Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love-Chapter 122: Harold’s Efforts

Nick trailed silently behind Harold Braddock as they made their way through the polished hallways of the courthouse. The air was heavy with tension, every step Harold took resonating with a sense of purpose and barely contained fury.

When they reached Judge Jefferson’s office, Harold didn’t pause to knock or acknowledge the security stationed outside. He simply pushed the door open and strode inside, the force of his entrance drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. Nick followed him, his eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble.

Judge Jefferson was mid-conversation on the phone, his tone clipped and businesslike. But as soon as he saw Harold, his expression darkened. His brows furrowed, and he held up a finger, signaling Harold to wait—not that Harold seemed inclined to comply.

"Braddock is here. I’ll talk to you later," Jefferson said abruptly, ending the call without another word.

"Who were you talking to?" Harold asked, his voice low but vibrating with restrained anger.

Judge Jefferson didn’t answer right away. Instead, he rose from behind his desk with deliberate slowness, his movements calculated to exude calm authority. Crossing the room, he opened a wooden cupboard on the wall. The shelves were lined with framed certificates, gleaming plaques, and photos of Jefferson shaking hands with various dignitaries. But tucked among these symbols of prestige were bottles of expensive hard liquor. He selected one with a practiced hand, poured himself a glass, and took a slow sip.

The deliberate indifference only stoked Harold’s ire further.

"What the hell is this?" Harold demanded, his fists clenched at his sides.

Jefferson finally turned to face him, his glass still in hand. His gaze was sharp, yet his posture was relaxed, as though Harold’s rage didn’t concern him in the slightest. "Not everyone has a strong backing like you, Braddock," he said, his voice carrying a faint edge of bitterness, but beneath it was something else—guilt, or perhaps regret.

He needed a strong backing to climb up. He couldn’t stay as one of the judges in some county courthouse forever. For that, he would do anything.

"F*** you, Jefferson!" Harold snarled, his voice rising. His composure cracked, and the words tumbled out like venom. "As if ruining her childhood wasn’t enough for you, now you have to destroy her marriage too? F*** you!"

The words echoed in the room, stark and raw. Harold spun on his heel, his frustration palpable, and stormed toward the door. Nick stayed close, sensing that the confrontation had taken a dark turn.

But Jefferson wasn’t finished. "Why don’t you plead with your future in-laws to save your ex-girlfriend?" he called out, his tone dripping with derision.

Harold stopped so abruptly that Nick nearly collided with him. For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. Harold’s shoulders tensed, and Nick could see the rage radiating off him like heat from a furnace. Slowly, Harold turned back to Jefferson, his knuckles cracking ominously as he flexed his hands.

"Don’t," Nick muttered under his breath, stepping closer to Harold.

Harold ignored him, taking a step forward, his eyes locked on Jefferson with an intensity that could have melted steel.

"Careful, Braddock," Jefferson said, his smirk thin and sharp as a blade. "No matter who you are, laying a hand on a judge in his chambers is a felony. Even someone with your name isn’t immune."

Nick moved swiftly, placing a restraining hand on Harold’s arm. "Not here. Not like this," he whispered firmly, his voice urgent.

Harold’s chest heaved as he fought to contain himself. The lines of his jaw tightened, but he didn’t take another step. With a final glare at Jefferson, Harold turned on his heel and stormed out, Nick close behind.

As Harold and Nick exited the courthouse, the crisp air outside did little to dissipate the storm brewing around them. Harold’s footsteps pounded against the concrete steps, matching the barely restrained fury coursing through him. Nick followed in silence, unsure whether to speak or stay out of the way.

The tension was suffocating. Harold’s clenched fists trembled slightly, his knuckles white from the pressure. It was a stark contrast to the typically composed demeanor Harold was known for.

"You almost crossed a line in there," Nick ventured cautiously, breaking the silence. His tone was firm, but he tread lightly, fully aware of the fragility of the moment.

Harold didn’t answer, his jaw ticking with unspoken anger. Instead, his steps quickened, carrying him to the bottom of the stairs. Nick kept pace, studying Harold with growing concern.

"I f***ing wanted to end the engagement," Harold mumbled suddenly, his voice low and raw. The words hit like a thunderclap, reverberating in the silence between them.

Nick’s eyes widened in shock. "You wanted to—what?" he asked, his voice faltering slightly.

Harold’s gaze was distant, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Nick. "I wanted to end it. Wanted nothing to do with the Glovers..." His voice trailed off, but then his expression darkened. "But now..." He gritted his teeth, his frustration palpable.

Nick’s mind raced. Did I hear that right? Harold was going to break off the engagement? But now he’s holding back because Jerica Evans might be in danger? The revelation twisted in Nick’s head, leaving him struggling to process the implications.

Does that mean Harold still has feelings for Jerica?

Before Nick could voice his thoughts, Harold pulled out his phone. His fingers hovered over one name in his contact list—Chelsea Glover. But he hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. Instead of calling her, he swiped away and dialed a different number.

Harold walked a few steps away as the line connected, leaving Nick straining to hear.

"It’s an emergency," Harold said tersely. "The Glover family will hurt Jared Petrovski and his wife."

Nick stiffened at the words, his stomach knotting. This was worse than he’d thought.

Harold’s voice dropped, his tone almost pleading, though it was undercut by frustration. "This is your son I’m talking about."

Nick craned his neck, trying to catch even a hint of the conversation on the other end, but Harold had moved too far away. The only thing Nick could read was the growing tension in Harold’s body language.

Then Harold’s composure snapped. "F*** this!" he growled, his voice trembling with rage.

Before Nick could react, Harold hurled his phone to the ground. The sleek device shattered on impact, the glass screen splintering into jagged shards. Not satisfied, Harold stomped on the wreckage, the crunch of plastic and metal filling the air.

Nick blinked, momentarily stunned. He’d seen Harold angry before, but this level of emotion was new.

Harold’s chest heaved as he tried to steady himself, his face a storm of frustration, guilt, and barely concealed pain.

Nick glanced at the destroyed phone and then back at Harold. Normally, he might have felt a pang of annoyance or even envy at the casual destruction of such an expensive gadget. But not now. Not after hearing the crack in Harold’s voice, the desperation that had seeped into his words.

Instead, Nick felt something unexpected: pity.