Amara's POV

I froze the second I stepped inside.

Somewhere near the counter, a man had shoved another one hard enough to send a barstool skidding across the floor, and a glass went flying, shattering against the tile and then amber liquid spraying everywhere and glass shards all over the floor.

What was I thinking?

A woman shrieked. The bartender was already yelling for someone to break it up, his voice sounding sharp over the music, and two men near the door moved fast to pull the fighting pair apart before it turned into something worse.

I stood there for a second too long, blinking at the scene like it belonged to someone else's life. Like I hadn't just watched my marriage fall apart forty minutes ago in an office two miles from here.

Nobody noticed me.

That was fine. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to be seen at all, honestly. I just wanted somewhere dark and loud enough to drown out my own head for a while.

I skirted around the edge of the commotion, weaving past a cluster of women near the entrance who barely glanced my way, and found an empty stool at the far end of the bar, as far from the noise as I could manage.

My hands were still shaking when I sat down, so I pressed them flat against my thighs and took a breath that didn't do a single thing to calm me down.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked, already sliding a napkin in front of me.

"Whatever's strong," I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else too. It was more steady than I felt, hollow in a way I didn't recognize.

He didn't ask questions, just nodded and got to work, pulling a bottle down from the shelf. I appreciated that more than he'd ever know. The last thing I needed tonight was a stranger asking if I was okay.

When the glass landed in front of me, I wrapped both hands around it and raised it to my lips.

The first sip burned going down, and for one blissful second, it was the only thing I could feel. Not the image of Celine's skin on my husband's mouth or the sound of my own name cracking in his voice as I walked away. Just heat, and the dull ache it left behind, spreading slow through my chest.

It didn't last.

The memory crept back in anyway, uninvited, the way it probably would for the rest of my life. Nicholas's blank face.

He couldn't even regard the couch we picked out together, the one I'd argued for because the leather felt right under my hands in the showroom.

I thought about the first year of our marriage, back when he used to leave sticky notes on the bathroom mirror before work, back when a two-minute phone call from him could carry me through an entire bad day. Back when I actually believed forever meant something to him.

I hated how much that memory still hurt more than the one from an hour ago. I hated that some stupid, stubborn part of me still missed the man from the sticky notes, even sitting here with proof that he didn't exist anymore. Maybe he never had.

The bar was loud around me, full of people laughing, clinking glasses, living lives that hadn't just quietly imploded in the span of a single afternoon.

I watched a couple near the window lean into each other easily as they flirted. I had to look away before the ache in my chest turned into something I couldn't hide at a bar full of strangers. I'd never felt more alone in a crowded room in my life.

I finished the drink faster than I should have and immediately regretted it, my head swimming slightly, my chest still tight with everything I hadn't let myself cry out yet.

I needed a minute. I needed air, or water.

I needed Jemima.

"Bathroom?" I asked the bartender.

He pointed toward the back, past a dim hallway lined with flickering bulbs, the light stuttering every few seconds like it couldn't decide whether to stay on.

I slid off the stool, my legs less steady than I expected, and made my way through the crowd, murmuring quiet apologies every time I brushed against someone.

The hallway was quieter than the main room, the music was muffled behind me now.

I walked further in, my phone's flashlight sitting useless in my bag, squinting at the shadowed doors ahead trying to figure out which one led where. Everything smelled like old wood and spilled liquor back here, and the further I walked, the more the noise of the bar felt like it belonged to a different building entirely.

I turned what I thought was the right corner.

It wasn't.

I collided with something solid and warm, and it took my brain a full second longer than it should have to register what — who….I'd just walked into.

A man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hand braced against the wall beside a woman's head, her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt. They were kissing deeply, tongue and all like they had all the time in the world and hadn't noticed anyone else existed until I stumbled directly into them.

They broke apart. The woman blinked at me, annoyed, smoothing a hand down her dress like I'd personally offended her by existing.

The man just looked amused, one brow lifting up like I'd interrupted something mildly entertaining rather than intimate, his eyes followed me with an ease that made my face burn even hotter.

Heat flooded my cheeks so fast it almost hurt.

"Oh my God, I'm…. I am so sorry," I stammered, already stepping back, my hands raised like that might undo the last five seconds of my life. "I wasn't trying to— I was looking for the bathroom, and I just…"

I didn't wait for a response. I turned on my heel and half-walked, half-ran back the way I came, my face burning, my mind somehow finding room to be embarrassed on top of everything else it was already carrying tonight.

I made it to the bar and to my previous position.

Then I heard a voice from behind me, a low, almost sexy baritone.

"You were not even going to ask my name habibi?”

Amara's POV

I turned around slowly, half expecting to have imagined it.

I hadn't.

He was leaning against the wall at the mouth of the hallway, his arms crossed, that same infuriating amusement written across his face like tonight was shaping up to be his personal entertainment.

Up close, he was even more irritating than the two-second glimpse I'd gotten earlier.

