The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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By the time Jack wrapped up his meeting and stepped out, I'd already eaten, cleaned the kitchen, and settled onto the couch with the TV on.
Like nothing had happened.
He headed for the shower but paused halfway, realizing there were no towels. Out of habit, he called from the bathroom.
"Honey, where's my bath towel?"
I didn't even glance his way. "Already packed it in the suitcase. If you don't mind, use mine for now. I'll toss it later."
Silence stretched between us.
When Jack finally emerged, his eyes landed on the three suitcases lined up by the door.
He sat across from me, nudging the divorce agreement toward me with his fingertips.
"I can give you $1.5 million upfront for child support, and the rest in monthly installments—"
I cut him off. "No. One lump sum. I doubt she'd want you keeping in touch with me anyway."
Jack frowned. "The kid isn't just yours. I have a right to be part of his life. I know this is my fault, and I'll make it right—but don't use him as leverage."
I hit pause on the show and met his gaze.
"The affair is your fault, so paying up is fair. The house and car barely scratch the surface of what you've got. And our son? I've raised him since day one. He's sensitive. He needs attention. Tell me—how much energy will you really have for him while you're off playing newlywed?"
I flipped open the agreement. "Two million covers everything. If you want to play doting dad later, wire the money to his account. I'll set up a card for him."
Jack let out a sharp laugh. "Olivia, I never pegged you for someone so hung up on money. Is that all you care about?"
"What else is there?" I shot back. "Did loving you ever get me anywhere?"
He froze. Then, jaw tight, he snatched a pen and signed.
By morning, he was gone.
Our son bounded out of his room, wrapping his arms around me, bubbling over about some happy dream he'd had. As I listened, I gently broke the news—Dad's work would keep him away for a while.
Instead of his usual plea—"Dad, when are you coming home?"—he just nodded. "Oh. That's okay. I've got you, Mom."
My throat closed up. I ducked into the bathroom before the tears could spill.
Divorcing Jack hurt, but the real ache was failing our son—denying him the family he deserved.
Except it wasn't my fault.
After dropping him at school, Jack and I filed the paperwork. Thirty days until it's final.
Back in the car, I circled the date on my calendar.
Divorce countdown: 30 days.
Like nothing had happened.
He headed for the shower but paused halfway, realizing there were no towels. Out of habit, he called from the bathroom.
"Honey, where's my bath towel?"
I didn't even glance his way. "Already packed it in the suitcase. If you don't mind, use mine for now. I'll toss it later."
Silence stretched between us.
When Jack finally emerged, his eyes landed on the three suitcases lined up by the door.
He sat across from me, nudging the divorce agreement toward me with his fingertips.
"I can give you $1.5 million upfront for child support, and the rest in monthly installments—"
I cut him off. "No. One lump sum. I doubt she'd want you keeping in touch with me anyway."
Jack frowned. "The kid isn't just yours. I have a right to be part of his life. I know this is my fault, and I'll make it right—but don't use him as leverage."
I hit pause on the show and met his gaze.
"The affair is your fault, so paying up is fair. The house and car barely scratch the surface of what you've got. And our son? I've raised him since day one. He's sensitive. He needs attention. Tell me—how much energy will you really have for him while you're off playing newlywed?"
I flipped open the agreement. "Two million covers everything. If you want to play doting dad later, wire the money to his account. I'll set up a card for him."
Jack let out a sharp laugh. "Olivia, I never pegged you for someone so hung up on money. Is that all you care about?"
"What else is there?" I shot back. "Did loving you ever get me anywhere?"
He froze. Then, jaw tight, he snatched a pen and signed.
By morning, he was gone.
Our son bounded out of his room, wrapping his arms around me, bubbling over about some happy dream he'd had. As I listened, I gently broke the news—Dad's work would keep him away for a while.
Instead of his usual plea—"Dad, when are you coming home?"—he just nodded. "Oh. That's okay. I've got you, Mom."
My throat closed up. I ducked into the bathroom before the tears could spill.
Divorcing Jack hurt, but the real ache was failing our son—denying him the family he deserved.
Except it wasn't my fault.
After dropping him at school, Jack and I filed the paperwork. Thirty days until it's final.
Back in the car, I circled the date on my calendar.
Divorce countdown: 30 days.
End of The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty book page.