Merging Hearts (Smitten Hearts #1)

Chapter One

Hazel

I should have been the author of “Things All Fall Apart” because the rate at which things are all falling apart in my life is a call for concern.

Of all the things that can be– and have been going wrong in my life–especially these days, I don’t expect being stuck in an immigration office to be one of them. It’s only a little more torture I can stomach from the universe before I register myself into the nearest mental hospital.

I slide an eye to the two officers in the interrogation room with me (a male with the name tag ‘Frage Petrov’ and a female with the name tag ‘Emma Johannes’) and watch as they communicate between each other, deciding what the end of me would be. My heart thuds loudly in my ears, and blood rushes through my body at an imbalanced pace. Nothing goes through my mind other than the possibilities of what can go wrong–and there are a lot of them.

I’m the only face I know in the room, which seems to be closing in on me with every passing minute. The air is stale, thick with the scent of worn papers and a faint tang of disinfectant, the kind of smell that sticks to your clothes. The officers barely move, and other than my desperate voice, the only contributing sound is the creaks of the metal chairs. I feel like a caged animal, trapped in this sterile, cold place where no one listens.

I’ve been the only talking since I was detained at the terminal, but I don’t let the silence of the officers deter me. I’m the one who has something to lose–my freedom, or worse, my life–so I continue with my explanation.

“You’re not listening to me, Officer. I swear I didn’t do anything wrong. She just came up to me and started being all rude. I didn’t specifically do anything wrong,” I explain to Officer Petrov, who definitely isn’t paying attention.

“She said I looked like the woman who caused chaos at the terminal last year. I told her that I’m clearly just coming into the country for the first time, but she said I was being rude, took my bags, and brought me here,” I finish, but the officer acts as though nobody spoke.

I bob my head in indignation.

Wow.

It’s the fact that I don’t need a seer to tell me that this is wrong and unlawful. I’ve presented all the legal papers I have, but, as usual, they saw my skin color and assumed the worst. As a black girl, I’ve heard stories about America’s immigration system. My mind races with worst-case scenarios: detention, deportation, or in my case, being accused of a crime I know nothing of.

Everything has been remarkably awful for me for a while now, and I can’t help but wonder who cursed me. What if all this bad luck is because I don’t feed the stray cats like my former co-worker, Nadine, does? At this point, I need to lay out my sins and blame these events on the heaviest of them all.

First, my boyfriend, Kemar, broke up with me for no reason–well, I won’t say ‘for no reason’ , but it’s a sensitive topic. Then I got fired from work for being rude to a customer–I wasn’t. After that, I missed a tutorship giveaway from my chef mentor–I was only three minutes late. And now, I’m being detained for looking like a criminal in a country that’s supposed to be the land of the free.

No disrespect to Kemar and all we shared, but this one hits me the hardest.

My phone rings again–for the fourteenth time–and Officer Johannes acts as if she hears nothing. I reach my hand forward, and she throws me a stone-hard glare. No way this isn’t personal for her. Except I’ve never seen her before.

I didn’t even want to come here. But after seeing how hard my best friend worked to get me to agree, I couldn’t say no–especially knowing it came from a place of worry. Not to mention, she did her research. My chef mentor has a cooking academy here in Florida. She does know how to press my buttons.

Now, I’ll probably never see her again.

“Can I have my phone?” I ask with caution, careful not to sound loud or appear threatening. “That must be my friend who’s coming to pick me up. If you ask her, she’ll testify that I’ve never been here before. I’d like to explain the situation to her, please.”

Once again, my pleas fall on deaf ears. You know, I’m starting to think the phrase ‘deaf ears’ is literal–because how do you blatantly ignore a person?

“I know my rights!” I snap. I know I shouldn’t do anything that may implicate me, but they’ve pushed me too far, and I’ve lost my restraint. “You can’t treat me like a criminal yet. I’m still just a suspect.”

Officer Johannes ignores me once again. She stands across from me, and lifts a phone to her ear. “...Yes sir. The profiles match perfectly. She’s also a person of color.” Her gaze flickers to me, venomous eyes scanning my exhausted self. “I’m convinced she’s our person–or related to her.” She continues sharing more information about me that supposedly matches the ‘suspect’ before dropping the phone.

I clench my jaw, biting back the words I would have said to her had I been in control. Instead, I opt for a firm correction, “I’m not a person of color. I’m a Black woman.”

