Page 34 of Parker
Chapter twenty-seven
Parker Fashion House, Glasgow
Joel
Four weeks later, I’m sitting in my office. My mood has been terrible since Nicky left me. Countless phone calls have gone unanswered. Sophie tells me she’s coping but grieving. I’m not sure I’m coping. She doesn’t want to speak to me—as far as she is concerned, there is nothing for us to discuss.
My men monitor her daily moves. She’s an easy target for my enemies now. They report very little, only that she stays inside and hasn’t left the apartment apart from a handful of occasions with her friend. They’ve visited the supermarket twice and a local bar.
Sophie says she’s still adamant that she never stole the ideas. I’m having some doubts myself. I’ve explained to her multiple times that nothing has been going on between Ebony and me, but that is getting harder for the outside world to believe.
She’s been living in my spare room for three weeks—since the night her husband put her in the hospital. I told myself I was just helping her get back on her feet, but she’s made herself very comfortable. Too comfortable.
I was livid with her behavior the night Nicky found us on the sofa, but she said she was still half asleep and thought she was dreaming.
Sophie tells me she believes me about the situation and promises to speak to Nicky, to encourage her to meet me to discuss our marriage.
I can’t lose her.
She’s my heart.
My phone rings. It’s Louise in reception. “Mr. Parker, there’s a gentleman here with a document requiring your signature.”
“Can you not fucking sign it?” I spit out. Poor Louise has had the worst part of my mood these last few weeks. She’s stopped coming to my office, protecting herself from my wrath by using the intercom system.
“No, sir,” she tells me. “He’s adamant that you must sign for them. They need to be put into your hands.”
“Send him in.”
A smartly dressed man stands in the doorway. “Good morning, Mr. Parker. My name is David Wright. I work for Henderson’s Law Firm on Ingram St.”
I stand and walk around my desk to shake his hand.
“Mrs. Nicola Parker asked me to serve you these.” He passes me a brown folder. “If you could sign acceptance.” It’s only then that I notice the clipboard and pen under his arm.
“What are they?” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He regains control of his features before he speaks.
“Your divorce papers. Mrs. Parker filed them two weeks ago.”
In a daze, I sign his form, and he scuttles from the room. Throwing the folder on my desk, I fish my phone from my pocket and dial her number again.
Pick up, please. How could you file for divorce without speaking to me?
The phone rings out, then cuts off. I press the call button again. I’m going to call her until she bloody answers. On the fifth attempt, the call connects.
“Hello,” she says. Her voice is weak—she’s nervous.
“Nicky,” I say. “I got the divorce papers. Please, baby, let’s try to sort this. I love you.”
“You didn’t believe me when it counted. That’s what broke us.
Not the thieving allegations or the possibility of you cheating on me.
It’s the fact that you weren’t on my side.
I always trusted you would be.” Her voice cracks with each word.
“All the things I accepted in your life and you never stopped to listen.”
“I made a mistake,” I whisper. “At least talk to me.”
“Please, just sign the papers. I want nothing from you. Just my things from the house, and the little I’ve saved.”
“I don’t want a divorce,” I challenge. “I need you.”
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. When Nicky 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.