2025-10-21 01:44:27
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8: No more hiding
The day had been a slow bleed. Al-Zahran’s planner wanted the pavilion 'floating'—yes, literally—on a custom pontoon in the frozen lake. Dean had called twice, voice tight with campaign panic, demanding Jamie “make the sheikh’s daughter know about him too” By seven, Jamie’s temples throbbed in time with the city’s traffic lights.He was leaving his office when Kofi appeared, face unreadable.“Sir.” A thick manila envelope, no label, no postage. “Security swept it. Just paper. Clean but not return address or whatsoever ”Jamie took it. The weight felt wrong—dense, like it carried more than photographs. He slit it open in the elevator. The doors closed on the 32nd floor; by the 28th, the photos were in his hand.Francesca and Fred outside a café, her laugh frozen mid-burst. Francesca and Fred on a park bench, his thumb brushing her lip. Francesca and Fred in a doorway, mouths fused, her fingers twisted in his hair like she was anchoring herself to the moment.Each image was a fresh
7: Do you want a divorce?
Three weeks. Twenty-one days until the Al-Zahran wedding turned Worcester into a desert mirage—silk tents, gold-leaf lanterns, a snow-dusted garden transformed into an Arabian night. Jamie had fought for every detail, and last night he’d quietly slid Francesca’s company into the contract: the women-only pre-wedding celebration, a three-day affair of henna, oud, and champagne fountains. A gift. A peace offering. A leash.The study smelled of woods and books His Mansion study had never smelt anything else.Books lined the walls like silent jurors: The Art of War, Machiavelli, a first-edition 'Great Gatsby' Francesca once mocked as “rich-boy porn.” Jamie sat hunched over the mahogany desk, blueprints unrolled like battle plans, the laptop screen casting blue light across his tired eyes. His curls were pulled back with a leather cord, sleeves shoved to the elbows, a half-empty espresso gone cold beside the mouse.His phone buzzed against the wood. "Mother."He answered on the second r
6: Fixing things
Two days since that night.Forty-eight hours of empty more hangers in the closet, cold sheets on her side of the bed, and the faint echo of her heels clicking out the door at dawn. Jamie told himself he was giving her space. He told himself a lot of things.He had slip into the master bedroom under the pretense of grabbing a tie or a watch, but the room already felt abandoned—her perfume lingering like a ghost. He had stand there a second too long, fingers brushing the silk robe draped over the chaise, then leave before the ache in his chest turned audible.That morning he came down earlier than usual, drawn by the clatter of pans and the rich smell of garlic and thyme. Silas was at the stove, sleeves rolled high, flipping something in browned butter. The island was crowded with platters: seared scallops, truffle risotto, a tower of macarons in pastel rows.Jamie leaned in the doorway. “We expecting royalty?”Silas didn’t look up. "Your wife's orders, sir. Lunch meeting here at noon.
5: Man enough
The weeks blurred into a haze of late nights and whispered phone calls for Francesca. Fred Blackwood had crashed back into her world like a storm she hadn't seen coming, pulling her in with his endless stream of texts, calls, and those little gestures that made her heart race. He had call her during lunch breaks just to say, "Hey, gorgeous, thought of you and that smile—it's killing me over here." Or he'd text in the middle of a meeting: 'Missed our coffee? Let's grab one. Got a lead that'll make your day.'It wasn't the grand gestures; it was the constant buzz, the way he made her feel seen, like she was the center of his universe. Francesca found herself checking her phone every few minutes, her pulse quickening at the sight of his name on the screen.Fred wasn't rolling in cash like Jamie—his "lavish" gifts were things like a bouquet of red roses delivered to her office with a note saying, *These don't hold a candle to you, but they're trying.* Or a box of artisanal chocol
4: Lace and lies
Jamie stood before the full-length mirror in his walk-in closet, knotting his tie with mechanical precision. The morning sun sliced through the blinds, striping the marble floor in gold. His reflection stared back: thirty-four, tailored, untouchable. Yet the knot refused to sit right; he yanked it loose and started again."Dang it" he cussed under his breath.His gaze drifted downward. A glossy La Perla bag lay half-kicked beneath the shoe rack, tissue paper spilling like a wound. A black lace thong dangled from the edge, delicate as a spiderweb. He crouched, pulse thudding in his ears, and lifted it between thumb and forefinger. The silk was cool, expensive, still carrying the faint trace of a perfume that wasn’t Francesca’s.A small ivory card fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. *Shaped like eternity. Forever, my love.* —F.B.The initial was a scalpel. Jamie’s lungs forgot how to work. 'F.B'. Not his initial. Not hers. Someone else’s promise, left in his house like a taunt.
3: Trust over all
Gleaming in the sunlight, the twin Biiite skyscrapers rose side-by-side, modern monuments of steel and glass. One pulsed with the creative energy of app developers, the other orchestrated the city's most lavish events.The glass doors of Biiite App and Game Development Company whispered open, revealing a scene Jamie never tired of: a sleek, modern lobby humming with controlled chaos. The air thrummed with the click-clack of keyboards, snippets of excited chatter about the latest game engine, and the low hum of the espresso machine. Jamie Luther, CEO and founder, paused for a moment, the weight of his tailored suit a familiar comfort against his shoulders. He always felt a surge of pride watching his employees, a mixed bag of hoodies, ripped jeans, and the occasional power suit, all united by a shared passion for innovation.Today was a pressure cooker. The quarterly board meeting loomed, a ritual of performance reviews and future projections. But Jamie's mind was more occupied with th
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