The Anchor (alt. Ending)

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Some folks said that they wanted to see more Karma for Dylan and Clara. Decided to give it a whirl. Enjoy...

Continues from The Anchor - Page 7

i.e. https://www.literotica.com/s/the-anchor?page=7

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Two days later, they visited First National together. Archer had two cashier's checks prepared - one for '$10,000' payable to Dylan Rixton, and another for '$5,000' payable to Clara Payne.

"Are you sure about this?" Bellie asked as they sealed the envelope.

Archer nodded. "Completely. We don't need their money anymore. We never did."

"We?" she echoed, her smile brightening.

"We," he confirmed, squeezing her hand. "I've been saving up from the Nexus internship and the classes at Gianni's. We'll be fine."

Bellie leaned against his shoulder. "I like the sound of 'we.'"

After the bank, they stopped at the post office to send cashier's checks by certified mail to Dylan Rixton's office. Included in the envelope was a brief note Archer had composed after careful consideration: '

Returning what was never needed. - A. McKnight.

'

Archer felt another weight lifting from his shoulders as they walked away, another tie to his past life severed cleanly.

"I feel lighter," he admitted as they stepped into the sunshine.

"Good," Bellie said, lacing her fingers through his. "That's exactly how you should feel."

_______________________________

It was late afternoon when he emerged from the building housing Nexus Innovations, enjoying the rush of the breeze as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The day had been exhausting, long but satisfying. Milestones had been met and the flagship product project was coming along nicely. He was also increasingly being called to chime in on higher level decision-making.

He was genuinely enjoying the work, looking forward to getting behind his desk and working with his team every morning.

But even more than that, he looked forward to returning to the small student apartment. Going back

home

to

her.

He walked a little faster, grinning as his mind went from coding to the fount of passion and joy that was Belinda Matthews.

Less than five minutes before, she had sent him a picture of their stove top. She had angled the camera so her cleavage featured just as prominently as the saucy mass of noodles, protein and vegetables cooking in the wok in front of her.

From someone who could supposedly burn water, Bellie had rapidly developed a love for the kitchen - albeit for quick and easy recipes that she could follow along online and experiment with.

She had also revealed an exhibitionist streak since he told her - truthfully - that he loved her, passionate, confident and comfortable in her nudity around him; an expression of love and trust that he still found hard to believe.

She had been in just the apron in the picture and the message beneath had been laden with promise; 'Ready when you get home. PS: You're going to need your energy.'

It wasn't the first time she had gone into their kitchenette in just an apron, leading to more than a dozen episodes of food getting nearly burned because another type of hunger would swiftly overcome them both.

He was happy, he realized, not for the first time. Ridiculously so. Mere months after his world was shattered, he had... moved on. In more ways than one.

Clara, Dylan Rixton, the bistro... it all seemed far away and at a remove, like it had all happened to someone else.

"Archer McKnight?"

He turned at the unfamiliar voice. A stern-faced woman in a suit stood a few feet away.

"Yes?" he answered warily.

"You've been served." She thrust a thick envelope into his hands and walked away without another word.

Archer stared at the envelope, momentarily frozen. The confusion lasted only seconds before understanding dawned and his heart sank.

Alex Mercer's article in the City Pulse had dropped two weeks before. The part challenging the narrative of meeting while Clara was separated from her erstwhile husband had been brief; citing anonymous sources saying that she was living with her husband mere days before her public debut on Dylan Rixton's arm. Another paragraph had touched on Dylan being seen in her apartment building and that she had been seen entering the downtown skyscraper which hosted his penthouse.

The story was more suggestive than definitive and so it hadn't gained much traction. Dylan and Clara's PR machine had quickly labeled it tabloid sensationalism, and most outlets had stuck with the 'amicable separation' narrative. Still, Archer had noticed the curious glances and sympathetic looks at work.

He'd maintained his silence throughout, refusing to engage. Bringing Bellie to the company bowling night had quieted the whispers more effectively than words ever could. Whatever had happened with his marriage, he had clearly moved on.

