Never Underestimate Jamie Luther

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.

He crushed the card in his fist. The lingerie wasn’t for him. It was evidence.

Francesca had already vanished—out the door at 5:47 a.m., heels clicking too fast, goodbye kiss landing on his cheekbone instead of his mouth. “Early vendor call,” she’d murmured, eyes on her phone. He’d believed her. He always did.

Now the mansion reeked of lilies—hundreds of them, orange throats gaping from every vase. She’d ordered them last week “to brighten the foyer.” They smelled like funeral parlors.

Kofi waited curbside, engine idling. Jamie slid into the Mercedes without a word. The partition stayed up; even Kofi knew when silence was safer.

Biiite’s glass tower rose ahead, a blade against the sky. Jamie rode the private elevator alone, watching the floors tick upward. 30. 31. 32. At each ding his phone buzzed—another missed call to Francesca. Straight to voicemail.

 “Hey, it’s Fran. Leave a message or text like a normal person.”

Her recorded laugh grated like broken glass.

His office greeted him with sterile calm: white oak, black leather, the city sprawled beneath like a circuit board. The honeymoon photo on his desk—Francesca in Santorini white, wind whipping her hair—now looked staged. He turned it facedown.

His father, Dean Luther arrived at 9:15 sharp, silver hair gleaming, campaign smile locked and loaded.

“Son.” A handshake that lingered half a second too long. “Al-Zahran numbers?”

“Green across the board,” Jamie said flatly. “Cut to it.”

Dean’s grin widened, shark-like. “Senate run needs a face. Your face. Joint press conference—tech prodigy backs family values. The optics write themselves.”

He should have known.

Jamie’s laugh was a dry bark. “You mean the prodigy funds them.”

Dean waved it off. “Blood’s thicker than PAC money. Speaking of—” His gaze sharpened. “Francesca send her regards?”

“She’s in meetings.”

“Funny. Her assistant’s been cooling her heels in your lobby since seven.”

Jamie’s stomach lurched. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over Francesca’s name again. This time he dialed Omalicha instead.

She answered on the first ring, voice honeyed and precise. “Mr. Luther. I was just about to call.”

“Where is she?”

A pause—just long enough to savor. “Mrs. Luther asked me to wait here. She hasn’t been in the office since Tuesday. Yesterday she texted 'personal day'. Today… nothing.” A soft intake of breath, theatrical. “I’m worried.”

Jamie’s knuckles whitened around the phone. “Stay put.”

He hung up. Dean was still talking—something about polling in Worcester suburbs—but the words blurred. Jamie cut him off. “David in?”

“Conference room,” Dean said, eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?”

Jamie was already moving.

David looked up from a storyboard mock-up, startled. “Mr. Luther—”

“Later. Fix my father in.” Jamie strode past, straight to the lobby.

Omalicha stood by the reception desk, tablet clutched like a hymnal. She wore a charcoal pencil skirt and a silk blouse the color of fresh cream—modest, meticulous, designed to say 'I’m competent, not flashy.' Her dark eyes flicked up, widening in practiced concern.

There was something about her look. The way she maintained eyes contact like she was trying to read him.

“Mr. Luther.” She stepped forward, voice lowered. “I didn’t want to alarm you in front of your father.”

“Talk.”

She glanced around—the security guard pretending not to listen, the barista wiping the same spot on the counter for the third time. 

“Yesterday Mrs. Luther left the office at 11:02 a.m. I know because I track her calendar. She canceled three appointments, said she had a migraine. But her car never went to the penthouse garage.” A delicate pause. “Her phone pinged near the Harbor Hotel at 11:47. Then again at 2:13. Then… nothing until this morning.”

Jamie felt the floor vibrated. “You’re tracking her phone?”

“Company policy for executive security,” Omalicha said smoothly. “I only checked because I care and it's my job.” Her lashes lowered, a perfect simulation of humility. “She’s been… distracted. Secretive. I thought you should know.”

Jamie studied her face. The sympathy was flawless, but something colder glinted behind it—satisfaction, maybe. Like a cat watching a canary realize the cage door is open.

“Did she mention anyone?” His voice sounded foreign, scraped raw. “A name. Initial. Anything.”

Omalicha’s head tilted. “There was a contact she kept deleting from her call log. 'F.B' No last name. I only saw it once.” She touched his forearm lightly, a gesture meant to comfort. Her fingers were ice. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Luther. You deserve honesty.”

He pulled away. The lobby’s air-conditioning suddenly felt arctic.

David appeared at his elbow. “Everything all right?”

Jamie didn’t answer. 

Omalicha’s gaze flicked from Jamie to David, then back to his face. Her lips parted—almost a smile, gone before it formed.

Jamie’s phone buzzed. A text from Francesca.

Fran: Running late. Lunch meeting ran over. Home by 8. Love you.

More lying words. He stared at them until the screen dimmed.

Omalicha’s voice floated after him, soft as silk. “Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Luther. Anything at all.”

He didn’t respond. The elevator doors slid open with a whisper. As they closed, he caught their reflection in the polished metal—himself, rigid with rage; Omalicha behind him, eyes bright with something that looked a lot like triumph.

The car began its journey. The way back to his mansion , he thought whether to confront, to follow, or to burn the whole lie down.

Soon Jamie was him, crushing the lace in his fist until the seams cut into his palm. Blood welled, warm and real.

Forever, my love.

The words tasted like poison now.