He was tall, put together in that effortless way that told me his suit was very expensive and really handsome.

Not that I was fazed by expensive things, I had lots of them but my hazy mind wondered what a man of his caliber was doing here.

His dark eyes looked like they already knew something about me I hadn't said yet.

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, even though I'd heard him perfectly.

"Habibi," he repeated, like the word was an answer instead of just making things worse. "You walked in on me, made a run for it, and didn't even leave a name behind. It feels rude."

"I said I was sorry." My voice rose as I replied to him, "It won't happen again. I promise."

"That's a shame." He pushed off the wall and approached me as I turned back toward the bar, looking easy and unbothered, like I'd invited him. "I was starting to enjoy the chaos."

"Well, I wasn't." I kept looking ahead, focused on the bartender who was mixing drinks. I glanced beside me and there was a stool there that was still empty.

A small mercy in an otherwise ruined night. "So if you don't mind…"

"I don't, actually."

I looked at him, suddenly speechless.

He slid onto the stool beside mine, uninvited, and signaled the bartender with two fingers like he owned the place. Maybe he did. I wouldn't have been shocked at this point.

"I didn't ask you to sit here."

"You didn't ask me not to, either."

I closed my eyes, praying for patience I did not currently possess. My head was still spinning from the office, from the hallway, from the entire catastrophe of a day and this man had picked the worst possible night to decide I was interesting.

Whoever he was.

"Rough night?" he asked, tilting his head.

"You have no idea."

"Try me."

"I don't know you."

"That's easily fixed."

"I don't want it fixed," I said, finally turning to look at him fully.

Somehow his profile and the way his face was angled made him look really familiar.

"I don't want company. I don't want to have a conversation. I want to sit here, drink my drink, and be left alone. Is that so hard to understand?"

Something flickered across his face. I don't think it was hurt but it looked like it that I almost felt bad.

Almost.

"Fair enough." He held both hands up in mock surrender and leaned back slightly.

For one blissful second, I thought that might be the end of it.

It wasn't.

"For what it's worth," he said, swirling the drink the bartender had just set in front of him, "you looked like you needed rescuing back there. Before you crashed my evening."

"I didn't need rescuing." My jaw tightened. "I needed a bathroom."

"Sure." He smiled like he didn't believe a word of it. "You've got that look, though."

"What look?"

"The one that says somebody ruined your whole day, and you're two seconds from falling apart. Then you're deciding whether to do it here, in front of strangers, or wait until you're alone in your car."

I froze.

He wasn't wrong. That was the infuriating part. He'd known me for four minutes and landed closer to the truth than people who'd known me for years.

"You don't know anything about me," I said in a tight low voice.

"I know enough." He shrugged casually. "Husband? Boyfriend? It has to be somebody, clearly, since you've got a ring on that finger and murder in your eyes."

My hand curled instinctively, like I could hide the ring from him, from myself, from the entire night.

"Don't," I warned.

"Did he cheat?" He asked it so plainly, looking so unbothered, like he was asking about the weather instead of picking apart the worst moment of my life. "That's usually the look. I've seen it before."

"Stop talking."

"Or is it the other way around? Did you…."

I didn't think. My hand moved before my brain caught up with it, and the sound of my palm against his cheek rang out sharp enough that a few heads at the bar turned.

The room went quiet for half a second. I withdrew my hand quickly, glancing at everyone like I was some junkie.

He didn't move, didn't even lift a hand to his face right away, just stared at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"I said stop talking," I repeated, my voice shaking now. Finally, after holding steady through everything else tonight.

I grabbed my bag off the counter and walked out. I didn't wait for a response. I didn't look back.

The night air hit me the second I stepped outside. It was cold enough to sting against my burning face.

I stood on the curb for a moment, willing my legs to remember how to work properly, willing my chest to stop feeling like it was folding in on itself.

I started walking toward my car, one hand pressed to my temple, the world was starting to tilt around me.

Too much had happened in one day. My body hadn't caught up to any of it yet.

I made it halfway across the lot before I heard my name being screamed.

"Amara!"

My name, shouted from somewhere behind me, it was quite raw and urgent enough that it sliced straight through the fog in my head.

I knew that voice, anytime, anywhere.

Amara's POV

"Amara!"

I turned too quickly and almost lost my balance. My heart was still hammering so hard I could barely hear anything else.

Jemima was running toward me, her heels clicking against the pavement, her face full of panic.

"Oh my God." She grabbed my arms the second she reached me. "I've been calling you for almost an hour. Where have you been? What happened?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Not a single word.

"Amara." Her voice softened. "Hey... look at me."

She tilted her head until our eyes met.

"You're scaring me."

"I..." My throat tightened. "I saw him."

She frowned.

"I saw them." My voice cracked. "In his office."

Something flickered across her face.

She knew exactly who I meant.

She didn't ask questions. I don't think she needed to anyway.

"Okay," she said quietly, slipping an arm around my waist. "I've got you. Come on."