The real meat of Mercer's story were of the three marriages and one engagement broken by Dylan Rixton's belief that he had the right to any woman he wanted, married or not - and the apparent agreement of the women involved that he did as they got into bed with him.

Archer tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents. His jaw tightened as he saw what he expected; violation of the non-disclosure agreement by speaking to Alex Mercer. Anger flared, his jaw flexing; beyond his refusal to say anything, he hadn't spoken to Mercer - not once, despite the reporter's persistent attempts.

"Mr. McKnight?"

Another voice. Another stranger. This time a well-dressed man in an idling town car.

Archer didn't answer, he just turned to look at the man.

The man handed him a small envelope. "Mr. Rixton asked me to deliver this personally."

Inside was a post-it sized paper, embossed with the Rixton logo, a handwritten scrawl in front: 'Meeting tomorrow, 2 PM. My office.'

The presumption - that Archer would simply rearrange his workday at Rixton's command - ignited a fresh wave of rage.

"Tell that prick I'll be there at 5, after work," Archer said, his voice cold. "I'm not at his beck and call."

The man's professional mask slipped momentarily, surprise flashing across his face before he nodded, respect in his gaze. "I'll relay your message. Sir."

Archer glared at the man until he put the car in gear and left, knowing he was being unfair; the man was just doing his job.

He stuffed both the card and the set of legal jargon filled papers into his bag and continued on for the subway. For

home.

That was the difference; unlike that day at the bistro, when his world had collapsed around him in solitary devastation, he now had a home, and someone there to be going home to, and he knew with unalloyed certainty that Bellie Matthews would stand by him.

Whatever game Clara and Dylan Rixton were playing, whatever threats were contained in those legal papers, he would not be broken. Not by them. Not again. Not this time. Not ever.

______________________________

Clara Payne stood by the window in her fiancee's expansive office, staring out at the city skyline. The view from the 42nd floor of Rixton Tower was spectacular - as if to remind her of the new heights in society to which she had risen. She saw Patricia's reflection from behind her in the glass, checking her watch for the third time in five minutes.

"He shouldn't be too long now," Clara said.

Her soon-to-be husband was not used to being defied. He had been angry at Archer's refusal to acquiese to meet at two o'clock, but she had been able to calm him down. What difference did it make?

Patricia nodded.

Dylan's absence felt both a relief and a source of anxiety. He was down the hall in the executive conference room, securing final support for his CEO-designate position - a position now threatened by Alex Mercer's article in the City Pulse.

The board - many of whom were family members - had already informally confirmed Dylan as his uncle's natural successor, but the article raising doubts about the genesis of his relationship with his fiancee had created an opening - unthinkable just weeks before - for someone else to be considered for the role.

'That fucking Erin Rixton...' Clara thought.

"I still don't understand what Dylan wants to accomplish here," Patricia said. "I don't think Archer had anything to do with that tabloid story. And it's even dying down on its own..."

Clara shrugged, not offering anything, deciding to wait for Dylan. Then she turned to face her friend. "I told you he sent back the money. In cashier's checks?"

"Yes. So?"

"Who gives back fifteen thousand dollars?" Clara challenged. "Unless...?"

"Unless what?" Patricia scoffed. "That tabloid runs on a shoe string. It can't afford to pay fifteen thousand dollars for a story like that. Most of it was about other..." Patricia pressed her lips together.

"Other women," Clara completed for her with a bitter smile. "You can say it."

Patricia smiled back, encouragingly. "None of them got a ring though. You did. You're the one carrying his child."

Clara's smile lost its bitterness for a moment as she placed her hand on her swollen belly, reveling in the feeling of love she had for her child.

Her mind inevitably went to the month-long stretch during which her baby was conceived.

She had slept as far away from Archer on their bed as possible, repulsed at the thought of him touching her after being taken so completely by another man - a man who made her wet at the very thought of him.

She had welcomed Dylan Rixton inside her everyday during that month, in the Rixton on Sixth Street, in his penthouse, and in his office,

this

office - over his desk, on the plush carpet, clawing at him desperately as he rode her.

Then had come the day when she'd caught a small stomach bug and decided to work from home.

