Leo Chen had been Branson's chief of staff for six years, which meant he'd learned to anticipate problems before they became crises. He'd handled whistleblowers, regulatory investigations, and one memorable incident involving a board member's spouse and a compromised email server.
He'd never handled Faith Jarvis walking toward his desk with a lawyer and murder in her eyes.
"Mrs. Jarvis." He stood, moving automatically to block the corridor. "Mr. Jarvis is in a closed session. If you'll allow me to-"
"Move."
The word was quiet. Leo had heard Branson use that tone exactly twice-once before firing a CFO, once before destroying a competitor's acquisition. Both times, people had lost jobs.
He didn't move. "Mrs. Jarvis, I really must insist-"
Faith stopped walking. She looked at him-really looked, the way she never had at company functions where she'd smiled and shaken hands and remembered everyone's children's names. Her eyes were gray-green, Leo realized. He'd never noticed before. They looked like winter ocean.
"Leo." She knew his name. Of course she knew his name. "I've sat next to you at seven Christmas dinners. I've sent your mother flowers when she was ill.Move."
He stepped aside.
Julian brushed past him, briefcase leading like a shield. Holly followed, her face set in determined lines that suggested she'd physically restrain him if he tried to intervene again.
Faith reached the rosewood doors. Her hand closed on the brass handle-cold, heavy, designed to impress-and she pushed.
The door swung open with a sound like a gunshot.
Branson stood at the window, phone to his ear, back to the room. His voice carried-"-tell Frankfurt we'll absorb the currency risk, but I want those contracts by close of business-"-the clipped authority that had built Jarvis Group from regional player to global force.
He turned.
For a moment, nothing. Just the calculation that made him lethal in negotiations-assessing, prioritizing, deciding how much this interruption would cost him.
"Faith." He didn't hang up. "I'm in a meeting."
"I know."
She walked to the visitor chairs. Sat. Crossed her legs, the beige coat falling open to show nothing expensive underneath-no jewelry, no designer label, nothing he could read or counter.
Julian and Holly took flanking positions. The formation was unmistakable: legal counsel, witness, client. Branson's eyes tracked the arrangement, narrowing.
He spoke into the phone: "Call you back." The screen went dark. "What the hell is this?"
Faith didn't answer. She watched him move to his desk-big as a bed, black as a coffin, positioned to dominate anyone who sat before it. He leaned forward, hands flat on the surface, and she saw him register Julian's presence, the law firm logo on the briefcase, the manila envelopes in Holly's white-knuckled grip.
His jaw tightened. "If this is about that billboard-" He reached into a drawer, pulled out a checkbook, slapped it on the desk between them. "Write whatever number gets you out of my office. I'm not doing this today."
Faith looked at the checkbook. At his hand-long fingers, heavy signet ring, the nails perfectly manicured-resting beside it like he was offering her a gift.
She reached into her own bag. The envelope came out heavy, substantial, the kind of paper that cost five dollars per sheet. She placed it on top of the checkbook.
The sound was sharp. Final.
Branson's hand withdrew. He looked at the envelope, at the words printed in bold across the front-PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE-and something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Something more complicated. Something that looked almost like recognition.
"You're joking." He didn't touch the envelope. "This is-what, a negotiating tactic? You want the house in Aspen, is that it? The yacht?"
He was talking to fill space, Faith realized. Buying time while he recalculated.
"Julian." She didn't look away from Branson's face. "Explain the documents."
Her lawyer stepped forward. "Mr. Jarvis, my client is petitioning for divorce under New York State domestic relations law. We have two proposed settlement structures for your review. I recommend we-"
"Get out." Branson didn't raise his voice. He never raised his voice. "Both of you. Faith and I will discuss this privately."
"No." Faith stood. She placed both hands on the desk's edge and leaned forward, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see the small scar above his eyebrow from a polo accident she'd watched from the sidelines. "We won't. You've refused private conversation for three years. You don't get to demand it now."
Branson straightened. He was taller than her, broader, the physical advantage he'd always possessed and never needed to use. His hands curled into fists on the desk surface.
"You have no idea what you're doing." The words came soft, almost gentle. "You have no job, no skills, no family. I've given you everything-clothes, travel, security-and you think you can walk away? You think you can survive without me?"
Faith smiled. It felt strange on her face, stretched and sharp.
"Sign the papers, Branson. Or don't. But we're done."
