Zurianne never imagined that saving her mother's life would cost her own freedom. Forced into an arranged marriage with Christopher Whyte the infamous Jamaican Don feared by many,she braces herself for a life of cold stares and ruthless commands. Bu...
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It had been two weeks. Cold, maddening days since Chris spoke to me.
I paced the length of the master bedroom, arms folded tight against my chest as if that could hold in the confusion swelling in my ribs. His side of the bed remained untouched. Crisps, cold, empty. He hadn't slept here. Hadn't even stepped foot inside the room as far as I could tell.
And yet, his presence was everywhere.
Outside, posted at the front gate, the rear exit, even by the twins' nursery door armed men in dark clothes loitered like silent shadows. They weren't the usual clean-cut security types. These men were rough. Scar-faced. Tattoos crawling up their necks like vines. The kind of men you saw on street corners, not guarding a family home.
I couldn't ignore it anymore.
I walked over to the window and peered through the blinds. One of them caught my gaze and raised his chin in acknowledgment, as if to remind me—"Yeah. We watch yuh."
This wasn't safety. This was surveillance.
I picked up my phone and dialed Aunty Suzan again for what had to be the fifth time today. Straight to voicemail. I tried Paige. No signal. It wasn't until I looked closer that I realized my Wi-Fi was off... and mobile data gone too.
Di pussyole cut me off.
Chris had shut down my entire line of communication.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, heart thudding like a war drum in my chest.
The door creaked. I turned quickly, only to see one of the guards peeking his head in.
"Mrs. Whyte, yuh need sum'n?" he asked. "Mi waan fi come out here.Mi need fresh air," I said sharply.
He shook his head. "Mi cyaah mek yuh leave. Orders."
My eyes narrowed. "Orders from who? Christopher?"
He looked uncomfortable. "Mi cyaah seh."
"Tell him I need fi talk to him. Urgent."
He nodded once and pulled the door shut again, leaving me in suffocating silence.
⸻
Later that night, I finally saw him.
I stormed down the hall barefoot, the twins fast asleep in their room under the watchful eye of one of the guards. My silk robe clung to my legs as I pushed open the double doors to the study—his makeshift war room.
And there he was.
Chris sat behind the desk, head low, gun beside his laptop, papers scattered. He didn't flinch when I barged in. Just sat there, quiet and unreadable. But I'd had enough.
"You nuh plan fi talk to me, eeh pussyole ?" I snapped, stepping in. "Two whole fucking weeks and all now mi not even hear yuh voice. Yuh cyaan even look pon me?"
