Never Underestimate Jamie Luther

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 p**n.” 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 ring. “Mom.”

A pause, then her voice—cool, clipped, the same tone she’d used to dismiss nannies and senators alike. “Your father’s campaign is a circus, Jamie. He’ll lose, and he’ll drag the Luther name through the mud doing it. Again.”

Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s made his bed.”

Background noise filtered through—clinking crystal, a string quartet warming up. “I’m at the gala prep. The president’s attending. I’ve put you down as my plus-one.”

His stomach flipped. “You’re kidding.” he adjusted on the chair.

“Darling, I never kid about seating charts.” A soft laugh, almost fond. “Thank me later when half the guest list is begging for Biiite’s card. Wear the midnight Tom Ford. No tie.”

The line went dead. Jamie stared at the phone, then laughed—short, sharp, the sound scraping his throat. His mother, always three moves ahead, turning her husband’s failure into her son’s runway. He could always trust her judgment, after all her father was once. A governor of this very state.

The door flew open with a bang that rattled the sconces.

Francesca stood in the frame, cheeks flushed, green eyes blazing like struck flint. She wore a charcoal blazer over a silk camisole, hair twisted into a knot that was already coming loose. In her fist: a rolled contract, edges crumpled.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she shouted, voice cracking on the last word.

Jamie leaned back slowly, fingers steepled. A smile tugged at his mouth—small, deliberate. “You’re welcome, dear. Don’t mention it. The wedding’s in three weeks. You’ve got the women’s celebration—henna, spa, the whole Emirati fantasy. Should keep you busy.”

Francesca’s laugh was ugly. She slapped the contract onto the desk; it landed on the blueprints like a gauntlet. “So I should grovel? You sneak my company into the deal like I’m some charity case? I know I said yes but I changed my mind! Nova tech should be involved!!!”

Jamie’s gaze flicked to the screen, then back to her. “The  Al-Zahran  Family women want a women-only event. Fems caters to women. Math checks out.”

He was trying hard not to see her disrespect. Not to see that she was trying to make Freds company take over what he started.

She stepped closer, heels stabbing the Persian rug. “I said I wanted to help Fred. We talked about this! Yet you remain inconsiderate. I’ve been working—late calls, site visits—”

“Busy at work? Huh??” Jamie’s voice dropped, velvet over steel. He clicked a key; Omalicha’s calendar popped up—color-coded, damning. “Your PA’s been forwarding me your ‘out of office’ replies since Tuesday. Funny how many of them say "personal day.”

She blinked. Could Omanicha be working for Jamie too or he asked? 

Francesca’s nostrils flared. She leaned over the desk, palms flat, knuckles white. “Prepare for the Al-Zahran women,” she mimicked, voice syrupy with venom. “We’ll talk about the rest later. God, you’re insufferable.”

Jamie met her stare, unblinking. The air between them crackled—ozone before lightning. He was really expecting her tantrums but nothing came.

Francesca’s next words came out low, almost a whisper, but they landed like a slap. Way more that a slap “Do you want a divorce?”

The room tilted. Jamie’s pulse thudded once, hard, behind his ears. His fingers curled around the armrests until the leather groaned. “Are you insane?” he intoned.

She straightened, arms crossing like armor. A smile ghosted across her lips—cruel, triumphant. “Don’t tempt me.”

The door slammed behind her. The impact rattled the framed photo on the wall—their wedding day, her in orange silk, him gazing at her like she’d hung the moon. The glass cracked in a spiderweb from corner to corner.

Jamie sat frozen, breath shallow. The scent of her perfume—lillies and something sharper now—lingered like smoke. He reached for the cracked photo, thumb brushing the fracture that split his own smile in two.

Downstairs, a vase crashed.  

Silas’s muffled voice: “Ma’am—”  

Francesca’s heels, retreating.

Jamie closed his eyes. The gala invitation burned in his mind like a coal. Three weeks until the wedding. Three weeks until everything changed.

He opened the desk drawer, pulled out the velvet box he’d hidden there weeks ago—a pair of emerald earrings to match

her eyes. He turned it over in his palm, then snapped it shut.