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A shorter version of 'The Good Guy.'
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Archer McKnight loosened his tie as he stepped out of the Vanguard Tech building into the afternoon sun. Another rejection. That made nine in the last three months. He'd barely made it five minutes into the interview before the hiring manager's expression changed. The moment Helios Systems came up, Archer could see the mental shutters come down.
"I'm sorry, Mr. McKnight, but we're looking for candidates with more... stable work histories," the woman had said, not quite meeting his eyes.
"I was Senior Lead Programmer at Helios for four years," Archer had replied, trying to keep the defensiveness from his voice. "The company's collapse had nothing to do with my department. I actually filed several reports warning about the issues with the Obsidian acquisition."
But it didn't matter. Once they heard Helios, all they saw was the spectacular implosion that had made headlines for weeks. Nobody cared that he'd fought against the corner-cutting or that he'd been the one to document the security vulnerabilities in the hastily integrated systems. In their eyes, he was tainted goods.
Archer checked his watch. Still thirty minutes before he was supposed to meet Clara at the Palais Bistro at the Rixton Hotel on Sixth Street. His stomach fluttered at the thought.
The last few months had been different between them and he blamed himself. After nearly a year since he was let go, she had been forced to take on the financial weight for the both of them.
He had felt the distance, and it had worried him. So when she had called him that morning as she drove into the city, inviting him to meet at the bistro after his interview, he had felt a lightening of the heart.
This lunch felt significant. Important. She was reaching out to him. Maybe things were still bleak on the employment front, but he was happy, his wife was still standing by him.
Maybe things would finally start turning around.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the small card from Nexus Innovations. An internship. At thirty-four. The thought would have been humiliating six months ago, but now... now it felt like a lifeline. Three months as an intern, then potential for a junior developer position. Starting over from nearly the bottom.
"For my child," he whispered to himself as he walked toward the Rixton Hotel. "I can do this for my child."
The pregnancy test he'd found hidden in the bathroom trash three days ago explained so much... Clara's emotional distance, her sudden aversion to his touch, her mysterious appointments. She was probably waiting until she was past the first trimester to tell him. Today might be the day.
The Palais Bistro gleamed with polished brass and dark wood. Clara had never suggested meeting here before... it was well outside their - well, his - budget, especially now... but maybe she wanted their moment to be special. Archer spotted her immediately in a corner booth, her blonde hair catching the light. Something tight in his chest loosened at the sight of her.
She was beautiful, model-thin with long legs and small high breasts above a trim waist. Her face was a fashion photographer's dream, with high cheekbones, arched eyes and full lips.
He was still confused that, of all the men that she could have had at her beck and call, she had chosen to spend her life with him. Their wedding day had been the happiest day of his life.
"Clara," he said, leaning down to kiss her.
She turned her face, almost...
flinching
, and his lips brushed her cheek instead. The familiar sting of rejection washed over him, but he pushed it away.
Soon
, he thought.
Soon she'll tell me, and everything will make sense again.
"Sit down, Archer," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.
He sat, confused, noting the untouched water glass in front of her, the absence of menus. "Is everything okay?" he asked. "I thought we were having lunch?"
Clara's eyes flickered toward the entrance, and something in her expression changed. Archer turned to follow her gaze and saw a tall man in an impeccably tailored suit walking toward them. Dark hair, confident stride, the kind of face that appeared on magazine covers.
That had appeared on magazine covers. Many magazine covers.Handsome, wealthy, and by all accounts brilliant, the current COO and heir to the Rixton Hotel Group's Chief Executive's chair on his uncle's retirement, he was one of the country's most eligible bachelors.
He was invariably pictured with a supermodel or actress on his arm, usually looking up adoringly at him... the same way Clara was looking at him now.
Dylan Rixton slid into the booth... beside Clara.
"What's going on?" Archer asked, a sudden weight settling in his chest.
"Archer, this is Dylan Rixton," Clara said, unnecessarily, her voice steady but higher than normal. "Dylan, my husband, Archer."
Dylan didn't offer his hand. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Clara's shoulders, and she leaned into him.
"Clara and I have been seeing each other," Dylan said, watching Archer's face with cold interest. "For about six months now."
The world tilted. Six months. Half a year. While Archer had been desperately hunting for jobs, coming home to Clara's increasingly cold reception, she had been...
He remembered her excitement as she told him about her firm assigning her to the Rixton Group's account, handling their merger with another chain... a little over seven months ago.
