2025-11-19 22:43:12
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20: Wine and Trust fund
“…marrying the man who actually loves me. And I’m leaving that toxic family behind forever.”The clip from Francesca's live video, now two days old, ended. Jamie's thumb lingered on the screen, a beat too long, before he set the phone face-down on the balcony table. Rage simmered beneath his usually cool surface. He wanted to break something, maybe someone, but he ruthlessly tamped it down. Years of discipline fought against the raw, primal urge.He glanced at Tom Hopper, seated opposite him. Since they were on the penthouse balcony of his mansion, the evening breeze—late December, sharp enough to bite—carried the faint scent of pine from the gardens far below. Jamie didn’t feel the cold his shimmering anger was enough heat.Mary, one of his housekeepers, appeared silently with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Her movements were almost hesitant, her eyes filled with a concern she couldn’t quite mask. She retreated almost immediately after pouring, but a small, tentative smile fla
19: #FrancescaSpeaks
Francesca stood in front of the full-length mirror in Fred’s walk-in closet, phone pressed to her ear, listening to Jamie’s voicemail for the fourth time that morning.“The person you are trying to reach is unavailable…”She ended the call before the beep. Had he blocked her? Did he just choose to ignore her? He wasn't like this before. Was it that rich perfect brat Alexandra Romah? After the photo from the gala last week, Jamie seemed to have changed.Did he really moved on to someone new so fast? How dare him!Her reflection stared back: eyes puffy from crying on camera an hour ago, mascara smudged just enough to look tragic, not sloppy. The new diamond on her finger caught the light every time her hand shook. Now, her social media post would be real enough, especially after what Jamie's father told her yesterday.Fred came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin on her shoulder. He kissed her, chuckled at her reflection and moved back a few steps. He knew about the
18: Dean Elliott Luther
Francesca sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in Fred’s penthouse bedroom, knees drawn to her chest, phone clutched in both hands like a lifeline she didn’t trust. No matter how she tried to pretend, she knew something had gone wrong amidst the mess she had been running.The room smelled of his cologne—something sharp and expensive—and the faint trace of the jasmine candle he’d lit last night when he thought romance could fix her mood. Well, it did fix it with naked bodies rolling beneath the sheet It had been two days since she sent Jamie the envelope.Three days since that particular one had landed on her own doorstep like a bomb with no timer. Counting, this seems to be the third package now.Jamie hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Hadn’t even let his lawyer leak a single quote to the press.Just silence after he told her "your wish".She hated silence. Silence meant someone else was thinking.Her phone pinged. An email notification. She opened it with fingers that wouldn’t stop tre
17: Your wish
The envelope sat on the desk like a loaded weapon. More like a plague. He wasn't scared of it, just anticipating what would have been sick enough for Francesca to send.Jamie stared at it for a long minute after Dean stormed out, then pressed the intercom.“Send in Mr Hopper.”Tom Hopper; forty-five, ex-Marine, hair still cut like he expected incoming fire, walked in carrying a single legal pad and the calm of a man who had seen every kind of ugly a marriage can produce. He shut the door with his heel.“Morning, Jamie.” He took the chair opposite without waiting to be asked. “We can have her served by Friday and in front of a judge in six weeks if we move aggressively. Massachusetts is no-fault, but we can still make it painful.”Jamie rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I just want it over.”Tom’s pen paused. “You sure? Because I sense you are making this a pie. Like you want to give her the 50% she asked for. Sure that's wise? You want peace?"Jamie’s laugh was soft and bitter. “Peace?
16: Do I speak Latin?
The elevator doors slid open into the penthouse kitchen and Jamie knew, before a word was spoken, that something was wrong. The silence.Guseppe was gone. Gone with his usual chaos —half-eaten pastry on the counter, espresso cup still spinning in the saucer, leather jacket slung over a bar stool like a dead animal—was absent. The air felt too still."Okayyy" Jamie thought aloud.Jamie perched on the marble island, legs dangling, scrolling nothing on his phone while he waited for Kofi to bring the car around. Silas appeared silently, wiping his hands on a towel the colour of storm clouds.“Mr Guseppe left at dawn,” Silas said, voice low. “His father called. Sounded… urgent.”Jamie only nodded. He could already picture the scene in Italy: marble hallways, raised voices, Nonna clutching rosary beads like a weapon. If not that, it could be something at the family company. Both him and Guseppe had been wondering when they wanted him to rake his position as a responsible son, especially
15: Paparazzi
The study smelled of rum and old paper. Jamie sat in the leather chair that had once belonged to his grandfather, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, the crystal tumbler catching the low amber light every time he lifted it. He wasn’t drunk. He was just… tired of tasting nothing.The monitors glowed like cold moons. Stocks. Emails. Headlines he refused to open. He already knew what they said.“Poor little rich boy didn’t even know his wife was sleeping with his father.” "Does Jamie Luther even know he is alive?" “Jamie Luther: the last to know, again.” “Sources close to the couple say he still hasn’t seen Francesca’s post.”He didn’t need to see it. He had lived it.The Al-Zahran wedding had ended three days ago. A triumph. Silk tents shimmering over a frozen lake, gold lanterns floating like fireflies, the bride’s mother crying because the women’s pre-wedding event —officially credited to Fems, quietly executed by Biiite— had been perfect. Jamie had watched the final
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