2025-10-24 21:45:01Jamie 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.
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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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