Chapter Seventy-Four: Fractures
The house was dark when David pulled into the driveway.
No lights in the windows. No glow from the television. Just silence and shadows.
David sat in the car for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his chest tight.
She's still upset.
Of course she is.
He thought about the party. About Marcus's mansion. About Sarah's face when he'd chosen Leena over her.
About the way she'd looked at him afterward—broken, betrayed, like he'd ripped something vital out of her chest.
David exhaled slowly and got out of the car.
The front door was unlocked. He stepped inside, closing it quietly behind him.
The living room was empty. The kitchen too.
He walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, his footsteps soft on the carpet.
The bedroom door was ajar.
David pushed it open.
Sarah was on the bed, curled up on her side, facing away from him. The blankets were pulled up to her shoulders. Her body was still.
But he could hear it.
The soft, hitching sound of crying.
David's chest tightened.
He walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight.
He reached out, his hand settling on her shoulder.
"Sarah," he said quietly.
She flinched.
For a moment, she didn't move. Didn't respond.
And then she turned.
Her face was red and swollen, her eyes puffy from crying. Mascara streaked down her cheeks in dark lines. Her lips trembled.
She looked at him—really looked at him—and then she threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest.
"I'm sorry," David said. His voice was strained. "I'm so sorry."
Sarah sobbed against him, her body shaking.
"Why?" she choked out. "Why did you do that to me?"
David's jaw tightened. "I don't know. I—"
"Am I not good enough for you anymore?" Sarah pulled back, her hands gripping his shirt. Her eyes were wide, desperate. "Is that it? Am I not—"
"No," David said quickly. "No, Sarah, that's not—"
"Then why?" Her voice cracked. "Why did you choose her over me? Why did you let them—"
She broke off, her face crumpling.
David pulled her close again, his hand stroking her hair.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I wasn't thinking. I just—"
I just wanted her.
I wanted Leena.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and clear.
David closed his eyes.
He'd married Sarah because she was young. Nineteen when they'd met. Fresh out of high school, naive, eager to please. She hasn't changed since. Still young, still eager to please.
He'd found it cute once. The way she looked at him like he hung the moon. The way she giggled at his jokes, even the bad ones. The way she trusted him completely, without question.
It had been easy. Comfortable.
But now?
Now her crying felt childish. Her desperation felt suffocating.
And all he could think about was Leena.
Leena, who didn't cry. Who didn't beg. Who looked at him with those bright, knowing eyes and made him feel like a man—not a caretaker.
Leena, who knew exactly what she was doing. Who moved with confidence, with purpose. Who didn't need him to hold her hand through every decision.
A real woman, David thought.
Not a girl playing dress-up.
Sarah pulled back again, her hands cupping his face.
"I don't want to do the swapping anymore," she said. Her voice was trembling but firm. "I don't want you to see Leena. I don't want—"
She broke off, her breath hitching.
"I just want us," she whispered. "Just you and me. Like it used to be."
David stared at her.
He should say yes. He should agree immediately, pull her close, promise her everything would be okay.
But he hesitated.
Just for a second.
Long enough for Sarah to notice.
Her eyes widened. "David?"
"I—" David started.
What do I say?
Sarah's face crumpled again. "You don't want to stop seeing her."
"Sarah—"
"You don't," she said, her voice breaking. "You want her more than you want me."
"That's not true," David said quickly.
But it felt like a lie.
Sarah stared at him, tears streaming down her face.
And then she moved.
She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her hands gripping his shoulders.
"I'll be a good wife," she said desperately. "I'll listen to you. I'll do whatever you want. I'll please you in any way you need. In any way Leena can."
Her lips found his, kissing him frantically, her tears still flowing.
"Just say you won't meet with her anymore," Sarah whispered against his mouth. "Please, David. Please."
David's hands settled on her hips.
He looked at her—at her red, swollen eyes, at the desperation in her face.
And he thought about Leena.
About the way she'd looked at him at the party. About the way she'd touched him. About the way she'd made him feel.
I don't want to lose that.
I don't want to lose her.
But Sarah was his wife.
And she was begging.
"Okay," David said finally. His voice was quiet. Reluctant. "Okay. I won't meet with her anymore."
Sarah's face lit up. She kissed him again, harder this time, her hands tangling in his hair.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
David held her, his hands moving over her back, his mind elsewhere.
I'm sorry, Leena.
I'm so sorry.
***
Hela sat on the bathroom toilet, staring at the plastic stick in her hand.
Two pink lines.
Positive.
She looked at the trash can beside her.
Ten more tests sat inside, all of them showing the same result.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Hela's hands were shaking.