She had told him when he texted that morning, knowing exactly what was going to happen, and an hour later, she had answered his knock and opened the door for him.

Dylan had made love to her all over her matrimonial home, on the couch, on the dining table, on the bed she shared with her husband. Repeatedly.

She had been careful, cleaning up any sign that another man had been in their apartment before Archer would come home from yet another fruitless job hunt.

Dylan had humored her by coming up through the basement and stopping on other floors before going to hers. The first few times.

Then he had simply said she was

his

and he saw no reason, not even her husband, to hide his coming to her.

She had been aghast at the transgression, worried at first, of being caught, but mostly, she had been even more aroused, by his confidence, his daring, his refusal to obey rules that bound lesser men.

Lesser men... like Archer.

Dylan Rixton -

the

Dylan Rixton - had wanted her from the moment they had met and it went without saying that he would have her, and she would give him all he demanded of her.

She revealed her pregnancy to him in his penthouse soon after, after hiding the two positive testing kits in the kitchen trash that morning, lying naked in his arms, in his bed, nervous.

She had assured him that she had barely slept with her husband since he had claimed her in his office that first time, that she had insisted on protection every time she had allowed Archer into her body. That the timing made it impossible for the child to have any other father.

He had surprised her by kissing her and proposing. She had cried, in equal parts joy and relief at no longer having to live a double life, at deceiving her husband.

She loved Archer still, she had told herself, but she was tired of fending off his advances, of pretending she still loved him as a wife should when she no longer did. She wanted to start openly wearing the gorgeous ring Dylan had presented to her.

The only wrinkle in her and Dylan's plans was the sudden news of his uncle's wish to retire and hand over the reins to Dylan - happy news but for one thing; the archaic moral torpitude clause in the CEO's contract - penned by the devoutly religious Reinhardt Rixton, the founder of the Rixton Group himself - nearly seven decades before.

All but ignored in recent years until Dylan's aunt, hateful, vindictive and unforgiving, took her ailing sister's place on the board.

Which meant ensuring Archer remained silent about the circumstances of his wife and Dylan Rixton meeting and falling in love.

Thus the non-disclosure agreement buried among the divorce papers, a perfunctory nod at first, but now very significant indeed.

She returned to the present. Everything had been going according to plan until the article in the City Pulse.

"But he didn't take anything from the apartment. He never went back," Clara mused. "He only had three thousand dollars of his own in our account. How... where was he living before he met this Belinda woman and moved in with her?"

Patricia shook her head. "I don't know. You saw the report."

She had, and she had felt sorry for him. Reduced to interning at a startup? Teaching coding to college kids in a cafe? After so many years of experience? When he had been a Senior Lead Programmer?

Not for the first time, she told herself to be thankful that she had held Archer off having children and had ultimately chosen a better father for the son she was carrying.

She had a sudden thought. "What about the watch?" she asked. "The Yves Vellier? Was he wearing it when you saw him?"

"No," Patricia said. "He wasn't wearing it."

Her expression, the grimace that came with her answer, practically screamed that there was more, and Clara frowned at her. "And? Did he sell it?"

Patricia sighed. "He said he exchanged it for a phone. A cheap one."

Clara's mouth dropped open. "That's it? A phone?"

"Yes," Patricia said. "I believe him actually." She shrugged. "He said he got rid of the phone he had. So he got a new one, with a new burner line. That's why we couldn't reach him."

"That's..." Clara struggled to find the word, outrage raising her voice several octaves. "... so fucking petty!"

Patricia shrugged. "That's what I said."

"I saved up for months to get it for him!" Clara vented. "It was special! To thank him for..."

To thank him for supporting her as she looked for a job, for helping refine her resume, for staying up to help her write individual introduction letters to each of the thirty one law firms she had applied to. For helping her practice for her interviews. For the small celebration he organized when she got the offer letter from Lueger & Brasch.

She didn't like the feeling that came over her right then.

Patricia's look was one of disbelief. "Did you actually think he would still think it was 'special'... after what happened?"

"No." She looked disturbed. "But he must have needed the money! Why not sell it properly?"

Patricia took a deep breath. "Do you really want to know?"

