Chapter 3

Back home from the hospital, I unearthed several dusty camera bags from the back of my bookshelf—relics of a life I’d deliberately buried. The camera felt foreign in my hands; its batteries were long dead.

While the charger worked, I slipped the memory card into my computer and opened the forgotten photos. The first showed me treating a woman for cholera on a Congolese dirt road. The second captured a child soldier, barely five, dwarfed by his rifle. The third revealed refugees in East Meridian Province, huddled under tattered shelters.

The scent of smoke and dust seemed to seep through the screen, yanking me back. My chest tightened, pain spreading like tendrils through my body. I leaned back, eyes closed, willing my pulse to slow. A wry smile touched my lips. Would Jackson still call me "obedient and docile" if he saw these?

My phone buzzed—Jackson texting the restaurant address. Tonight was dinner with his wedding party. I had few close friends, so they were all his people. But this wasn't just any gathering; Sara had returned.

By the time I arrived, they'd already ordered. Jackson sat at the head of the table, Sara beside him. No place had been set for me.

Sara noticed my arrival with a smirk, appraising me from head to toe. "Just grab a chair wherever," she said casually.

I pulled one to the furthest corner. Jackson watched impassively, saying nothing.

"Sara, we didn't think you'd make it back!" someone broke the silence.

"Miss Zoey's wedding? I'd crawl here if I had to—just to see who he's marrying."

Knowing looks passed around the table; laughter, tinged with mockery, followed.

"Well, you two do have history."

The conversation centered on Sara thereafter. She regaled them with tales: celestial sea tuna fishing, hiking the Camino de Santiago, scaling Uluru. They hung on every word, their eyes shining with admiration.

"Zoey, how can you go to such dangerous places as a woman?"

"Hmph!" Sara shot me a glance, her voice dripping with disdain. "Some of us think beyond cooking and playing housewife."

The words cut deep. I knocked back a shot of tequila, its burn numbing my tongue until the food lost all taste.

She commanded the room, and Jackson… Jackson watched her with a tenderness that could melt butter.

During her story about Saharan Kingdomian scammers, she turned to him suddenly. "Want to learn how to say 'my darling' in French?"

Jackson hesitated, then shook his head.

"I'll teach you!" She leaned into his shoulder, whispering in his ear. "Chérie~"

He gently straightened her, his ears flushing pink. "Sit properly…"

"Say it with me!"

He sighed, yielding to her playful persistence. "Chéri…"

"Perfect! You're my chérie~"

Her eyes danced mischievously before fixing on me. "Ever been to the Continent of Azora?"