Never Underestimate Jamie Luther

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 stab, twisting deeper than the last. How could she? How long had this been going on?

The last one was a punch to the balls: timestamped three nights ago, a bar Jamie didn’t know, her back against brick, Fred’s hand under her coat. They were deep in a kids with his wife's fingers tangled in Fred's hair.

Jamie’s knees almost buckled. He caught the rail, breath fogging the mirrored wall. The elevator dinged at the lobby; he didn’t move until Kofi’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“Home, sir?”

Jamie nodded. The photos went into his inner coat pocket, edges cutting through the lining.

------

The drive was silent except for the low hum of tires on wet asphalt. Jamie stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Francesca’s name. He didn’t call. Not yet.

At a red light, his phone buzzed.

**Fran:** *We need to talk. I’ll be in the bedroom.*

Three dots. Then:

**Fran:** *I know about the photos.*

Jamie’s pulse spiked. He typed, deleted, typed again.

**Jamie:** *How?*

The reply was instant.

**Fran:** *Doesn’t matter. Just come home.*

The light turned green. Kofi glanced in the rearview. Jamie gave a tight nod.

---

The mansion was lit like a stage set. Everything seemed extra bright.

Silas nowhere. Kofi took the car to the garage. Jamie climbed the elevator alone, each second heavier than the last. The bedroom door was ajar, light spilling into the hall like an invitation to a funeral.

Francesca stood at the foot of the bed, a half-packed suitcase open beside her. She wore the navy silk robe he had bought her in Paris, belt knotted tight. Her face was calm—too calm. Like she’d rehearsed this.

Did she send the Envelope?

“I was going to tell you,” she said before he crossed the threshold.

Jamie pulled the photos from his pocket, fanned them on the dresser like a losing hand. “When?”

“After the women’s event.” She didn’t look at the images. “Didn’t want to tank the wedding or the deal.”

He laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “How considerate of you.”

Francesca’s chin lifted. “It’s over, Jamie. We’re done.”

Done? Just like that? Years of his life, reduced to a single word. The words hit harder than the photos. He felt them in his teeth. She wasn't sorry, she didn't explain. At least he deserved a damn reason. “How long?” he asked 

“Does the timeline make it better?”she rolled her eyes.

“It makes it 'real'”

She exhaled, sharp. “Since three weeks ago. We were before together before I even met you. I stopped counting.”

Jamie’s vision tunneled. He took one step, then another, until he was close enough to see the faint smudge of mascara under her left eye. “You brought him here. To our table.”

“I brought a partner.”

“You brought the man you’re fucking into my house while I was at work.”

Francesca’s eyes flashed. “Lower your voice.”

The rage was building, a hot tide rising in his chest. He wanted to scream, to break something, but he forced himself to stay calm.

“Lower 'mine'?” His laugh cracked. “I smelled him on you the night of our anniversary. I 'chose' to trust you.”

“You trusted the version of me you wanted,” she said. “I’m not her anymore.”

Jamie gestured at the suitcase. “And Fred’s your upgrade?”

Francesca shrugged, faking indifference “Fred doesn’t treat me like a project.”

“Fred’s married, Fran. To a woman in London who thinks he’s closing deals in Dubai.”

Her blink was quick—almost imperceptible. “That’s… not simple. They divorced already”

“Nothing about this is simple when you’re lying.”

Francesca zipped the suitcase with a decisive tug. “I want a divorce too.”

The word settled between them like frost. Jamie felt it numb his fingertips. He had expected it since she asked last night. She already planned this and it would like to think she sent the envelope to make it easier for herself.

“And,” she continued, voice steady, “I want fifty percent. I helped build this.”

The audacity sliced clean through the shock. Jamie’s laugh was low, dangerous. “You helped build 'Fems'. With 'my' contacts. 'My' seed money. 'My' name on every add to get you better base. I paid for everything from the start up”

“I was your wife.”

“You were my 'partner'.” His voice cracked on the word. “I gave you everything.”

“You gave me a brand,” she said. “Fred gives me a future.”

Jamie stared at the stranger in his wife’s skin. The pain was still there, white-hot, but it had edges now. Armor. He wanted to let it out. To do something, maybe yelled or punch the wall. But no.

“Fine,” he said, the word scraped raw. “You’ll get your divorce.”

Francesca’s exhaled. Her tensed shoulders relaxed as a sly smile flashed on her face.

“But understand this.” He stepped close enough to smell the Lilly on her neck, the one he used to bury his face in after long days. “You’ll get what the law says you’re entitled to. Not a cent more. And if you think I’ll let you bleed Luther’s Lock dry to bankroll your new life, you don’t know me at all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Threats?”

“Promises.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You burn this bridge, Francesca, you don’t get to swim.”

He turned, walked out. The door closed with a soft click—no slam, just the quiet finality of a chapter ending.

 Downstairs, Silas was wiping a glass that didn’t need wiping. He met Jamie’s eyes, held them for a beat, then looked away.

Jamie grabbed his coat, stepped into the night. The cold bit his face, sharp and clean. He had a wedding to plan, a company to run, and a wife to divorce. Behind him, the mansion lights flickered once, then held steady.

Inside, Francesca stood among half-packed suitcases, the photos scattered across the bed like confetti from a party she’d already left. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

UNKNOWN: He’s gone. You’re welcome.

She stared at the message, thumb hovering, then deleted it.

Who was this person that just ruined her cover before she could have her taste? What sort of a stalker did would do this?!