Never Underestimate Jamie Luther

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. Said to ‘pull out all the stops.’”

A spark flickered behind Jamie’s ribs—small, stupid, hopeful.

 Maybe she wants to talk, to fix things. He thought.

 “Carry on, Silas.” he said.

Kofi was idling curbside, the Mercedes humming low. Jamie slid into the back, rolled the partition down an inch. Jazz spilled from the speakers—slow, smoky saxophone curling around the leather seats.

“You’re in a mood, Kofi" Jamie grinned 

Kofi’s eyes flicked to the rearview, a half-smile. “My old man used to play Coltrane on Sundays. Said it kept the devils quiet.”

Jamie huffed a laugh. “Why did you ditch the stage, then?”

Kofi shrugged. “Can’t let your parents write the whole song for you, boss. Gotta improvise. Bedsides, I am far from home. kenya, playing his songs feels like connection”

Oh. It was Kofi's father's song.

Jamie stared out at the city sliding past—brick row houses giving way to glass towers—and thought about his own sheet music: his father's Senate dreams inked across his childhood, his mother's whispered warnings about 'suitable matches'. He had torn up the score when he married Francesca. Or so he thought.

Luther's Lock Interior design companies, the family company rose ahead, all sharp angles and mirrored windows. Inside, the lobby smelled of cedar and espresso; interns scurried with swatches and 3-D renderings. Jamie took the private elevator to the penthouse suite, rehearsing the Al-Zahran pitch in his head just Incase his father would vists. The wedding couldn’t happen without Lock’s interiors—custom pavilions, hand-loomed silks, a chandelier that would make Versailles blush. This was leverage. This was legacy.

He pushed open his office door and stopped cold.

His father lounged in the leather chair behind Jamie’s desk, Italian loafers propped on the mahogany, ankle crossed on the table. A campaign button glinted on his lapel: DEAN LUTHER—FOR THE PEOPLE.

“Morning, Mr. Senator,” Jamie said dryly.

Dean didn’t move his feet. “Heard you’re tying Lock to that little app circus of yours. Biiite handling the wedding, us doing the décor?”

Jamie crossed to the window, hands in pockets. “Revenue’s down twelve percent here, Biiite can do it all alone but Al-Zahran money plugs the hole and then some.”

Dean’s laugh was a bark. “I’m still the damn owner, son. News like that should cross my desk first.”

Jamie turned, voice level. “You named me heir. I’m rebuilding the empire you almost tanked with that offshore mess in ’19. Remember?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, but he swung his legs down. “Fine. Just make sure my Senate run gets a cameo. Photo op with the sheikh, maybe a tasteful banner. Legacy, Jamie. "LEGACY.”

He strode out, the door clicking shut like a judge’s gavel. Jamie exhaled. That went well.

The day blurred—fabric samples, mood boards, a tense call with the Qatari planner who wanted “floating lotus lanterns but make them gold.” By six, Kofi was navigating the winding drive back to the mansion. Jamie loosened his tie, rehearsing apologies and questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers to.

The dining room glowed when he stepped inside.The lilies on the console table had started to brown at the edges, petals curling like fists.

Candles in mercury glass. Crystal catching the low light. The long walnut table set for three.

Francesca stood at the far end, smoothing a napkin, her back to him. Fred Blackwood leaned against the sideboard, swirling amber liquid in a tumbler, grinning like he owned the deed.

Jamie’s pulse thudded once, hard, behind his ears. He forced his feet forward, each step measured.

“Evening,” he said.

Francesca turned, smile bright and brittle. “Perfect timing. Silas outdid himself.”

Fred raised his glass. “Jamie! Hope you don’t mind—I let myself in. Francesca Old friends, right huh?”

Jamie’s eyes flicked to the third chair, the third plate, the third wineglass already poured. His fingers found the back of the chair—his chair—and gripped until the wood creaked.

Francesca launched in before he could speak. “We have a proposal. Fems partners with NovaTech. Fred’s family has the tech backbone; I bring the luxury eco angle. We pitch the Al-Zahran wedding together—your interiors, our combined platform. Win-win-win.”

Really? Was was going to remove Biiite that got the deal to add her company, Fred's family, and his father's interior company. How smart!

Jamie sat slowly, unfolding his napkin like it might bite. Silas appeared, his head down, setting seared scallops in front of each of them. The scent of lemon and brown butter should’ve been appetizing. It turned his stomach.

“No,” Jamie curtly.

Francesca’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “No?”

He looked at Fred. “You pitched NovaTech to me two weeks ago. I passed. Why bring it to my wife?”

Fred’s smile didn’t waver. “Because Francesca’s the visionary. I want her to soar, Jamie. She’s…” He reached across the corner of the table, fingers brushing hers. “She’s extraordinary.”

Francesca’s cheeks flushed; she didn’t pull away. Not even in front of her husband.

Jamie’s vision narrowed. The candle flames blurred into streaks of gold. He lifted his champagne, sipped, set it down with deliberate care. “Kofi.”

The driver materialized in the doorway, arms loose at his sides. Well, he wasn't just a driver, he was the security Jamie trusted.

Fred’s brows shot up. “Seriously?”

“It’s time to leave,” Kofi said, voice flat.

Fred pushed back his chair, the legs scraping like a scream. He stood, smoothed his jacket, leaned down to Francesca. “I’ll be outside, gorgeous. Text me.”

The front door shut. Silence rushed in to fill the vacuum.

Francesca’s eyes blazed. “I’m sick of you, Jamie. You worry me”

He met her stare, unblinking. “Worried about what, exactly?”

“Your insecurities!” She slammed her palm on the table; crystal jumped. “You embarrass me. You embarrass "us.”

Jamie wiped his mouth with the napkin, folded it once, set it beside his plate. “I don’t trust him. And I don’t recommend you do. One bad partnership and Fems is a punchline. Biiite gets dragged down with it.”

He stood. The chair rolled back soundlessly on the rug.

Francesca’s voice cracked behind him. “Running away again?”

He paused in the doorway, shoulders rigid. “I’m protecting what’s mine.”

Upstairs, he shut the study door, leaned against it, and and took a deep breath. He was losing it, losing Francesca, His father's issues and he couldn't bare to tell his mother. 

He wanted to fix it so badly!