A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 37 | bargaining without borders

It started very little like a slow-burning fire glimmering on a candle, and in the space of a few seconds, it spread like a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

The lie should have been small so that the guilty feeling would be absent, but on the contrary, my tongue ranted the whole time with a defined goal in mind.

Seconds, minutes, perhaps an hour, and my breath hadn't left our chat.

The lies my conscious self dished out in utmost confidence to the man sipping from his whiskey, nodding his head, and throwing in concern to my rollercoaster ride of lies was a purely fictional narrative.

A few nanoseconds came with no words.

Ignoring Dwain's flaring eyes, I kept on until the lies began choking me.

I lied as if my breathing depended on it.

Every breath was a lie to help us, Dwain, Elizabeth, and myself.

"You can trust my husband for this deal, he's a mere victim of evil mouths. Please, reconsider and let my husband prove his competence."

I smiled at the aging man who stopped sipping from his whiskey and laid to rest his half-filled glass on the countertop.

His eyes were saddled from my far-fetched emotional ride of lies.

Linking my fingers with Dwain's, he understood my message and squeezed them in his large palms.

Dwain's lips slanted into a minor smile, one which weighed with a dollar question.

The lies might haunt me forever or never, but what mattered at that moment was freedom, and maybe, the lies were a visa to normal life.

The aging man snapped his fingers and one of his men bent an ear at his requests, nodding his head at every single word the man's lips propelled.

In a swift reflex, he raised his being to a stable balance and walked behind the counter to entrust a piece of information on a secured mobile line to an individual out of eyesight for a short period.

His new inquiries were delivered to Mr. Hamilton in an inaudible speech.

Holding a hand at his bodyguard as a sign of dismissal, he cupped his hands together and placed his elbows on the countertop while his eyes darted between my husband and me in a depressing eye twirl.

"So. . . that's what happened?"

He released a shallow breath and stole a glance at his expensive wristwatch.

My eyes rushed to Dwain's in time to catch his adam's apple doing a couple of flips at his throat.

"In flawless details Mr. Hamilton, that's how things happened," Dwain mumbled and stopped the blood from flowing into my palm with his sudden squeeze, inflicting an ache in my fingers.

How did he expect me to stifle my screams whereas he found pleasure in increasing pressure on my fingers?

I bit my inner cheeks and didn't utter a sound to the discomfort.

"Well, Mr. Horton, " the old man spared a glance at Dwain and blew air through his folded palms, "however, canceling or enhancing the merge is beyond my power."

He dropped his high-key voice and stopped abruptly, his stare roaming over us and something different sparking in his eyes. "But. . ."

The moment of truth, highly awaited by everyone made its arrival, but the aging man took his time to put his words through proper catering before smearing it out.