“Your coffee, sir,” the waitress purred, her sultry voice slicing through the tense silence as she placed two steaming cups of coffee
on the table.
Phoebe’s eyes flicked toward the young woman. She couldn’t miss the blush on her cheeks or the way her smile lingered on Gael’s face just a little too long.
The waitress’s blouse hung open at the top, its undone buttons revealing a generous view of cleavage and a slender, graceful neck.
Phoebe wasn’t surprised. She’d seen this play out too many times.
Flirtation came with the territory when your husband looked like that.
Gael—tall, broad-shouldered, sculpted like a runway model and cursed with hypnotic blue eyes.
Even now, with his hair tousled and his suit wrinkled, he still radiated magnetism.
Women didn’t just look at him. They melted.
His deep, commanding voice didn’t help matters.
One look, and ovaries everywhere surrendered.
No doubt he was sex on two legs.
In the past, Phoebe would have laughed. Teased him.
Joked about needing to carry a baseball bat to swat women off him.
But those days were long gone.
Back then, she was the only one he loved.
Never had she imagined she’d one day be staring across a table at him like this—strangers divided by betrayal.
“Is there anything else you need, sir?” the waitress asked, her voice soft, laced with hope. She tucked a blonde curl behind her ear, deliberately revealing more skin as she completely ignored Phoebe.
Gael didn’t even look at her. “Shut the door on your way out.”
The waitress’s smile froze, humiliation flushing her face.
Phoebe smirked. The girl shot her a quick glare, but Phoebe didn’t flinch.
She turned to the window, her expression unreadable.
In the reflection, she watched the waitress do one last suggestive hip sway before closing the door behind her.
A heavy silence settled.
“Well?” Phoebe asked, her voice a whisper.
“What do you want to tell me?”
Gael’s eyes dropped to his coffee. “Bia… her name is Bianca Jones.”
Phoebe didn’t react. Her gaze stayed steady, cold.
“She was an intern,” he continued, his voice quiet. “There was a company party… something happened. Someone spiked my drink. I was in trouble. She saved me.”
Phoebe raised a brow. “How convenient.”
“It’s the truth,” he said, almost pleading.
She looked away, her jaw clenched.
She’d been in the corporate world long enough to know how these stories went.
Women schemed.
Men lied.
The boardroom was just a soap opera in suits.
But what burned the most wasn’t the betrayal.
It was the baby.
And the fact that if she hadn’t shown up at the office today, she might never have known.
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked, her voice trembling with fury.
Gael lowered his eyes. Guilt radiated off him.
“You weren’t,” she whispered bitterly. “You never intended to tell me.”
He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. It all happened so fast.”
“Nine months, Gael. You had nine freaking months to come clean.” Her voice cracked. “You had time. You just didn’t have the balls.”
“It wasn’t my intention—”
“Then what was your intention?” she snapped, leaning forward, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Walk me through it. How were you going to fix this? Were you just going to juggle two lives? Keep me smiling in one house while she nursed your child in another?”
His shoulders sank. “I don’t know.”
She let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through her hair. “So what now? What happens to us? What happens to Romazaria?”
Gael looked up at her, his eyes rimmed red. “After the party, she vanished. I tried to move on. Put it behind me. Then… last month, I saw her again. She told me she was pregnant. I was still trying to process it when today happened…”
Phoebe stared at him in disbelief.
“She saved my life, Phoebe,” he said softly. “Twice. I owe her.”
Phoebe laughed—sharp, hollow. “Owe her?” She shook her head. “You owe me.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
Later…
In contrast to how she’d stormed into the hospital, fueled by righteous fury, Phoebe now stumbled out like a drunk grasshopper.
Her steps were unsteady, her knees barely holding her weight.
She weaved through the corridor like a disoriented fish caught in a current, tears blurring her vision.
A crushing weight pressed against her chest—like a boulder lodged between her ribs—making it nearly impossible to breathe.
Outside, the rain, which had started as a gentle drizzle earlier in the day, now poured in angry torrents.
Each drop hit the pavement like a drumbeat, falling in sync with the storm inside her. “I owe her.” His words echoed in her ears, a broken record looping mercilessly.
Each repetition sliced deeper into her already raw, bleeding heart. Just this morning, she’d woken up as a happily married woman.
A wife to a rich, handsome, self-made CEO.
A proud mother to a beautiful little girl. A woman who had believed—truly believed—that her husband loved only her.
She had even spent the morning planning a perfect weekend getaway. Just the two of them.
All she needed was for him to confirm his itinerary. But by sunset, the illusion had shattered.
Crashed.
Burned.
Reduced to ashes.
Now, she was just a woman with mascara-streaked cheeks, soaked clothes, and a hollow chest.
In a daze, she reached her car. She climbed in. Started the engine. Her hands trembled on the steering wheel.
She drove.
She didn’t know where she was going. Anywhere but here.
But grief makes a poor navigator.
No sooner had she pulled out of the hospital parking lot than her vision blurred again.
A red light.
She didn’t see it.
A flash.
A screech.
A horn.
Then-impact.
Another vehicle struck her car from the side—T-boned it with brutal force. The world flipped.
Glass shattered. Metal screamed.
Phoebe’s car flipped over and skidded across the slick pavement, spinning wildly like a discarded toy.
It finally rammed into a streetlight with a deafening crash.
Then-silence.
Rain pelted the twisted wreck, soaking the broken frame. Inside, Phoebe lay still, the airbag deflated, blood trickling from her temple.
Her final thought before darkness claimed her – just a lone tear slipped down her cheek was this- and as a tear – he owed her, too.
INKED IMAGINATION
