Chapter 2
"Queenie, I've been wanting to talk to you about the dealership." Jack's voice pulled me back to reality.
We were alone in the hospital room.
Jack set the glass bottle down, flashed me a smile, and reached out to take my hand. "It's a graduation and birthday gift for Anna. Surely my wife isn't jealous of a little present, right?"
He said it so nonchalantly, as if he'd handed over something trivial, like a cheap stuffed animal he couldn't care less about.
I sidestepped his touch. "Is she your type?"
The air went still for a moment.
Jack's expression changed slightly, and he rubbed his brow. "I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd overthink it. There's nothing between Anna and me. We're innocent. We—"
"I don't care." I cut him off, sounding indifferent. "I didn't catch you red-handed, but I don't tolerate any crap, Jack. So you'd better kill those thoughts now. Don't push me, or I'll make this ugly."
Jack looked up at me, disbelief written all over his face. "You don't trust me?"
I looked down at him. My eyes gave nothing away. My silence said it all.
He was about to say something else when his phone on the bedside table rang. The name "Anna" flashed on the screen, glaring at me like a neon sign.
Jack hesitated before picking up.
Anna's voice floated in, soft and fragile. "Mr. Wilson, is Queenie giving you a hard time? Even if she's mad, don't fight with her, okay?
"I ordered some bone broth for you. I didn't want Queenie to misunderstand, so I won't bring it over myself."
With a few lines, Anna managed to act all sweet and thoughtful, while sneakily reminding me how close she and Jack really were.
I stood still.
Jack glanced at my face, then ended the call.
A cold laugh echoed in my mind. I was done playing nice, so I turned and walked out of the ward.
"Queenie," Jack called out urgently. "Are you seriously mad at me? I promise I'll keep my distance from her. I won't contact her again. Don't be so distant with me, please? My leg's hurting."
I turned my head slightly, my voice completely frosty. "If your leg hurts, call a doctor. I've got work to do. Rest up."
Stepping out of the hospital, the cold wind slapped my face, finally taking the edge off my anger.
I grabbed my phone and called my assistant, Fiona Green. "Look into Anna Miller. I suspect she had something to do with the brake failure last time."
The last time my car was serviced, the brakes failed halfway down the road. I had to swerve into the grass strip to avoid a serious accident.
That evening, the regional manager from a high-end jewelry boutique showed up in person, on Jack's orders, with dozens of pricey pieces for me to pick from. "Mr. Wilson really pampers you. The way he spoils you, it's enough to make anyone envious."
I gave the jewelry a once-over, and the irony hit me. "Don't you know? The night a guy cheats, he'll keep showering his wife with 'I love you's, just to ease his own conscience."
Jack probably thought I was only throwing a fit, like those trophy wives who cried, screamed, and threatened to jump off a bridge, only to settle for jewelry and designer bags after their husbands cheated.
But he forgot. I was Queenie Davis. I didn't play by those rules.
I was the only heir to the Davis family. I took over the business at eighteen. By twenty-two, I had carved my path in blood through the ruthless jungle of Tradehaven.
At twenty-five, I returned and married Jack. Not for love, not because he was my only choice, but for the bond between our fathers and his promise of forever, only the two of us against the world.
What a joke. In five short years, he had forgotten that vow completely.
*****
The next day, I got a message from Anna: [Queenie, I need to explain what happened with your car service. Please add me on WhatsApp.]
The day was a total blur. I had back-to-back meetings, then caught a flight to the capital for my uncle's birthday party.
It wasn't until I got off the plane that I had a spare moment to accept her request.
Anna immediately sent a voice message, saying the guy who serviced my car was a temp worker who had vanished. He hadn't shown up for work, and nobody could reach him.
I didn't reply. I was about to switch screens when my thumb slipped and opened her Instagram.
Her latest Instagram update was posted half an hour ago: a photo of Jack lounging on the couch in our villa, enjoying some soup.
In the background, I could spot the pricey oil painting I won at auction, plus the handwoven rug I had custom-made overseas.
But what really stung was Anna wearing my favorite pajamas and slippers, grinning ear to ear as she snuggled up to Jack, holding her phone high and flashing a peace sign for the selfie.
The caption read: [Finally get to take care of you while you're sick. Even if people get the wrong idea, I'm not worried. Truth speaks for itself. Made this bone broth myself. Wishing you a speedy recovery.]