Chapter 5: THE FALLOUT
Dominic
Three days.
Three days since the board meeting. Three days since the woman I treated as invisible ripped my entire world from beneath my feet.
I sat in my home office — the apartment that suddenly felt far too expensive — staring at the divorce papers on my desk. Her signature was already there. Clean. Decisive. Final.
My phone had been ringing nonstop. Investors pulling out. Business partners "reevaluating" their contracts. My CFO called to say the stock dropped fourteen percent on Monday alone.
And Vanessa. God, Vanessa.
"Babe, what do you mean you're not CEO anymore?" she'd shrieked when I told her. "How is that possible? It's YOUR name on the building!"
"Not anymore."
"Well, fix it! Call your lawyer. Call the board—"
"The board voted me out, Vanessa. I can't just—"
"Then what am I supposed to tell people? I just announced our engagement at the gala!"
That's when I saw it. That flicker in her eyes — not concern for me. Concern for herself. For the image. For the lifestyle.
I told her to go home. She slammed the door.
Now it was Wednesday, and I couldn't stop thinking about Ciara.
Ciara Harrison. Not Ciara — the quiet girl who made me breakfast. Not Ciara — the woman I barely spoke to for days at a time. Not the contract wife I kept hidden from the world.
Ciara. Freaking. Harrison.
The granddaughter of Richard Harrison. The woman who owned sixty-two percent of my company. The woman who poured $200 million into my dream while I — what? Ignored her? Told her she was "just business"?
I pulled up my laptop and searched: *"Ciara Harrison, Harrison Holdings."*
The results loaded like a punch to the gut.
Forbes articles. Business Insider profiles. A Fortune 30 Under 30 feature from two years ago — WITH her photo. Her face. My wife's face.
"No..." I whispered, scrolling.
*"Ciara Harrison, reclusive heiress to the Harrison tech empire, valued at an estimated $4.8 billion..."*
Billion. With a B.
I had told this woman she was "just a contract." I had introduced Vanessa Blake at a gala while Ciara — a billionaire — stood in the crowd holding champagne.
My hands trembled.
I grabbed my phone and dialed her number. It rang once, then went to voicemail.
I tried again. Voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
"Ciara, please—" I started to leave a message but couldn't find the words. What would I even say? "I'm sorry I didn't know you were rich"? That wasn't the problem and I knew it.
The problem was that even if she had been no one — even if she had been exactly the simple girl I thought she was — she still didn't deserve what I did to her.
Three years of silence. Three years of keeping her hidden. Three years of choosing my pride over her heart.
And now she was gone.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
*"Mr. Ashford, this is Jerome Park, assistant to Ms. Harrison. Ms. Harrison will not be accepting your calls. All further communication should go through her legal team. Divorce proceedings begin Friday. Please have your attorney present."*
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
Then I did something I hadn't done since my father died when I was sixteen.
I broke down.
Three days.
Three days since the board meeting. Three days since the woman I treated as invisible ripped my entire world from beneath my feet.
I sat in my home office — the apartment that suddenly felt far too expensive — staring at the divorce papers on my desk. Her signature was already there. Clean. Decisive. Final.
My phone had been ringing nonstop. Investors pulling out. Business partners "reevaluating" their contracts. My CFO called to say the stock dropped fourteen percent on Monday alone.
And Vanessa. God, Vanessa.
"Babe, what do you mean you're not CEO anymore?" she'd shrieked when I told her. "How is that possible? It's YOUR name on the building!"
"Not anymore."
"Well, fix it! Call your lawyer. Call the board—"
"The board voted me out, Vanessa. I can't just—"
"Then what am I supposed to tell people? I just announced our engagement at the gala!"
That's when I saw it. That flicker in her eyes — not concern for me. Concern for herself. For the image. For the lifestyle.
I told her to go home. She slammed the door.
Now it was Wednesday, and I couldn't stop thinking about Ciara.
Ciara Harrison. Not Ciara — the quiet girl who made me breakfast. Not Ciara — the woman I barely spoke to for days at a time. Not the contract wife I kept hidden from the world.
Ciara. Freaking. Harrison.
The granddaughter of Richard Harrison. The woman who owned sixty-two percent of my company. The woman who poured $200 million into my dream while I — what? Ignored her? Told her she was "just business"?
I pulled up my laptop and searched: *"Ciara Harrison, Harrison Holdings."*
The results loaded like a punch to the gut.
Forbes articles. Business Insider profiles. A Fortune 30 Under 30 feature from two years ago — WITH her photo. Her face. My wife's face.
"No..." I whispered, scrolling.
*"Ciara Harrison, reclusive heiress to the Harrison tech empire, valued at an estimated $4.8 billion..."*
Billion. With a B.
I had told this woman she was "just a contract." I had introduced Vanessa Blake at a gala while Ciara — a billionaire — stood in the crowd holding champagne.
My hands trembled.
I grabbed my phone and dialed her number. It rang once, then went to voicemail.
I tried again. Voicemail.
Again. Voicemail.
"Ciara, please—" I started to leave a message but couldn't find the words. What would I even say? "I'm sorry I didn't know you were rich"? That wasn't the problem and I knew it.
The problem was that even if she had been no one — even if she had been exactly the simple girl I thought she was — she still didn't deserve what I did to her.
Three years of silence. Three years of keeping her hidden. Three years of choosing my pride over her heart.
And now she was gone.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
*"Mr. Ashford, this is Jerome Park, assistant to Ms. Harrison. Ms. Harrison will not be accepting your calls. All further communication should go through her legal team. Divorce proceedings begin Friday. Please have your attorney present."*
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
Then I did something I hadn't done since my father died when I was sixteen.
I broke down.