I leaned into her without thinking. My legs barely felt like they belonged to me anymore. It felt as if I was floating.

She guided me to her car and opened the passenger door.

"I'm coming back for your car tomorrow," she said as she buckled me in. "You're not driving tonight."

I didn't have the energy to argue.

The drive home was painfully quiet.

The radio played softly in the background, but neither of us paid attention to it.

Every time we stopped at a traffic light, Jemima glanced over at me.

Like she was making sure I was still there.

Probably making sure I was still breathing.

I kept staring out the window, blinking back tears that refused to stop coming.

By the time we got home, my stomach had started churning. I felt a bitter taste rising in my throat

I barely made it to the bathroom before everything came up and out.

Jemima was beside me almost immediately.

She gathered my hair in one hand and rubbed slow circles across my back with the other.

When it was over, I rested my forehead against the toilet seat, exhausted.

"I'm sorry," I whispered hoarsely. "This is... so gross."

She snorted.

"Oh, please."

She handed me a glass of water.

"I've seen you throw up after tequila shots in university. This isn't even in the top five."

A weak laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

"There she is," Jemima murmured.

I rinsed my mouth and took a few shaky sips of water.

Even lifting the glass felt like a lot of work.

*********

She helped me to the couch and wrapped a blanket around me.

I hated how comforting it felt.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then my mind betrayed me.

Nicholas. His office. Celine.

His face when he realized I'd seen them, his voice calling after me.

The memories crashed into me all over again. And I broke down, I wasn't crying the type of quiet tears from the car.

These tears were ugly and loud.

I folded into myself, crying so hard my chest hurt.

Years of swallowing things...

Years of convincing myself we were happy...

It all came pouring out.

Jemima didn't tell me to calm down.

She didn't say everything happens for a reason or tell me I'd find someone better.

She simply wrapped her arms around me and let me fall apart.

"I trusted him," I sobbed.

"I know."

"I gave him everything."

"I know."

"Why?" I whispered. "Why would he do this?"

She sighed softly.

"I wish I had an answer."

I cried until there was nothing left.

my eyes burned, my throat felt scraped raw.

I was just... empty.

Jemima stayed right there the whole time.

When my breathing finally settled, she brushed the hair away from my face.

"I need to ask you something."

I nodded tiredly.

"What do you want?"

I frowned.

She continued.

"This is not what people expect you to do or what your marriage is supposed to look like. What do you want?"

The question settled heavily between us.

For a long moment, I couldn't answer.

Then I realized I already knew.

"I want out."

The words surprised even me.

"I don't want explanations. I don't want promises. I don't want him crying and making me doubt myself again."

I swallowed.

"I just... want out."

Jemima nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"My dad's house..." I said. "It's still there."

"I know."

"I never sold it."

"You don't have to." Jemima replied as she poured me a glass of lemon juice.

"I could move back."

"You could."

A tiny knot inside my chest loosened. It wasn't enough for me to breathe freely. It was just there.

"I need my things."

"We'll get them."

"Tomorrow. I'd go tomorrow."

She wrapped her arms around me, “Tomorrow then, tonight we rest okay?”

*********

The house looked exactly the same. Our million dollar home.

The warm porch light, perfectly mowed lawn. Everything looked clean and beautiful.

Like nothing inside it had shattered.

I hated that.

"You don't have to go in alone," Jemima said quietly.

"I know."

"But I need to."

She gave me one last nod.

"I'll be right here."

“I'll be fine, just get to the office”.

She looked at me with a small smile and she drove off.

I walked toward the front door. Before I could knock, it flew open.

Nicholas stood there, His eyes were bloodshot and his tie hung loose around his neck.

He looked like he hadn't stopped pacing since I left. Not that I cared.

"Amara."

Relief flooded his face.

"Thank God. I've been calling…"

"I'm here for my things." I said brusquely and walked past him.

"Amara, please…"

"There's nothing to talk about."

I moved through the house, grabbing whatever I could carry.

A suitcase, my laptop, documents, clothes.

The things that were mine.

Nicholas followed me from room to room.

"I'm sorry."

I didn't reply, just kept picking up things as fast as my mind could tell me to.

"It didn't mean anything."

Silence.

"Please just look at me."

I grabbed my makeup kit, threw it into a larger bag and headed for the door.

By the time I reached the front door again, my bag was full and my arms ached.

He followed me outside.

"Amara, please."

I kept walking.

"I'll do anything.I'll quit my job."

I still kept on walking to my car.

"I'll never see her again."

I reached the gate.

Then suddenly his hand closed around my wrist and held onto it tightly. I almost winced at the sharp pain that pulsed in my wrist.

My bags fell to the ground all around me.

"Let go."

"Not until you listen to me."

I tried to pull free but he tightened his grip.

My heart started racing.

Then a voice sliced through the tussle and argument, a cold sharp and furious voice.

"Get your hands off my wife.”