Chapter 3
Chapter 3:
The winter sun glared off the grey pavement outside the Marriage Bureau, making Jocelyn squint.
It was done.
She held the marriage certificate in her hand like a weapon. The paper was flimsy, but the power it held was immense — her key, her shield. Her eyes scanned the document, but the words blurred. All she could focus on was the official seal and the single, beautiful word at the top: MARRIED. The details, the names, were just static. The goal had been achieved.
“It’s done,” she said, half to herself.
Gaston stood beside her on the concrete steps. He checked his phone, a frown creasing his forehead.
“I have to meet with my lawyers,” he said. “I’ll have a key sent to you p>
Jocelyn looked up at him. “I’m not moving in yet. I have things to settle. I need to pack p>
Gaston nodded. He didn’t push. He seemed to understand that she needed space to dismantle her old life before she could step into this strange new one.
“As you wish,” he said. He reached into his pocket and produced a sleek, matte-black business card. It bore no company name, no title — just a phone number embossed in silver and a monogram at the center: GC.
Jocelyn frowned, taking the card. “GC? For — Babe p>
“It’s a family name,” Gaston said, without missing a beat. “Gaston. ‘Babe’ is a nickname I’m trying to outgrow p>
𝖩оi𝘯 𝘵𝗵𝗲 cо𝗆𝗆𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘁y 𝖺𝘁 ѕ.𝖼o𝗆
She accepted this. It made sense. If he was trying to clean up his image, dropping the ridiculous nickname was step one.
“Okay. Gaston p>
He raised a hand, and a yellow cab pulled up instantly, as if summoned by his will alone. He opened the door for her.
“Call me,” he said. It sounded like an order, but his eyes were soft.
Jocelyn nodded and slid into the cab. She watched him through the rear window as the taxi pulled away. He stood there — a dark, still figure against the bustle of the city — watching her until she turned the corner.
She faced forward, her heart racing.
Step one: Done.
Step two: Scorched earth.
She pulled out her phone. Instagram — block. WhatsApp — block. iMessage — block. She erased Kieran Douglas from her digital existence with the same methodical calm one might use to delete an old file.
Then she dialed.
Elouise answered on the second ring.
“Well?” Her mother’s voice was smug. “Are you ready to accept Mr. Henderson’s invitation? He’s quite eager to meet you p>
“I’m married,” Jocelyn announced. Her voice was calm and steady, devoid of the trembling fear she used to feel whenever she spoke to her mother.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence on the other end of the line.
Then: “What? To whom p>
“A businessman,” Jocelyn said. “The certificate is filed. Release the trust p>
“You ungrateful brat!” Elouise shrieked. The composure cracked. “Who is he? Did you pick up some waiter? I will have it annulled p>
“Someone with enough assets that I don’t need yours,” Jocelyn bluffed. She hoped Babe Vincent had money left. “I want the deed to the Wolfe Hamptons estate transferred by tomorrow p>
“That house is Aspen’s for the summer!” Elouise protested. “She’s already planning her engagement party there p>
“It was my father’s,” Jocelyn cut her off. “It’s in the trust. Transfer it, or my lawyers will audit the Schneider accounts p>
The line went quiet. The threat hung heavy in the air. The Schneiders lived lavishly, but everyone knew their liquidity was questionable. An audit would be catastrophic.
“Fine,” Elouise spat the word out like poison. “Take the damn house. But don’t expect a penny more from me p>
“I don’t want your money, Mother. I just want what’s mine p>
Jocelyn hung up.
A rush of adrenaline flooded her veins. It felt like oxygen. For the first time in years, she could breathe.
“Where to, lady?” the cab driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.
“Upper West Side,” Jocelyn said. “The penthouse on 72nd p>
She had to go back. She had to pack.
When she arrived at Kieran’s building, the doorman — a kind older man named Ralph — tipped his hat. He looked at her with sad eyes. He had probably seen the Page Six article too.
“Good morning, Ms. Wolfe,” he said gently.
“Good morning, Ralph p>
She took the elevator up, the numbers climbing steadily. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
She stepped into the penthouse. It was silent. Kieran wasn’t back yet.
She walked to the guest room. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She simply worked.
She pulled her suitcases from the closet and packed her clothes, her books, her expensive skincare. She stripped the bed sheets she had bought with her own money — it was petty, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t leaving him anything.
She made one last pass through the kitchen. She set her key on the marble counter, beside a half-empty coffee mug Kieran had abandoned days ago. A thin film of mold had begun to creep across the surface of the liquid inside.
She looked at her left hand. It was bare.
She had forgotten to get a ring.
“Fake husband, fake marriage,” she muttered to herself.
She dragged her suitcases to the elevator. The wheels rumbled loudly across the floor — a sound of finality.