Clara put her hand on her belly again, as she considered her friend. "Yes," she said at last.

"He wants nothing to do with you, with anything you've ever shared, seen or touched. I'm guessing he threw his phone away because it had that picture of the two of you on the lock screen."

Clara remembered it; it had been taken when they had gone on a holiday two years before... just months before he was let go and Helios collapsed.

"That's why he never went back to the apartment," Patricia continued. "He's going to let them destroy the stuff in storage."

"There are family photos, his passport, his diplomas, awards, books he loved..." Clara protested.

Patricia shook her head. "He wants nothing that will remind him of you." She met Clara's gaze again. "He knows you slept with Dylan in your apartment, in your bed. He figured it out before this article."

Clara winced, feeling a surge of guilt, profound, insistent. At the time, the transgression, the sheer immensity of it, had thrilled her.

It was true love, she told herself, making it impossible for her to deny Dylan anything, including herself, whenever and wherever he wanted.

But she was not proud of it.

"There he is," Patricia suddenly said, looking at the security monitors mounted near Dylan's desk.

Clara moved closer, her eyes finding Archer immediately. He stood in the lobby, holding something in his hand, head moving as he casually scanned the space. He looked... good. Better than he had any right to look, she thought, confused as her heart skipped. The circles under his eyes that had been a fixture during their last year together were gone.

He wore a sport coat over a simple button-down shirt and slacks - nothing like the designer suits Dylan favored, nothing like the wardrobe she had helped him assemble, yet he carried himself with an assurance that caught her off guard.

"His hair is different," Clara observed quietly.

"He's waiting for someone," Patricia noted, and Clara saw what was in his hand was a holder with two cups.

The lobby doors opened and a petite woman with short hair, a flowery wrap top and jeans walked in. Clara found herself tensing, watching as the woman spotted Archer immediately, her face lighting up with unconcealed delight. She hurried over to him, and Archer turned, his expression visibly transforming as he smiled, unreservedly happy to see her.

"Is that... her?" Clara asked unnecessarily, her voice tight.

Patricia nodded. "Yes. Belinda Matthews. Though apparently she goes by Bellie."

On screen, 'Bellie' reached Archer and wrapped her arms around his neck in a quick, natural embrace. He leaned down, meeting her for a brief kiss that spoke of comfortable intimacy rather than passion for show. When they separated, he handed her one of the coffee cups, which she accepted with both hands, saying something that made him laugh.

Archer took the other cup for himself and reached for Bellie's hand before they headed for the reception.

Clara leaned forward, her eyes taking in this Bellie Matthews. She was pretty with full lips and cheeks, wide-hipped and annoyingly heavy breasted for her size.

The private investigator's photos and videos had shown Archer and her together constantly; walking hand in hand; having lunch at a students' cafe on weekends; shopping together; sitting close on a bench, his arm around her shoulders as she laughed at something he said.

There was even video of them dancing to a pop-up jazz band in the park close to their apartment.

Dylan had said that the existence of this new relationship would be 'useful' to have as evidence that her parting from Archer had been mutual and amicable. That Archer moving on so soon - so

very

soon - was 'convenient'...

So why was she feeling the acid burn of rage at it?

"Look at them," Clara said, a sneer on her face. "Like teenagers."

"They look happy," Patricia observed neutrally.

"They've known each other for what... three months? It's absurd." Clara couldn't tear her eyes from the monitor as they approached the reception desk. "He's clearly on the rebound."

"Maybe," Patricia said, her tone suggesting she thought otherwise. "Or maybe they just... connected for real."

Clara sniffed. "She's a waitress..."

"She's actually a graduate student in Economics. And a substitute teacher." At Clara's sharp look, Patricia shrugged. "I looked her up. Professional curiosity."

On screen, the receptionist directed them toward the elevators. As they waited, Bellie reached up and straightened Archer's collar, smoothing it with casual familiarity. Clara knew it was simply to touch him, there was nothing wrong with his collar.

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm and the inside of her wrist - a gesture so achingly familiar that Clara felt physically ill as she watched Bellie smile shyly with pleasure.

It was a gesture he had done with her countless times throughout their marriage.