She set the test down on the counter and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands.
This can't be happening.
This can't be real.
She thought back to the doctor's appointment. Years ago. After her stepfather had bedded her for what seemed like the hundredth time.
The doctor had been kind. Gentle. But the words had been brutal.
"The damage is extensive," the doctor had said. "The repeated trauma to your reproductive system... I'm sorry, Hela. The likelihood of you ever conceiving naturally is extremely low. Almost impossible."
Hela had nodded. She'd thanked the doctor. She'd walked out of the office and never thought about it again.
Because what was the point?
She'd never wanted kids anyway.
And now?
Now she was pregnant.
Hela laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed in the small bathroom.
"Maybe we should have worn protection," she said out loud.
Her voice sounded strange. Hollow.
She looked at the test again.
Two pink lines.
What do I do?
What the fuck do I do?
She thought about Jack. About the way he'd looked at her the last time they'd been together. About the way he'd fucked her—rough, angry, desperate.
Does he even care?
Would he want this?
Hela's hands moved to her stomach, pressing against the flat surface.
There was nothing there yet. No bump. No sign.
But there would be.
In a few months, there would be.
A baby.
My baby.
The thought made her chest tighten.
She'd never imagined herself as a mother. Never pictured herself holding a child, raising a child, loving a child.
She'd spent her entire life running from anything that resembled family.
And now?
Now she was going to be one.
Hela's breath hitched.
She felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away.
Don't cry.
Don't you dare cry.
She stood abruptly, grabbing the test and throwing it into the trash with the others.
Then she walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I'll figure it out later.
I'll deal with it later.
But her hands were still shaking.
***
The apartment smelled like cardboard and dust.
Bella stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes. Some were open, their contents spilling out onto the floor. Others were still taped shut, stacked against the walls.
She'd been unpacking for hours, but it felt like she'd barely made a dent.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Bella walked over and picked it up.
Daniel:Hey, everything okay? Need any help with the move?
Bella smiled faintly.
She typed back: I'm good. Got it handled. Thanks though.
She set the phone down and turned back to the boxes.
One of them was labeled "Personal" in her handwriting.
Bella knelt down and opened it.
Inside were photo albums, old letters, trinkets from her past.
And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper, was a picture frame.
Bella pulled it out carefully, unwrapping the paper.
The frame was silver, elegant. The photo inside showed her and Jack, standing together on a beach somewhere. She couldn't remember where.
Jack's arm was around her shoulders. He was smiling—really smiling, not the cold, calculated expression he wore now.
And Bella was laughing, her head tilted back, her hair blowing in the wind.
They looked happy.
We were happy, Bella thought.
Once.
She stared at the photo, her chest tightening.
She remembered that day. Remembered the way Jack had pulled her close, the way he'd kissed her forehead, the way he'd whispered, "I love you."
And she'd believed him.
When did it change?
When did he become someone I don't recognize?
Bella's fingers traced the edge of the frame.
She thought about the man in the photo. About the man she'd fallen in love with.
And then she thought about the man he was now.
He's not the same person.
He's not—
But he was.
Wasn't he?
Bella's throat tightened.
She wrapped the frame back in the tissue paper and placed it back in the box.
Then she closed the lid and pushed the box against the wall.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
But her hands lingered on the cardboard for a moment longer.
I can't let go.
Not yet.
She stood and walked to the window, looking out at the city below.
The lights were bright. The streets were busy.
It felt like a new beginning.
But it also felt like an ending.
Bella closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass.
I'll figure it out.
I'll move on.
Eventually.
***
The balcony was cold.
Jack stood at the railing, a cigar in one hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other.
The city stretched out below him, glittering and alive.
But the penthouse felt empty.
Too empty.
Jack took a long drag from the cigar, the smoke curling upward into the night air.
He thought about Bella. About the way she'd looked at him the last time they'd spoken. About the way she'd walked away.
She's gone.
She's really gone.
The penthouse had always felt big. But now it felt cavernous. Hollow.
Jack took a swig from the bottle, the whiskey burning down his throat.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
Who can I call?
Who's left?
He scrolled past names. Business associates. Employees. People who worked for him, who feared him, who wanted something from him.
But no friends.
No one who gave a shit about him beyond what he could offer.
Hela's name appeared on the screen.
Jack stared at it.
We just fought.
She's not going to answer.
He kept scrolling.
Bella's name.
Jack's thumb hovered over it.
She won't answer either.
He locked the phone and set it on the railing, his jaw tight.
I have no one.
I'm completely alone.
The thought should have bothered him.
But instead, it just felt... empty.
Jack took another drag from the cigar, staring out at the city.
