Chapter 3
When I got home from the hospital, I dug out a few dusty camera bags from the depths of the bookshelf.
They held remnants of a life I had deliberately buried.
The touch of the camera’s casing felt unfamiliar, and the batteries had long since drained.
While waiting for the charger to finish, I inserted the memory card into my computer and opened those
long–forgotten photos.
The first photo showed me treating a Black woman receiving cholera medication on the street.
The second was of a five–year–old child soldier, so small the rifle towered over him.
The third captured refugees in North Kivu province living under torn, tattered tents…
The smell of smoke and dust seemed to waft through the screen, piercing the present.
My heart clenched as if seized by sharp claws, the ache spreading through me.
Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing pulse. A bitter smile tugged at my
lips.
If Jackson saw these photos, would he still describe me as “obedient and docile“?
Just as that thought crossed my mind, my phone buzzed twice.
It was a message from Jackson: the restaurant’s location.
That’s when I remembered–tonight was the gathering he’d arranged with his groomsmen and
bridesmaids.
I didn’t have many close friends, so these were all his people.
But I knew this wasn’t just a casual get–together.
Because today, Sara had returned.
By the time I arrived at the restaurant, they’d already ordered.
Scanning the table, I saw Jackson seated at the head, with Sara beside him.
There wasn’t a seat for me.
tu Fiancé’s Lingeri
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Chapter 3
When Sara noticed me, a faint, amused smile appeared on her lips. She gave me a once–over and said
nonchalantly,
“Go grab a chair and sit wherever you like.”
I dragged a chair over and sat at the farthest corner from them.
Jackson watched it all unfold with indifference, never uttering a word.
Someone broke the silence, asking, “Sara, we thought you wouldn’t make it back this time!”
“Are you kidding? This is Jackson’s wedding! Even if I had to crawl, I’d be here to see what kind of woman he’s marrying.”
Her words were met with knowing glances exchanged around the table, their laughter tinged with sly
undertones.
“Well, that’s true. You and Jackson do share a special bond.”
The conversation naturally revolved around Sara from that point.
She recounted her adventures: fishing for yellowfin tuna in the Mediterranean, trekking the Camino de Santiago in Portugal, and climbing Uluru in Australia.
Everyone at the table listened with rapt attention, their eyes gleaming with admiration.
“Zoey, you’re a woman! How do you even dare to go to such places?”
“Hmph!” Sara glanced at me briefly, her tone light but laced with derision.
“I’m not the kind of woman who only thinks about cooking, husbands, and kids.”
Her words hung in the air, sharp and cutting.
I downed a small glass of white liquor, the burning bitterness numbing my tongue, stripping the food of
all flavor.
Meanwhile, she remained the center of attention, the life of the gathering.
As the night wore on, everyone’s focus stayed fixed on her.
And Jackson, though mostly quiet, had his eyes on her too.
His gaze was tender, so soft it could melt.
When Sara began sharing her recent experiences dealing with scammers in Egypt, she suddenly turned
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Chapter 3
to Jackson and asked,
“Do you want to know how to say ‘my darling‘ in Arabic?”
Jackson paused for a moment, then shook his head.
“I’ll teach you!”
Sara leaned onto his shoulder, blowing lightly into his ear.
“~
“عسل
Jackson gently straightened her, his earlobes turning pink.
“Sit properly…”
“Come on, say it with me!”
Unable to resist Sara’s playful pestering, he sighed and gave
“Bingo!”
“That’s right, you’re my J”
Her eyes darted mischievously before suddenly turning to me.
“Have you ever been to Africa?”
