Amara’s POV
The scream stayed lodged in my throat, refusing to come out.
I stood there, my hand still on the door, staring at something I would give anything to unsee at this moment.
Nicholas, Celine. My husband and the woman I'd only ever known as a name on his call log, his goddamn secretary, tangled together on the leather couch in his office like the world outside didn't exist.
She was straddling him on the couch moving against him like a snake moaning lightly while he squeezed her butts and sucked on her breasts.
For a second, I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe the near-accident on the road had rattled me more than I realized. Maybe I'd hit my head after all and this was some cruel joke my mind was playing.
But no. This was real, too real.
Celine saw me first. Her eyes went wide and she scrambled off the couch so fast she nearly tripped over her own heels, yanking her blouse back into place.
"Oh my God," she said, more to herself than to me.
Nicholas turned and for one full second, his face did something I'd never seen it do before. It went blank. Like his brain hadn't caught up with what his eyes were seeing.
"Amara…"
"Don't," I said, internally surprised my voice didn't shake. It was steady but my core wasn't.
I was in utter confusion and disarray.
"Baby, this isn't…. I can explain"
I almost laughed, almost. Because what was there to explain? I wasn't stupid. I'd seen the pictures Jemima shoved under my nose that morning. I'd told myself it was nothing. A business partner. A coincidence. I'd defended him in my own head like a fool.
And here he was, confirming every single thing I didn't want to believe.
"Amara, please, just let me—"
He took a step toward me and I took one back. That stopped him.
Celine had gone quiet, hovering near the window like she was hoping it might swallow her whole.
Smart woman.
If she knew what was good for her, she'd stay exactly where she was.
I looked at Nicholas, my eyes full of pain and disbelief. Was this the man I married? The man who held my hand at my parents' funeral. The man who told me he'd never let me feel alone again.
He looked smaller somehow. His eyes were filled with guilt.
Pathetic, I almost spat out.
"I have to go," I said.
"Amara, wait…"
I didn't wait. I turned and walked out of that office with my spine straight and my chin up, because if I was going to fall apart, it wasn't going to be in front of him or in front of that bitch whose breast he'd been shoving into his mouth.
I almost winced at that thought.
His executive assistant looked up as I passed her desk, already sensing something had gone terribly wrong. I didn't stop to explain. I didn't owe her one either.
"Mrs. Cole?" Nicholas called from behind me, his voice cracking slightly. "Amara!"
I kept walking.
The elevator ride down felt like it took a decade. I stared at my own reflection in the metal doors, waiting for it to crack the way I felt like doing. My hands had started shaking somewhere between the office and the lobby, and I shoved them into my pockets so no one would see.
The security guard from earlier gave me a small nod as I passed, the same one who'd let me up without question. If he noticed anything different about my face, he had the decency not to show it.
I made it to my car and sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only solid thing left in my life. My throat burned, my eyes burned but I refused to cry.
Not yet, not here.
Jemima's voice rang in my head. You know what to do.
She'd tried to tell me. Those weeks of soft hints, careful nudges, that folder she'd shoved across my desk this morning like a woman throwing a rope to someone drowning and I'd brushed it off every single time.
I told myself I knew my husband, lied to myself that we were fine.
God, I was such an idiot.
I started the car and pulled out of the lot, no real destination in mind. The streets blurred past, buildings and traffic lights bleeding into each other. I turned the radio off. I couldn't stand the sound of anything right now, not even silence.
At some point I realized I was crying. Quiet tears, sliding down my cheeks without permission, without sound. I didn't even wipe them away.
I just kept driving, my knuckles white against the wheel, my mind replaying the same image over and over like a broken record. Celine's wide eyes. Nicholas' blank face. The couch. The one we'd picked out together for his office two years ago.
I don't know how long I drove. Maybe long enough that the sky had shifted, dimming into that soft gray color before evening.
my phone had buzzed against the passenger seat more times than I cared to count.
I didn't look at it. I already knew who it was.
Eventually I spotted a bar tucked along a quieter street, one of those low-lit places with a neon sign flickering half its letters out. I didn't know the name of it. I didn't care. I just needed to be somewhere that wasn't my car, wasn't my house, wasn't anywhere near him.
I pulled in, parked crookedly, and sat there for a second with my hands still on the wheel, staring at the entrance like it might have answers for me.
It didn't. Of course it didn't.
I sobbed really hard, my mind racing through a lot of things.
My phone rang again and I spared it a glance. It was Jemima.
I didn't pick up, there was this crushing feeling and I wanted to get it off my chest.
I got out anyway, smoothed down my blouse, and pushed through the door, letting the noise and the lights swallow me whole.
As I stepped in, I heard a loud holler, something wheezing past my head and a shattering glass sound.