And then his phone rang.
He picked it up, glancing at the screen.
Bones.
Jack answered. "Yeah?"
"Boss." Bones's voice was rushed, urgent. "We got a problem."
Jack straightened. "What kind of problem?"
"One of our spots just got hit. The warehouse on Fifth."
Jack's grip tightened on the phone. "Hit by who?"
"Cage's crew. The Crello boys."
Jack's jaw clenched. "How bad?"
"Bad. They torched the place. Took out three of our guys. Left a message."
"What message?"
Bones hesitated. "They said you've gone soft. Said this is their chance to take over Southside. Take over King's Paradise."
Jack's vision blurred.
Soft.
They think I've gone soft.
He laughed—a low, bitter sound.
"Gather the bloodhounds," Jack said. His voice was calm. Cold. "Meet me at King's Paradise in an hour."
"Boss—"
"Do it," Jack said.
He ended the call and set the phone down.
Then he took one last drag from the cigar and flicked it over the railing, watching it fall into the darkness below.
They want a war?
I'll give them a war.
For the first time in weeks, Jack felt something other than emptiness.
He felt purpose.
He felt clarity.
He felt alive.
Jack turned and walked back inside, his mind already racing.
Perhaps I won't be so lonely after all.
***
The bedroom was dark.
Leena stood in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.
Rider was on the bed, sprawled out on his back, one arm thrown over his head.
He was naked.
And he wasn't alone.
A woman lay beside him—young, blonde, her body bare and tangled in the sheets.
One of his hookers.
Leena's chest tightened.
She stepped into the room, her movements slow and deliberate.
He sold me to Marcus for a week.
Without asking.
Without telling me.
And then he comes home and fucks someone else.
The anger was sharp. Hot. It burned through her chest, her throat, her hands.
Leena walked to the nightstand and opened the drawer.
Rider's gun was inside—a sleek black Glock, loaded and ready.
She picked it up, the weight of it familiar in her hand.
Then she walked to the bed and nudged Rider's shoulder with the barrel.
"Wake up," she said.
Rider stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
He blinked, disoriented, and then his gaze focused on her.
On the gun.
His eyes widened.
"Leena—"
"Surprised to see me?" Leena asked. Her voice was calm. Too calm. "Surprised I'm not still in Marcus's little sex dungeon?"
Rider sat up slowly, his hands raised. "Leena, what are you—"
"Shut up," Leena said.
She pointed the gun at his chest.
The hooker woke with a gasp, her eyes going wide.
"Get out," Leena said, not looking at her.
The woman scrambled off the bed, grabbing her clothes and running for the door.
It slammed shut behind her.
Rider's jaw tightened. "Leena, put the gun down."
"Why?" Leena asked. "So you can lie to me again? So you can sell me to someone else?"
"I didn't sell you," Rider said. His voice was calm, measured. "It was a business arrangement. You knew that."
"I didn't know you were going to leave me there for a week," Leena said. Her voice cracked. "I didn't know you were going to let him—"
She broke off, her hands shaking.
Rider moved slowly, swinging his legs off the bed, standing.
"Leena," he said gently. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I should have—"
"You should have asked," Leena said. "You should have cared."
Rider took a step toward her. "I do care. You know I do."
"No," Leena said. "You don't."
Her voice was steady now. Cold.
"You never did," she continued. "Not the way I cared about you. Not the way I loved you."
Rider's expression shifted. "Leena—"
"You used me," Leena said. "You've always used me. And I let you. Because I thought—" Her voice broke again. "I thought you loved me," she whispered. "I thought you'd protect me. I thought—" She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "But you don't love me," Leena said. "You never did. You never will. That's just who you are."
Rider took another step forward, his hands still raised. "That's not true. Leena, I do love you. I—"
"Stop," Leena said. "Stop lying."
"I'm not lying," Rider said. His voice was soft, persuasive. "I love you. I've always loved you. I just—I made a mistake. I should have told you about Marcus. I should have—"
"You should have cared," Leena said.
Rider reached out, his hand moving toward her face. "I do care. Let me prove it. Let me make it up to you. I'll do anything. Anything you want."
Leena stared at him.
She'd heard these words before. So many times.
I'm sorry.
I'll do better.
I love you.
And every time, she'd believed him.
Every time, she'd let him pull her back in.
But not this time.
This time, she saw through it.
She saw the manipulation. The false promises. The empty words.
He doesn't love me.
He never will.
Leena's finger moved to the trigger.
"Leena," Rider said, his voice rising. "Don't do this. Please. I love you. I—"
"No," Leena said quietly. "You don't."
And she pulled the trigger.