Chapter 97
Those seven days passed both agonizingly slow and impossibly fast for Gideon.
He tried everything: different flower arrangements delivered daily to the Getty Group's front desk—all returned unopened. Countless texts ranging from pleading to angry to desperate—all met with silence.
He even pulled strings, trying to reach Josephine through her colleagues and friends. He got polite brush-offs at best, flat rejections at worst.
But he still refused to believe it.
Or rather, he refused to accept it.
Until the evening of the seventh day, just as Gideon was on the verge of giving up, his phone finally received a response—not from Josephine, but from her lawyer Leonard.
[Mr. Getty, Ms. Kennedy has agreed to meet with you one final time. Tomorrow, 3 PM, Clearwater Ridge. This is a one-time courtesy. Do not harass my client further.]
Gideon stared at those words for a long time, until the screen dimmed and he lit it up again.
She'd agreed.
Even if it was just a "final meeting," even with such cold phrasing—she'd still agreed.
In that instant, a faint flame of hope rekindled in Gideon's chest. Maybe... maybe she wasn't truly that resolute. Maybe she just wanted a proper goodbye. Or maybe she was waiting for him to show real sincerity.
He immediately began preparing.
...
The next day at 2:30 PM, Gideon was already standing in Clearwater Ridge's living room.
They'd bought this house in their first year of marriage. In Josephine's words, "Not too big—just right for two people."
Back then, his career was just starting, and money was tight. Josephine had insisted on covering the interior design costs, saying this was their home and she wanted to personally make it the most comfortable place possible.
Now, looking around, Gideon realized how many traces Josephine had left behind.
The throw pillows on the sofa were hand-embroidered pieces she'd chosen, claiming they prevented back pain. The curtains were the linen shade she'd selected for their soft light and privacy. Fresh flowers always sat on the coffee table—even when she traveled, she'd arrange regular deliveries from the florist...
He even remembered her sitting on the floor with that wooden toolbox, helping him fix a server crash. The company had just landed its first major contract when a competitor's malicious attack nearly brought everything down. Josephine had pulled an all-nighter, using her "little gadgets" to salvage the data.
"You could actually... do much bigger things," he'd told her then.
She'd just smiled, sweat dampening the hair at her temples. "As long as I can help you, that's enough."
Looking back now, how much buried talent and potential had been hidden in those words?
Gideon shook his head, forcing himself not to think about it. Today's mission was to resurrect all those beautiful memories, remind her how good they'd been together.
Following her habits, he'd set out white tea on the coffee table—her favorite. Beside it sat several photo albums spanning their seven-plus years together, all carefully organized.
He'd even found the music box she'd stashed in storage—his first birthday gift to her. Cheap as it was, she'd smiled and said she'd "treasure it forever."
The doorbell rang precisely at three.
Gideon took a deep breath and went to answer.
Josephine stood outside.
She wore a light gray cashmere coat over a simple white sweater and black pants, hair pulled into a low ponytail, no makeup—looking clean and distant. She held only a folder. Nothing else.
"Come in."
Gideon stepped aside, struggling to keep his voice steady.
Josephine walked into the living room, her gaze sweeping the space. Her steps faltered briefly. The coffee table arrangement was obviously deliberate—photo albums, music box, her favorite white tea... But she only glanced at it all before walking straight to the sofa.
She didn't sit. Just stood there, her voice calm and emotionless.
"We agreed—today is about closure."
"Sit down first, have some tea..."
Gideon reached for the teapot, his movements stiff. "Your favorite..."
"No need." Josephine cut him off, pulling a document from her folder and placing it on the coffee table. "This is the legal paperwork for clearly dividing Clearwater Ridge's property rights. I've already signed."
Gideon's hand froze mid-air.
He slowly set down the teapot, looking at the pages. Black and white, meticulously detailed, listing Clearwater Ridge's property rights, renovation investments, market valuation—everything divided. She'd only taken back her original contribution to the interior design and the depreciated value of items she'd personally added over the years. Everything else, including the appreciation, she'd waived.
"Jojo," Gideon stared at the clause reading [Party A voluntarily waives remaining appreciation value], his voice rough. "You need to calculate even this down to the last cent?"
"Divorce should be calculated clearly. This place... I won't be coming back anyway."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted toward the window. Sunlight filtered through the linen curtains, casting soft shadows across her face.
For just an instant, Gideon glimpsed the old her.
The one who'd curl up here reading, who'd smile at the garden outside, who'd brew tea on rainy days waiting for him to come home.
But the next second, she turned back, her eyes frozen lakes without a single ripple.
"That's why I came today," she continued. "Once this document is signed, all that's left between us is tomorrow's courthouse formality. Please don't contact me through any personal channels going forward. All communications should go through my attorney."
Gideon's heart felt like something was crushing it.
He'd prepared so many words, designed so many scenarios, even rehearsed countless times how to win her back... but faced with her businesslike demeanor that wouldn't spare even a hint of excess emotion, it all seemed pathetically futile.
"Jojo," he circled the coffee table, stopping in front of her. "Is this... really all we can be?"
Josephine looked up at him.
Her lashes were long, casting delicate shadows in the sunlight. Gideon had always loved her eyes—clear and pure, curving like crescents when she smiled.
Now those eyes held nothing.
"Gideon, I thought we'd already made things clear." She spoke calmly. "Didn't you already promise to marry Lorelei?"
He knew her better than anyone—he should have known she had zero tolerance for betrayal.
"I was forced!" Gideon blurted out, rushing to explain. "She's a psycho. If I hadn't said that, how could I have calmed her down?"
Watching him scramble with excuses, Josephine suddenly found it absurd.
"So you think the problem is that one sentence?" she asked. "Don't forget—she's carrying your child."
"No—" Gideon stammered. "I didn't mean to..."
Josephine stepped forward, locking eyes with him. "Gideon, the moment you cheated, you should have known how this would end."
Gideon stumbled back, his voice strained. "I just thought... those things, even though they were wrong, I had my reasons. Grandpa's pressure about children was overwhelming. Your health wasn't good—I did all this to take the pressure off you. I just wanted to give you a complete family. I know you love children!"
Why couldn't she understand his position?