“What?” Her face flashes with confusion, clearly wondering why my priorities aren’t straight. But despite how scared I am, I refuse to let them box me into their racist umbrella term.

“I said I’m not a—”

“You know, you have a lot of nerve for someone who’s—”

The door opens, breaking us away from our discussion.

The protein bar I had in the plan threatens to return as bile climbs my throat. The door closes with a heavy thud, and my head spins. With a light head and heavy heart, I peer at the door. Are those handcuffs coming?

What is this turn of events? How have I gone from the excitement of reuniting with my best friend to fearing for my life? The long flight, the exhaustion, the relief I felt when I landed–it’s all gone. What am I going to do if I’m never allowed to see the daylight again after today? How am I ever going to become a chef then?

A tall man strides into the room, his six-foot-something frame filling a well-tailored greenish-black suit. My legs wobble in fear. Black hair, pale skin, gray eyes. He smooths a hand over his suit jacket, his thick brows lifting as he surveys the scene.

Great! Another white man here to complicate the situation. Just what I need.

His eyes envelop mine as he walks into the office and I look away. My cheeks heat up, and my heart thuds loud as I shift under his heavy scrutiny. Judging by his appearance, this man is definitely important–if not outright powerful. Is my fate in his hands?

“Mr Dacosta,” the officers greet.

They know him? Apparently, they do. Even Officer Petrov, who kept looking at my papers as if reading the lyrics to a confusing Nicki Minaj diss track, stands up.

A grin spreads across Officer Johannes’s face, and I arch a brow. She hasn’t smiled once since I arrived. Then again, who was she supposed to smile at? Me, the supposed criminal? Or her partner, who probably has a wedding date set with my document?

“What are you doing here, sir?”

“I’m here to pick up my brother. Plus, my assistant mentioned something about needing to update information on my passport.”

“Ah,” Officer Petrov releases a shaky breath. “We don’t normally handle that here, but I can update it for you on the website and send it to your office.”

Mr Dacosta gives a stiff nod in response, and takes a seat. He glances at me again, and I almost give him a death glare. Why does he keep looking at me? He’s not even hiding that he is. Did nobody teach this man that staring is rude, or did he skip that lesson?

“Who’s this?” he asks in an unidentified deep, rich accent that does something to my lower stomach. He jerks his head toward me, adjusting his silver wristwatch.

Expensive suits equals expensive voices. You can’t make this up. I bet he’s one of those rich men whose laughter sounds like cleared bills.

“The black girl was—” My head turns to Officer Johannes with a frown. This woman is really starting to piss me off. Now she listens to my corrections but calls me a girl? I’ll not take that one. I’m a full grown woman, for God’s sake.

Mr Dacosta seems more offended than I am, with his deep scowl and clenched jaw. I tilt my head to weigh his issue from it.

“The black girl?” he repeats lazily, his eyes cold and indifferent. Without waiting for a reply, he turns to me instead. “What’s happened?”

Air evaporates from my lungs. I take a deep, visible breath. Panic sets in as I struggle to make sense of my words in my head before letting them out. My hands clamp together as I try to stop them from fidgeting. I don’t do well when I get anxious. What if I can’t prove my innocence?

Mr. Dacosta raises a brow, urging me to speak. I clear my throat clumsily, nearly choking on my spit. His cold, unyielding gaze does nothing but tighten the knots in my stomach. Despite the way my mind races, I pull myself together and gather my thoughts as I speak.

“I… I didn’t do anything, sir. It’s my first time coming into the country, but this officer stopped me at the terminal and… and brought me here. She said I look like a suspect they’ve been searching for.” I gulp down the golf ball size lump that’s stuck in my throat.

“I’m here to visit my friend, and I know she must be out there waiting for me. My plane landed two hours ago, and I’ve been standing here ever since. They seized my phone and bags, so I can’t call anyone.” I feel my lips quiver and I bite down on them. I shouldn’t cry.

It’s not clear yet that this stranger is on my side. What if I’m just his tool for entertainment? What if he bursts out laughing at my weak attempt to give an explanation?

“So you kept her here for two hours because she looks like someone you’ve been searching for?” he snaps, earning a hopeful smile from me.

Finally, someone is here to save me.

Say more.

Say more.

I point a finger at Officer Petrov, an evil smirk tugging at my lips when I see him gulp. Yes! In your face with your weird obsession with papers . “And this man, he just kept looking at my document. Other than ‘ your papers , ’ he hasn’t said anything else to me since I got in,” I whine to the stranger whose fingers curl into fists.

