Chapter 6 - The Morning After the Storm
The morning sun filtered softly through the plantation shutters of the master suite, painting clean, golden stripes across the imported wool rug. When Marlo opened her eyes, the house was completely silent. There were no clinking coffee mugs downstairs, no polite murmurs from Lorraine, and no hollow excuses from Beckett.
Just peace. Absolute, unadulterated peace.
She got out of bed, slipping into a silk robe, and walked over to the closet. Half of Beckett’s side was already empty—he had spent the entire night sleeping upright on the downstairs velvet sofa, paralyzed by the realization that his entire world had crumbled.
When she walked down the grand staircase fifteen minutes later, coffee mug in hand, she found Beckett sitting at the kitchen island. He looked like a man who had aged ten years overnight. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair was messy, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Marlo," he began, his voice cracking as he stood up tentatively. "We need to talk. Please. About last night... things got out of hand. I was shocked, just like everyone else. I didn't mean to let Daphne—"
"Save it, Beckett," Marlo interrupted, her voice entirely flat and devoid of emotion. She poured her coffee and leaned against the counter, looking at him with clinical detachment. "Your bags are packed. They're by the front door."
Beckett flinched as though he had been struck. "Marlo, you can't just throw away a six-year marriage over a dinner party gone wrong! It was a mistake! I made a mistake!"
"A mistake is forgetting to pick up dry cleaning," Marlo said calmly. "Standing by while a stranger mocks your wife in her own home to stroke your ego is a character flaw. And signing the separation paperwork arriving at your office by noon today is non-negotiable."
Before Beckett could muster another desperate plea, a sharp knock echoed from the front entryway.
Marlo walked across the foyer and pulled open the heavy oak door. Standing on the porch was a courier holding a sleek leather briefcase and an overnight bag. Behind him stood Marcus Vance, senior partner at Vance & Sterling Legal Counsel, wearing a sharp charcoal suit and a confident smile.
"Good morning, Marlo," Marcus greeted smoothly, stepping inside. "I trust the timing is appropriate? I have the preliminary asset division and corporate equity reallocation files right here."
Beckett walked into the foyer, his face turning the color of chalk when he recognized Marcus. "Marcus... you represent her firm? You can't do this, we're family friends—"
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"I represent the majority voting shareholder of Phoenix Holdings, Mr. Cole," Marcus corrected him coldly, sliding a thick manila folder across the marble entry table. "And right now, that is your wife. I suggest you sign the papers before the corporate restructuring audit hits the public press release."
Beckett stared at the pen Marcus offered him. With trembling hands, realizing he had no leverage left, no company backing, and no defender, he signed his name across the dotted line.
