He Called It For My Good I Left

Chapter 4

I jerked back, out of reach of his hand. "If she's so eager to take over my duties, why not just hand her the title of Mrs. Weaver outright, Spencer?"

His hand stopped in midair.

"It's one statement. The Weaver name is respected, and I don't want this mess blowing up online any further. Carmen, do as you're told and apologize. You'll still be Mrs. Weaver."

Jasmine stood off to the side, her eyes red and brimming with tears. She reached out and tugged at my sleeve. "Please, Ms. Gibbs. If people think I'm a 'homewrecker,' I'll lose everything I've worked for. Just do me this one favor, please?"

I looked down, and my eyes caught on her wrist.

That familiar green gleam stabbed straight through me, and my chest clenched until it hurt.

I clamped down on her wrist so hard my knuckles went white. "That's my grandmother's jade bracelet! Why are you wearing it?!"

Grandma had taken it off her own wrist and put it on mine just before she passed. On our wedding day, Spencer had kissed my wrist right over it and said, "Wear this, and I'll never let you go as long as I live."

Panic crossed Jasmine's face, but she quickly squared her shoulders and put on a brazen front. "Spencer gave it to me. Your mother asked me to go to the birthday dinner in your place, remember? I had to look like Mrs. Weaver. Spencer said if we were going to put on an act, we might as well do it right. Don't be so petty, Carmen. It's just for show."

I glared at her and reached to rip the bracelet off. "For show? You have no right to take what's mine!"

To my shock, Spencer knocked my hand away from her wrist, his face twisted with disgust. "Why does everything have to be a fight with you? It's an old bracelet. Do you really have to go off like this over nothing?"

"Petty?"

I turned the word over, bitter. Something inside me tore. Nobody else understood what that bracelet meant. But he did. He, of all people, knew what it meant to me.

Because of the birthmark, my parents had never favored me growing up. Grandma was the only one who cared enough to raise me herself. That bracelet was the only keepsake she left me, and the promise he had put on my wrist himself.

While I lunged for it, Jasmine made a show of pulling it off and let it slip.

There was a sharp c***k. The jade shattered, shards skittering to my feet.

Spencer looked up at me, his voice ice-cold. "If it's coming between you two, it never should've been there. It's only a bracelet. Happy now? Go out there and read the statement."

All the strength drained out of me.

I didn't argue. I didn't scream or cry. I moved like a puppet, one step at a time, until I was standing in front of the cameras. I read the statement word for word, every line a lie.

The crowd erupted.

Some called me vicious and heartless. But most of them went after my face.

"Look at her face. She had surgery and she still looks like that? No wonder Mr. Weaver can't stand her."

"I heard she just went under the knife with Dr. Monroe. Spent millions on it, and that's the result?"

"She can't even pass for presentable after surgery? God, what did she look like before?"

Laughter, shutter clicks and jeering comments washed over me. I stood dead center in front of all those lenses, the stitches on my face burning.

Before the reporters could descend, Spencer bundled Jasmine into the driver's seat of a car right away. "Jasmine, don't be scared. Go ahead."

I stared up at him, blank. Whatever hope I had left flickered out.

The next second, brakes screamed. A thunderous crash followed.

Jasmine's car lurched forward, clipped my side, and slammed straight into the wall. I crumpled to the ground, hot blood running down my forehead.

I reached for Spencer on instinct. He brushed my hand off, his tone perfectly calm. "Someone call 911 for my wife. Jasmine isn't a good driver, and she's shaken. I'm taking her to the hospital first. I'll make it up to you when I get home tonight."

A moment later, the reporters chased after the car. In the now-empty driveway, I was the only one left, crumpled on the ground, disheveled and ignored.

That night, I bandaged the cut on my forehead and carried my things out of the bedroom one box at a time.

The front door opened.

Spencer glanced suspiciously at the trash can. "What did you throw away?"

I turned around slowly. My cheeks were dry, my face blank, my voice flat. "Just some junk."

He didn't press. His gaze drifted to the papers on the table. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'll give you whatever you want, but don't push your luck."

My throat tightened, and I felt nothing but grief.

He was just about to read through the papers properly when his phone rang. Jasmine's name lit up the screen.

The voice on the other end was frantic. "Spencer, I'm at the family estate, and something's happened. Please don't be mad at me, okay?"

"Don't be scared. I'm on my way."

Spencer grabbed a pen, signed his name on the last page without a second look, and headed out the door, still murmuring reassurances to her.

Once he was gone, I picked up the papers and let out a bitter, hollow laugh. Under the heading Divorce Agreement, Spencer's signature was already dry.

I hauled my luggage out the door, snapped my SIM card in half without a second thought, and tossed it in the trash.

From then on, our paths ran in different directions, never to cross again.

I never looked back.