AFTER DIVORCING MY ARMY HUSBAND

CHAPTER 3:

Melinda's POV

The following morning, before I could even wake up, the house was already quiet in a way that felt empty instead of peaceful. Jameson had left. So I lay there for a moment.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was Jameson. My chest tightened before I picked it up.

“Come to the office for a meeting,” his voice sharp, the kind of voice that rolled over you and pinned you in place.

“We’re discussing yesterday’s incident. Clara will be there. Melinda, make sure you behave yourself and don't cause trouble.”

He clicked off without waiting for me to breathe. The line went dead, leaving a ringing silence that I could feel all the way to my knees.

His plan was already unfolding. He had called the meeting to put Clara where he wanted her, close to him. He thought he could use the company to move his little piece into the center of everything and leave me shoved to the side while making the world watch how he planted her like a flag.

My grip tightened around the phone. Until the skin on my knuckles turned white. I could feel the anger building like a tide.

No. I decided I would not let him have his way. Not only would I destroy his perfect plan, but I would make sure his mistress's career here is over before he even started.

Now, let me tell him I am coming, but I need to let him know my interests.

Then I pushed harder. “But I want the Administration Executive position at Paramount Airlines. Make it happen.”

The silence on the other end of the line said everything before Jameson could respond.

He let out a short laugh, a cutting sound that made my skin crawl.

“Melinda,” he said, the word a dismissive spat. “You’re delusional.”

The laugh turned into a sneer and then into an insult that landed like a slap.

“What can you do besides spreading your legs?” he asked. His words sound like poison to me.

They did more than wound. They dug a deep ache into me, where something soft and private had lived. I felt my hands go numb, a thin heat lifting behind my eyes. The house swam for a second, and I swallowed so hard it really hurt.

“You made Clara a senior accountant the moment she returned," I said, each word a small, hard stone. “And when I asked for one executive position, you refused. You really make me wonder who is actually your wife?”

His voice turned cruel. “How dare you say that? Don’t even try to compare yourself to Clara. She earned her place through her expertise.” He breathed those words like gospel. Then, quieter, nastier: “Who are you? A gold digger. That’s all.”

“Don’t you dare say that to me,” I snapped, but the words trembled. I thought of Grandpa’s voice, older and firmer than Johnson’s: that Drako Loyal, our family tie, was supposed to be mine. “Don’t touch Drako Loyal. Grandpa promised it would be mine when we married.”

Johnson’s laugh was cold. “That Drako Loyal is worth forty-five million dollars. Tell me, Melinda, are you worth forty-five million dollars?”

His question was not a query. It was an accusation, an appraisal of my value as if I were a ledger entry. The number hung in the air like ice. Forty-five million dollars. The count of everything I had left of my mother, measured in cold numerals.

His words hit me like ice water.

In Johnson’s eyes, I was just a gold digger who'd do anything for money. How could I ever expect him to care about my feelings?

A shiver ran down my spine.

I already knew what his answer would be, but I had to hear it-even if it meant humiliating myself.

Maybe I just needed this final push to let go completely.

A bitter smile crossed my lips. "Johnson," I said through gritted teeth, "You don't get to decide my worth."

With that, I promptly hung up the phone.

It was high time I packed my bags and bid farewell to this place.

The irony wasn't lost on me: three years in this house, and everything I owned fit into a single suitcase.

Clutching the suitcase handle tightly, I took one last lingering look at Drako Center, the home I'd called my own for three years, before turning on my heel to leave.

Just then, Johnson's call came through again.

"Clara has stomach pain. Clean up a room-I'm bringing her home tonight to rest." His tone carried

that familiar commanding edge.

He wasn't asking his wife for a favor; instead, he was ordering, commanding her for an employee around.

I already knew the answer he would give. I knew how he would measure me: not by the love I could give, not by the person I might be, but by the worth he could place on my bones. I had to hear it-even if it meant humiliating myself.

Maybe I just needed this final push to let go completely.

A bitter smile crossed my lips.

“Johnson,” I said, voice low and steady, though my heart slammed against my ribs. “You don’t get to decide my worth," I said, and I hung up.

It was high time I packed my bags and bid farewell to this place.

The irony wasn't lost on me: three years in this house, and everything I owned fit into only a small single suitcase.

Clutching the suitcase handle tightly, I took a deep breath and looked at Drako Center, the home I'd called my own for three years, before turning on my heel to leave.

Just as I was about to leave, the phone rang again. Johnson’s name flashed across the screen like a warning. He always timed things like that, like he knew precisely when to push.

“Clara has stomach pain,” he told me. The words were flat, a command disguised as information. “Clean up a room. I’m bringing her home tonight. She needs to rest.”

He did not ask his wife for a favor; he did not ask if I had plans or feelings or a right to the rooms I’d lived in for years. Instead, he just issued orders and expected her to follow.

I let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “Since when did the Drako Center become a hospital?” I said. “You want to move her in so fast? Don’t dress it up as a concern.”

There was a pause. A silence that carried the weight of a threat. “Melinda,” Johnson said, voice cold enough to c***k glass.

“Don’t test me. Keep this up, and I won’t just take Apricot Drako. I’ll stop paying for your mother’s medical bills, too.”

The threat landed with terrible precision. The name, “Apricot Drako,” was small, fragile, something that belonged to my mother. To him, it was a bargaining chip and leverage.

My laugh this time was bitter and small. “You don’t get to do that,” I said, though I knew the truth. He could and he would, if it suited him. He had shown me, time and again, that money and power were his arms and his teeth.

“You want her to move in as quickly as possible, right?” I said finally. “Fine. I’ll make sure you both have all the rooms in the world. But understand this, there’s a line you crossed. You think you can decide everything. You think you can decide people’s worth. You can, until I say you can’t.”

I ended the call instantly and blocked his number. The decision felt like a small, sharp victory, closing a door that had been open for too long. The phone was suddenly quiet and light in my hand.

I dragged the suitcase out to the car. My hands were steady now, but my heart still hammered under my ribs.

I stood on the driveway and looked back at Drako Center. The house looked the same, ornate, proud, indifferent. Inside those walls, my life had been measured in other people’s expectations and Johnson’s disdain.

I walked away slowly and deliberately.

When I reached the gate, I paused. I took one deep breath and let it go slow, forcing the calm to settle in my bones like cold plaster. I had signed the papers. I had packed the past into a suitcase. I had cut the cord of fear a little shorter by blocking the number that had cut me down.

I would not let Johnson decide the shape of me. I let the past fall behind like a closed door.