"I love him," Clara said, her fingers intertwining with Dylan's on the table. "I've never felt this way before, Archer. Not with you. Not with anyone."
Words failed him. His mouth opened and closed.
"Dylan has asked me to marry him," Clara continued. Her free hand pushed a manila envelope across the table. On top of it sat two rings... her engagement ring and wedding band. The ones Archer had saved for months to buy. "I've said yes."
"You... " Archer's voice cracked as he saw the ring on her hand that wasn't his. "You can't be serious. Clara, we've been married for five years. We were going to start a family. I saw the pregnancy test... "
Clara looked surprised at that, but then she looked regretful. "I'm sorry you saw that," Clara said, her hand moving to her stomach in an unconsciously protective gesture. "But it's not yours. I'm carrying Dylan's child."
The weight of her words crushed something vital inside him. "How could you do this? To me?" he whispered. "To us?"
"I've already moved everything I really need to Dylan's," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You can go back to the apartment and pack up what you need. I'll be in Paris with Dylan for the next two weeks, so you'll have time. Just sign the papers, Archer. Make this easy."
"Easy?" The word tasted like ash.
"Your signature. On every highlighted line," Clara said, pushing a pen toward him.
Archer stared at the envelope, at the rings glinting accusingly in the bistro's soft lighting. His life, reduced to a stack of papers and discarded jewelry.
"Do you have any idea what I've been going through? What I've... " he began.
"Don't make a scene," Dylan cut in, his voice low but commanding. "Not here. Not in my hotel."
Rage rose in Archer's throat, but it had nowhere to go. He was trapped in a nightmare, a public execution of his marriage with the executioner urging him to cooperate for a quicker death.
With shaking hands, he opened the envelope. Divorce papers. Pages of them. He couldn't focus enough to read beyond "Dissolution of Marriage" at the top. Clara's elegant signature was already on every highlighted line on the right.
"Five years," he said again, but it wasn't a protest anymore. Just disbelief... and resignation.
"You need to sign, Archer," Clara said, voice soft. "Let's not make it any worse... for the both of us."
He looked up and saw her face, and he signed.
Each scratch of the pen across paper felt like a razor across his skin. When he finished, he pushed the papers back, leaving the rings where they lay.
"Is that all?" he asked, voice hollow.
"Not quite," said a familiar voice.
Archer looked up to see Patricia Walker approaching their table, her attorney's briefcase clutched in one hand. Clara's best friend. His friend too, he'd thought.
"Patricia?" The betrayal doubled, then tripled. "You knew about this?"
"I'm handling the paperwork for Clara and Dylan," Patricia said, avoiding his eyes as she collected the signed documents.
"I thought we... I thought we were... How could you do this to...?"
Patricia looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Archer, but you have to understand... Clara needs someone who can match her pace, her ambition. You've been weighing her down. You're... an anchor."
Clara winced at Patricia's bluntness. "Pat, that's not necessary."
"It's the truth," Patricia insisted, tucking the papers away.
"I'm an anchor," Archer repeated numbly.
Clara reached across the table, stopping just short of touching his hand. "I'm just following my heart, Archer. Please understand. Dylan is simply... better for me," she said, as if that explained everything. "We connect on a level that you and I never did. Never could."
Archer was finding it hard to breathe. To think.
Dylan cleared his throat. "There's one more thing. As part of the settlement, ten thousand dollars has been transferred to your account... "
"I don't want your money," Archer spat.
"It's non-negotiable," Dylan continued smoothly. "It's already done. But the transfer comes with conditions. You signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of the divorce papers."
Patricia smoothly cut in. "They're about to take their relationship public. The story is that you two have been separated, and they met and fell in love. Say anything to the contrary, anything negative or defamatory, about Clara, about Dylan, about their relationship to anyone... media, friends, social media... and there will be trouble, Archer."
"Simply put," Dylan Rixton said, calmly. "Your employment and financial troubles will be ten times worse than they are now. I'll make sure of it. Do you understand me?"
Archer stared at him, at the casual cruelty behind the polished facade. Then at Clara, who at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.
Finally at Patricia, who met his gaze with professional detachment, as if she hadn't spent holidays at their dinner table, hadn't cried on his shoulder when her own relationship ended last year.
"I understand," Archer said, standing up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled backward. He stared at Clara, who stared back at him...
pity
