want to do is open it. But I know my wife—my soon-to-be ex-wife, I tell myself. Once she’s made her mind up, nothing changes it.
With a heavy heart, I withdraw the divorce papers from their resting place and read. She wants nothing, just like she said. I always knew my wealth wasn’t important to her, but this makes the reality hit home. Pulling a pen from the holder on my desk, I scribble my name on the dotted line, then lift my phone. It rings out twice, then he answers.
“Joel,” the distinguished voice says, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Harold Shoredon has been our family lawyer for decades. His firm has negotiated many sticky situations with various government departments for us. I trust him implicitly. WhenNicky left, I called him to warn him I might require his help. The day has now arrived.
“My divorce papers arrived today. I’ve signed them,” I say, simply. “Can you get the whole thing over with asap?”
“What does she want?”
“Nothing that isn’t hers. I want to give her a swift resolution.”
“And you want this divorce too?”
“I want this over with so I can move on.”
What I don’t say is that I’m dying inside, waiting for her to change her mind.
Chapter twenty-eight
The Boardroom, Parker Fashion
Joel
Parker Merger Wipes Out Worth Legacy.
Power Couple No More: Parker CEO Divorced Amid Expansion.
Two days. Two headlines. Parker Industries is winning. No one cares that I’m bleeding on the inside.
The first article dissected our hostile takeover of the Worth empire, calling it a ‘strategic absorption’ and speculating whether I’d made Reginald Worth an offer or issued a threat.
The second? A full spread on the finalization of my divorce from Nicky. Apparently, the rise of my business came at the costof my marriage. Winning in the boardroom has meant losing behind closed doors.
Our fairytale romance, ending as abruptly as it began, fed tabloids for months. They lapped it up. If I so much as looked at another woman, the papers plastered my face across their pages the next day. Speculation after speculation. What had I done to make her leave? Or worse—what had she done?
Those headlines were harder to stomach.
The media had been taking pot-shots at my family my entire life. I was used to having every decision dissected and dragged into the daylight. But Nicky wasn’t. She wasn’t strong enough to handle that kind of cruelty. She shouldn’t have to.
When we married, Ebony controlled the narrative. She downplayed Nicky’s past, buried what needed burying. Somehow, we made it six years with nothing more than a few obscure mentions of her time in prison.
But our divorce? That was different.
They tore her apart. Full-length articles on her past—how she’d killed her father and left his girlfriend permanently disabled. Not one of them mentioned the affair. Not one acknowledged what he’d done to her. It was all portrayed as her fault.
I begged Ebony to step in. She refused saying public sympathy had run dry. If Nicky wanted privacy, she should leave the city. Marrying into a family like mine meant you had to be prepared to face the paparazzi. Her mental health was her responsibility, not ours.
I tried to calm the chaos myself, but every statement I gave only poured fuel on the fire. Each word triggered another article, another theory. In the end, I gave up.
Now, in the boardroom, I’m surrounded by my team. They want progress. Today, I know they will be demanding answers. A plan.
Ebony sits to my left, poised and polished as ever. She taps a pen against her notepad, watching me too closely. My mother flips through the briefing document. Boyd leans against the far wall, arms crossed, his eyes on the exit. And Drayton. He scowls as if this meeting is a waste of his time.
My leadership isn’t in question. My emotional state is.
