The Jack Secret

Naomi did not remember how she got home.

She remembered stepping out of Damon’s office, the hallway stretching too long in front of her, the sound of her heels against the floor echoing too loudly in her ears.

She remembered Patrick’s startled face when he saw her leave without Damon, the way he straightened immediately and said her name, concern already forming. She remembered waving him off without looking back. After that, everything blurred into a series of moments that did not feel real enough to belong to her.

Now she sat on the edge of her bed, her back straight, her hands resting limply on her lap as though they no longer belonged to her body.

The bedroom was quiet in a way that felt unnatural. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the afternoon light, leaving the room dark. The familiar scent of the space; Damon’s cologne, her perfume, the faint smell of clean linen, should have grounded her.

PppppppppInstead, it made her chest tighten.

Uncle Jack.

The words repeated in her mind, slow and heavy, refusing to settle into anything she could understand.

Jack Pearl had been a constant presence throughout her childhood. He had been loud, where her father was calm, and expressive, unlike Aaron Pearl, who had been reserved. Jack had laughed easily, told stories too loudly at family dinners, slipped her extra desserts when her father wasn’t looking. He had carried her on his shoulders at company picnics and taught her how to ride a bike, jogging beside her until she found her balance.

He had been family.

Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her dress as another memory forced its way forward.

The USB incident.

The way his voice had turned cold when he realised she was still alive.. That had been the moment she understood that something about him was deeply wrong. That he could not be trusted.

But that was about it.

Knowing someone had tried to kill her was horrifying but believing that same person had slowly poisoned her father over time was something else entirely.

Her throat tightened painfully.

Her father had always been careful.

He had trusted very few people fully, and Jack had been one of them. The thought that her father might have unknowingly shared meals, conversations, and laughter with the man who was killing him made Naomi’s stomach churn.

She'd noticed Jack stopped coming over to their home at some point, and by then, her father's cough had gotten worse. Was that when her father realised Jack couldn't be trusted?

She pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing shallowly as tears pooled in her eyes.

She'd been so mad that her father forced her into a marriage that she didn't realise how much he was dealing with alone. God, she'd been so selfish.

When Damon came home, she barely registered the sound of the front door opening or the low murmur of voices as staff greeted him. She heard his footsteps approaching the bedroom and she did not turn.

“Naomi,” he said softly from the doorway.

She did not respond.

He crossed the room slowly, as though afraid sudden movement might break her. He stopped a short distance away from her.

“I don't have an excuse for not telling you,” he said quietly. “This is a lot. And I thought I was protecting you but..that is not for me to decide. I realise that now.”

She nodded once, the movement small and stiff.

“I should have gone after you when you left,” he continued, guilt threading through his voice. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

She stood abruptly, the motion sharp enough that Damon took a step back. She moved past him without a word, heading toward the bathroom. She shut the door gently behind her, not slamming it, not locking it, just closing it as though she needed the barrier.

The mirror reflected a version of herself she barely recognized. Her eyes were too wide, her face drained of color. She stripped out of her clothes, folding them with unnecessary care, then pulled on her nightwear.

The softness of the fabric against her skin did nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.

When she returned to the bedroom, Damon was still there, his jacket gone, his tie loosened. He watched her silently as she climbed into bed and turned onto her side, facing away from him.

After a moment, he changed as well, moving carefully, keeping noise to a minimum. When he lay down beside her, he did not touch her. He left space between them, enough to make it clear that he was there and he wasn't leaving.

Minutes passed. Then more.

Damon closed his eyes, his breathing evening out, though sleep did not come. Just as he began to think she had finally drifted off, Naomi spoke.

“I want to go to my father’s grave tomorrow.”

Her voice was steady but distant, as though she were reading lines from a script rather than speaking her own thoughts.

Damon opened his eyes and turned his head slightly toward her back. “I’ll come with you.”

There was a pause.

She did not answer.

The next morning arrived quietly.

Naomi moved through her routine like someone underwater. She showered, dressed, fixed her hair, all without speaking. Damon watched from the doorway, offering help once, then stopping himself when she did not respond.

They left the house together and Damon drove.

The city passed by outside the car windows, but Naomi did not look at it. Her gaze stayed fixed straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. Damon kept his eyes on the road, though his awareness never left her.

He wanted to say something, anything, but he knew better than to force words she wasn’t ready to hear.

The cemetery gates came into view soon enough. Damon slowed the car as he pulled in, the tires crunching softly against the gravel. He parked and turned off the engine.

Neither of them moved right away.

When Naomi finally opened the door, the cool air hit her face. She stepped out and walked ahead, not waiting for Damon, though she did not tell him to stay behind either.

Right outside the confrontation, a woman sold flowers. Naomi picked up a bouquet, her eyes going over to Damon in the car.

He stepped out almost immediately, wallet in hand as he handed the woman money for the flower.

Aaron Pearl’s grave was well kept. Fresh grass surrounded the stone, trimmed neatly. The old man had paid for his own tombstone before he passed, that's how meticulous he was.

She wished she had that.

Naomi stopped a few feet away, the bouquet of flowers clutched tightly in her hand.

She knelt slowly and placed the flowers at the base of the headstone, her fingers lingering on the petals longer than necessary. For a moment, she simply stayed there, her head bowed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “I should have been here more.”

Her chest tightened as memories flooded her mind; her father’s laugh, his quiet advice, the way he had always believed in her even when she doubted herself.

Her shoulders began to shake.

She stood abruptly, drawing in a sharp breath, forcing herself to straighten. Tears blurred her vision, but she wiped them away quickly, refusing to let them fall freely.

“This won’t go unanswered,” she said, her voice firmer now. “I promise you that.”

Damon stepped closer then, he has been maintaining a reasonable distance from her for a while.

“Naomi,” he said gently.

She turned to face him, her eyes red.

“I won’t let him get away with it,” she said. “I will get Jack for what he's done.”

Damon nodded. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”

She studied his face for a long moment, searching for something. “You and my father,” she said quietly. “How close were you two?”

Damon hesitated, then spoke honestly. “Closer than most people knew. He trusted me. We worked together long before I married you. Treated me better than my family. When he started getting sick, he asked me to watch over things… and over you.”

Her throat tightened again. “He knew something was wrong, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Damon admitted. “He suspected, but he didn’t have proof. He didn’t want to cause panic or make accusations without certainty.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “He was trying to protect everyone.”

Damon reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t.

His arms wrapped around her and for the first time since the boardroom, Naomi allowed herself to lean into him. Her forehead pressed against his chest, her hands gripping his jacket as her composure finally cracked.

“I’m not angry with you,” she said softly. “I understand why you didn’t tell me.”

Damon’s grip tightened slightly. “I should have trusted you with the truth.”

She nodded. “ And this better be the last of your secrets or I'll kill you if there is anything else I don't know.”

Damon chuckled, his grip around her tightening. This is how he wanted her, happy.

“Yes ma'am.”

They stood there for a long time, the quiet of the cemetery surrounding them.