Chapter 17 – Card, Coffee and Clues

I lay flat on the metal bench in my cell, arms folded under my head, staring up at the cracked ceiling like it held answers I’d somehow missed.

The silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the sound of distant footsteps and the sounds coming from adjacent cells.

My thoughts raced, twisted and tangled.

I was trying to be calm and strong. But deep down, I felt like I was crumbling.

So this was it?

A false accusation, a few careless whispers, and suddenly I was wearing the label of a killer. Not even a trial, not a word in my defense. Just judgment that was kind of silent and cold like concrete.

I turned my head and let out a breath.

I wanted to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t stop.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my children’s faces. The way Adam sniffled when his toy broke. How Lily always touched my cheek when I looked sad. Nate’s quiet, fierce stare. All eight of them were probably huddled together now, confused and scared.

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. No. I wouldn’t fall apart.

Not yet.

A sharp knock on the bars jolted me from my thoughts.

I sat up slowly, my body stiff.

My eyes met a familiar face on the other side of the bars.

Officer Ted.

He looked tired. His eyes were sunken, his posture slightly slouched, like guilt was weighing him down. His hand rested on his belt, and he cleared his throat before speaking.

“You’re free to go,” he said without much emotion. “It was confirmed that you’re not the killer. Just a suspect caught up in the mess.”

I blinked.

The words sounded like freedom, but they didn’t feel like it.

“Just know,” he continued, already pulling out the key, “we’ll be watching you. One wrong move, and you’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison.”

Click.

The cell door creaked open.

I didn’t stand up right away.

I tilted my head and looked at him carefully. “And if I’m not the one?” I asked softly. “If I’m just some unlucky woman with bad timing—what happens to my reputation? My name? My kids who now have to grow up hearing that their mother was once suspected of murder?”

He looked uncomfortable but didn’t respond.

I gave a dry chuckle. “What’s the matter, Officer Ted? Cat got your tongue?”

He shifted, cleared his throat again. “If you’re not interested in leaving, you can sleep over,” he muttered, turning away. “Suit yourself.”

I stood slowly, brushing the wrinkles out of my shirt. “Thanks for the offer,” I said with a sarcastic smile, “but I think I’ve had enough cold benches and bad lighting to last me a lifetime.”

He didn’t look back.

He just walked off, his boots echoing down the hallway.

I stepped out of the cell.

But I didn’t feel free.

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Three days passed before I fully returned to work.

The air outside still felt heavy, like it was judging me too.

Every stare on the bus, every whispered conversation behind me—it all pressed against my back like a weight I couldn’t shake off.

When I got to Blackmoore Enterprises, I kept my head down. I smiled politely. I typed my login password like my hands weren’t shaking and buried myself in emails like I wasn’t still piecing my soul back together.

Everything felt… distant.

Until lunch.

I was on the tenth floor, where the Marketing Department shared a breakroom and a handful of computers. The office was buzzing with chatter, and I just needed a minute to breathe.

So I sat down, logged into the internal system, not out of idle curiosity, but because of what happened two days ago.

Two days later after I got out. I sat in a small café near my old workplace—the hotel that had once chewed me up and spit me out like trash.

I stirred my coffee slowly, watching the steam rise like ghosts.

I didn’t want to be here.

Not near this place.

Not near that memory.

But when Yvonne texted me out of the blue and asked if we could meet, curiosity got the better of me.

She arrived late, panting, hair frizzy under a loose scarf.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” she said, sliding into the seat across from me.

“It’s fine,” I said, watching her closely.

Yvonne used to work the front desk. She was always kind but a little too nosy for my taste.

We made small talk—weather, work, prices of things going up—and then she leaned in.

“I actually came because I remembered something,” she said. “About that night.”

My body tensed. I put the coffee down.

“What night?”

She gave me a look.

“You know what night. The night we had the biggest customer of our lifetime.”

I didn’t say anything.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a plain white envelope. She set it down between us, like it held a bomb.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Something that was meant for you,” she said. “Someone gave it to me… said to pass it to you.”

My heart skipped.

“When?” I whispered.

“Few days after you left the hotel,” she said. “I never saw the guy. The security guard gave it to me and said the man didn’t leave his name, just asked that you get this.”

