Chapter 4

The director hemmed and hawed for ages before sheepishly confessing—with a touch of remorse—that maybe I wasn't quite right for the third female lead anymore. He'd mulled it over and opted to recast.

This made it twice now.

First, I'd been bumped from the starring role down to supporting, and now even that minor part was getting pulled out from under me.

Despite the fact that I'd already put in over two months on set.

I parted my lips to respond, but the only thing I could force out was a curt "Fine!"

Jeromy was the producer, after all.

The director wouldn't have made the switch without his green light.

I dialed him up, primed to grill him on why.

Why one word from him could wipe away months of my sweat and effort in an instant.

Why he got to play god with my career on a whim.

But as the line connected, it hit me—he'd blocked my number.

I stormed over to the office to face him down, only to get stonewalled politely at the front desk.

"Mr. Santos' orders," the receptionist explained. "No one gets in without an appointment."

How ridiculous.

We were husband and wife, yet I had to schedule time just to see him.

And that marked the end—I never laid eyes on Jeromy again after that.

That night, I crashed hard, bone-tired.

Waking up felt like my body had been disassembled and slapped back together wrong.

Outside, rain still tapped relentlessly at the windows.

I rinsed my face and threw together a quick sandwich.

Mid-bite into breakfast, the villa's front door chimed with the electronic lock. "Access granted."

Jeromy—gone for three solid months—had finally shown up.

He looked sharp in a fresh bespoke suit, his expression at ease, radiating a new level of polish.

A subtle trace of women's perfume lingered on him.

Ten years on, he'd gained that polished charm of a seasoned man—more dignified, more magnetic.

His arrival threw me for a loop.

I'd pegged him for an afternoon appearance at the soonest.

But as I thought it through, it tracked.

Wrapping up our divorce? He'd want to fast-track that.

Jeromy's face was a blank slate, giving away zilch.

He marched straight in, eyes fixing on me as he said flatly, "Barbra, you'd better mean business this time. I don't have the patience to haggle over this divorce forever. If we don't seal it now, I'll drag it through the courts—no problem."

His callous tone had my nails biting into my palms.

I tamped down the turmoil inside, coaching myself to keep cool.

No use wasting anger on a jerk like him anymore.

We were on the verge of splitting.

Right?

I pushed the divorce papers across the table his way.

"Chill. That's exactly why I summoned you—to sign off on these."

He eyed me briefly, then scanned the document.

His slender fingers hovered over the pages for an eternity.

Minutes dragged on.

Finally, he lifted his gaze, brow creased as he scrutinized me.

Those eyes brimmed with suspicion, doubt, and a probing edge.

I got it—he wasn't convinced.

For two years, no matter his cold shoulder, his all-nighters elsewhere, or his blatant flaunting of Bridget to twist the knife, I'd held onto our marriage like it was my last anchor.

This abrupt cave-in? It smelled fishy to him.

Cool as a cucumber, I turned to the conditions page for him.

"I'm divorcing on two terms: One, cut me loose from my Starlight Entertainment contract. Two, fork over 17 million dollars."

Jeromy's eyebrow twitched—just barely.

I knew that tic inside out.

He was crunching the numbers, tallying wins and losses.

I grabbed my water glass, sipped, and went on, "It's a bargain. 17 million dollars' barely a sliver of our shared assets—less than a tenth. And the contract? My star power's tanked. You'd be on the hook for 3 million dollars annually in minimums if you keep me. Smart move to bail now."

I let that sink in, then tacked on, "Plus, if I kick up a scandal while still tied to the company, Starlight eats the fallout. Your investors won't roll over like I have."

Jeromy's sharp, almond-shaped eyes narrowed a fraction, and he let out a scoff. "Sounds like a threat to me."

I gave a vague shrug.

"A smooth split works for all of us. I'm yesterday's news—scandals bounce off me. But Bridget? She's barely planted her flag in the scene, with a fresh series about to drop. Word is, you landed her that elite Clusall jewelry gig for Asia-Pacific last week, cover shoot booked and all. No sense dragging her into mess right now."

Jeromy locked eyes with me at last, but his mouth twisted in sarcasm.

"You? Playing nice? Pull the other one. These demands are way too clean-cut. My lawyer's vetting this before I even think about signing."

I fixed on his clenched jaw.

My thoughts strayed—ill-timed—to seven years back, picking up our marriage license.