Chapter 004

Standing up from the bed, Fatima walked out, heading straight for the guestroom, ignoring the dull ache pounding through her head. Each step felt heavier than the last, but she kept moving until she reached the door. That was where her courage finally faltered.

She could hear them.

Moans. Soft gasps. The low, unmistakable sounds of two bodies lost in each other.

For a moment, it felt like they were mocking her, even though she knew they weren’t thinking about her at all. They were simply giving in to their lust, careless and unashamed, while her world was quietly falling apart just a few feet away.

Her knees wobbled. She raised her hand to push the already ajar door open, then stopped herself. She couldn’t do this like this. Not yet. Not without something to steady her, something to dull the sharp edge of the pain slicing through her chest.

She needed a drink.

Turning away, she forced herself to walk downstairs. When she reached the kitchen, she paused in the doorway, her breath catching as a memory rose uninvited. Her family sat around the dining table, laughter filling the room. Nicholas at the head, smiling easily, their children talking over each other, the warmth of it all wrapping around her like a familiar blanket.

Then he vanished from the picture.

The chair stood empty in her mind, and that was what snapped her back into the present.

She moved quickly then, reaching for the top cupboards. Their first child, Bonnie, was curious enough to climb, which was why the liquor was kept out of reach. Neither she nor Nicholas drank; it was meant for guests. But today, she decided, she would be one too.

She had just set the bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter when a loud knock echoed through the house. Startled, she glanced toward the door. Thinking it was her sister arriving with the kids, she quickly placed the bottle in the sink and hurried to the entrance.

When she opened the door, the sight before her stole the breath from her lungs.

A man stood there, barely upright, his face pale, one hand pressed tightly to his left arm. “I have a bullet in my arm,” he said hoarsely. “I need a nurse.”

Her eyes followed his gaze to his arm, and only then did she notice the blood staining his fingers. If she weren’t a doctor, panic might have taken over. Instead, instinct kicked in, sharp and immediate.

The blood was enough to push her own pain aside for a moment.

She helped him inside, closing the door behind them, guiding him to the couch. Once he was seated, she told him to lie back and went for her first aid kit.

“Mr. Kingston, right?” she asked as she returned, already pulling on gloves.

She had seen him before — in magazines mostly, New York’s young billionaire, and twice in person at dinners with her husband. He was her husband's friend. A man she remembered clearly, not because of his status, but because of his lack of boundaries. He never missed a chance to flirt.

“Ian,” he corrected with a crooked smirk. “Fuck, I forgot you’re a doctor.” Even in pain, he still found time to flirt. It made her uncomfortable enough that she warned him to behave, or she would leave him right there to bleed.

“Why did you come here anyway?” she asked as she examined the wound.

She knew exactly how this had happened. Kingston Holdings was no stranger to dark dealings, and this wasn’t even the first time he’d been shot, she’d read about it before. He liked trouble, and bullets had a way of following men like him.

“It was the closest place,” he said, then added with a wink, “You sure you know what you’re doing, sweetie? This isn’t an ordinary bullet.”

He groaned when she pressed deliberately beside the wound, earning herself a small, grim satisfaction. “Stay still,” she said flatly, and got to work.

Thirty minutes later, the bullet was out, the wound cleaned and dressed. When he asked for an ounce of whiskey, she refused without hesitation, telling him the medication wouldn’t work if he mixed it with alcohol.

“Why do you care if it doesn’t work?” he asked.

“Because then you’d have to spend the night here,” she replied, “and I don’t want you here.” She wasn’t entirely honest.

Her mind betrayed her, flashing back to the last dinner they’d attended together, the way his eyes had followed her. The strange, unwanted spark she had felt… one she had buried under guilt. That guilt felt distant now.

She froze as she looked at him, stretched out on the couch, leaning on his uninjured arm. The medication was already taking effect, his eyes struggling to stay open. She found herself studying him in a way she never had before, the tattoo above his eyebrow, the sharp line of his jaw, his thin lips.

The thought startled her.

This was her husband’s friend. An irritating man she had never liked. There was no reason she should suddenly find him handsome.

Unless it was the betrayal still burning through her veins.

The knock at the door came just in time, breaking the spiral of her thoughts. She scolded herself silently. She had just watched her husband give himself to another woman. That should be consuming her, not this.

At the door stood her sister Madelyn, with her two children. After a quick greeting, Madelyn explained she had to rush back. It worked in Fatima’s favor; she didn’t want her sister stepping into this mess. She needed to handle it herself.

She guided the children inside carefully, making sure they didn’t see Ian lying on the couch, his blood was still faintly visible on his shirt. They knew him as their uncle, and she didn’t want to frighten them.

In the kitchen, she told them their father was at work. The lie came easily. She fed them, listened to their chatter, watched them eat until they were full. Then she took them upstairs, watched them play, and eventually tuckered them out for their afternoon nap. It was three o’clock, right on schedule.

Once the door to their room was closed, she stood there for a moment, breathing.

She walked back toward the guestroom.

This time, when she reached the door, she raised her hand and knocked once. Not for permission. The knock was deliberate, a warning, just enough to send them scrambling. Without waiting for a response, she stepped inside.

The sight confirmed everything.

Nicholas and Leslie were tangled in the sheets, both fumbling for clothes, panic written across their faces. Fatima noted, almost absently, that some of their clothes were missing, left behind in the master bedroom.

Keeping her voice steady, she spoke: “Ian is here,” she said calmly. “And the kids are here. I think Leslie should leave.”

The room fell silent.

Leslie and Nicholas stared at her, then at each other, confusion mixing with disbelief. Leslie even wondered if Fatima was truly that foolish, if she hadn’t understood what she had walked in on.

“Baby…” Nicholas said as he hurried into his trousers, his hands shaking. Panic clawed at him. Why was she so calm? Had she known all along? Was she playing some cruel game? He was standing half-dressed beside another woman, why wasn’t she shouting?

“Oh, and…” Fatima ignored her husband, turning slightly toward Leslie, “I made you coffee. Would you like some cookies with it?”

Leslie’s mouth went dry.

Before she could respond, Fatima turned and walked out, leaving them both frozen in shock.

Nicholas struggled to breathe. Shame burned through him, the shame of being caught, of knowing his children were in the house while he had been wrapped around another woman. His children came first. They always had. But it was Fatima’s reaction that unsettled him the most.

Why was she like this?

Ignoring Leslie’s frantic request for her clothes, he followed his wife, calling out for her to wait even though she was already out of sight. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Maybe she had hit her head harder than he thought.

Whatever it was, he just hoped it wouldn’t ruin his plans.