I stared at it.

“Let me guess…” I said slowly. “You checked what was inside.”

She looked guilty, biting her lip.

“Kind of,” she said softly. “Look, I didn’t mean to snoop. But the others were talking. They said maybe it was a tip from a rich guy you had a fling with. I didn’t believe it, so I opened it to prove them wrong.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

“It wasn’t money,” she said. “Just a card. And a photo.”

My eyes narrowed and a hint of skepticism crossed my eyes.

“Its been 5 years already. Why are you giving it to me now?”

“Well, I didn’t mean to. I just kind of forgot and only found it while I was moving houses. Besides, it had a photo inside, I don’t know who it belongs to.”

“A photo?”

She nodded. “Yeah. A headshot. Looked like a corporate picture. I didn’t recognize the man, but you might.”

I took the envelope with shaking hands.

That evening, when I got home, I sat on the floor of my tiny bedroom, legs crossed, heart pounding, and opened it.

The card was blank apart from the name and a symbol I quite recognized.

The symbol I have seen it on my boss suit when I had gone to ask him to deal with the stupid dead man that caused me to be in a prison.

But the photo…

My heart stopped.

I knew that face.

I’d seen it before.

And now I had to be sure.

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Dominic Blackmoore.

I told myself it was just curiosity.

Nothing more.

But the moment his name came up, my screen filled with articles, archived news releases, internal HR memos, and… some photos.

Since this was the internal system, I was able to search for some things in relation to the Blackmore Enterprise that I’d probably not find on the web.

I leaned forward, heart thudding as I scrolled through and coincidentally met a similar picture to the one Yvonne gave me.

It was him.

The man from five years ago.

The man who haunted my dreams.

And in bold letters underneath his photo:

President and CEO, Blackmoore Enterprises Group.

I stared at the image for a long moment.

So it was true.

He wasn’t just some stranger from a hotel room. He wasn’t just some rich man with a cold stare and a short temper.

He was the father of my children.

My chest tightened.

I looked at his profile picture—broad shoulders, cold gray eyes, that jawline you could cut glass with. And I thought about Nate. About the sharpness in his gaze, the calm way he handled stress, the way he could analyze people without speaking.

He had Dominic’s eyes.

All this time… I thought they got lucky. That their brilliance came from some cosmic accident.

But now, it made sense.

I was still staring at the screen when a loud voice snapped me back to reality.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I turned.

A woman in a tight navy skirt suit stood at the entrance to the office area, arms crossed. She looked like she’d just walked off the set of a daytime drama—glossy hair, overdrawn lips, and heels sharp enough to wound.

It was his secretary.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She marched closer, her heels clacking loudly against the floor. “Don’t play innocent. I saw you drooling over Mr. Blackmoore’s profile. Have some shame. You think just because you’re new, you can climb the ladder by chasing him?”

I stood slowly.

“Are you serious?” I asked, voice calm.

“You think we don’t see girls like you all the time?” she sneered. “Single mothers with no boundaries trying to get close to the boss. It’s pathetic.”

I bit back a laugh.

“Wow,” I said. “You must be exhausted.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Carrying all that jealousy and insecurity. Must be heavy.”

Her eyes widened.

“Let’s be honest,” I continued. “You don’t actually care about the president’s reputation. You’re just upset that someone else was staring at his photo instead of you.”

“I—what—” she stammered.

“If you’re so concerned about people ‘chasing him,’ maybe ask yourself why you’re watching his profile like a hawk. That sounds like someone coveting him, don’t you think?”

Her face turned red.

“You little—!”

“Ladies,” someone called from the hallway.

A young man peeked his head into the office, holding a tablet. “Mr. Blackmoore’s asking for Ms. Twain. He wants to see her. Right now.”

Silence fell.

The secretary’s eyes widened.

Mine narrowed.

“What?” she asked, stunned. “He… he asked for her?”

The assistant nodded. “Said her name clear as day. Mannie Twain. President’s floor.”

I straightened my back and picked up my folder from the desk.

“Looks like my ‘chasing’ worked faster than yours,” I said sweetly, brushing past her.

Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.