Okay, he’s taking this a bit too personal. I love it.

“Is there evidence for this claim? Can I see the picture of the suspect she looks like? Anything at all?”

“We’re only following procedures, Mr. Dacosta.”

Mr Dacosta slams his hand on the desk, and we all flinch. “I never said you weren’t following procedures. ‘Can I get evidence?’ was what I said.”

The officers fall silent as my fingers fidget nervously, while my lips silently pray that he gets me out of this unscathed.

“Return her belongings to her at once and let her leave, or I’ll call Daniel Fleischaker to inform him of the atrocities you’re committing,” he speaks again and my brows meet in curiosity. How powerful must he be to make a threat like that with a voice so low, one would think he’s asking for the weather update.

There’s no way they’ll take him seriously.

Just when I’m convinced he’s bluffing, the officers exchange glances, their stances changing from confident bullies to scared employees.

Mr. Dacosta pulls out his phone, and plays with the keyboard, and immediately the officers scramble around the room, packing my papers and bags for me.

My lips tremble harder, and my breathing quickens to short, sharp gasps as I fumble with the bags being handed to me. Is it relief, lingering fear, or my anxiety spiking again? I’m not sure. All I know is that I let my tears fall, onto the floor, onto my bags, until they fog my vision and I have to blink to clear my sight.

I shouldn’t have come here.

A grey silk pocket handkerchief appears in front of me, and I follow the hand up to meet the icy gaze of my rescuer. My teeth clamp down my lower lip as gratitude washes over me. He looks away, his expression unreadable, as I take the handkerchief and press it to my face with a sniff, basking in the cocoa and spice scent of his cologne.

I pick up my bags and bow frantically to Mr. Dacosta. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” It comes out tearfully, and I let it, my eyes still fixated on the door, desperate to get out of the suffocating room. I close the door behind me and puff out a breath, wincing at the amount of missed calls I see on my phone.

I dial the last number as I pull my bags with me, flinching when I hear footsteps. I check and it’s only a bunch of normal people going about their normal day. The air is still ominous. Until I leave the whole vicinity, I’ll continue to feel out of place and in danger.

“Damn, Hazel. Are you okay? Where were you?” Su-mi’s familiar voice wraps around me like a comforting embrace. Fresh tears pool in my eyes, and before I can pull myself together, I burst into tears.

Now that I’m out of the office, everything that could have happened is hitting me.

“Oh, sweetie. Where are you? I’m in a red dress, waving right now. Look for me.” I wipe my tears with the back of my hand and proceed to look for my beautiful pale-skinned best friend. After a few minutes, I spot her waving a paperboard that boldly says; ‘ That’s My Bestie!!! ”

Trepidation drains from my body at the sight of her, and I wave back with a forced giggle. She runs over with a squeal and pulls me in a hug with a long-stretched ‘hmm’.

“You look like shit. Tell me everything!” she chirps as she releases me from her bone-crushing hug, taking my bag cart from me.

“After my six months here, I’m sitting my ass down in Jamaica. It was a bad idea to push me into coming. I just suffered.”

“But what happened? Did you get lost or what?” her brows draw together as she asks, sidestepping a man on a phone call.

“That would’ve been better than what happened. At least I could have called.” She nods in response. “The officers said I looked like someone they’ve been searching for. I look like a criminal, Su-mi. I swear, no insult will ever top that one.” I sniff.

I doubt I’ll ever be able to come to terms with this incident. Yes, it’s messed up that it took another white male to save me, but it could have gone so much worse if nobody had stepped up for me. This is why I never associate, good or bad, to a specific group of people.

“Those assholes,” Su-mi fumes on my behalf. “I’m so glad you’re out. I’ll make you something to help you feel better.”

“I really need it. If not for a total stranger, I wouldn’t have left there. With that officer staring at me like I stole her baby or something.” My fingers rub softly over the handkerchief in my hand–the only reminder of the said stranger.

“A stranger?”

“Yes. He looked pretty rich… and important, of course. He literally threatened them to leave me alone. His name was Mr. Coaster or something along that line. I forgot.”

“Of course you did. Who is Hazel Wilmer without a broken memory?” she teases with a mischievous note in her tone and I glare at her before breaking into a smile myself.

“Let’s just go.”

She pushes the cart out of the airport, and I follow her, trying–and failing–to shake away the fear of what happened.

I also can’t shake off the feeling that it’s going to be a long six months in Florida.

I just hope I survive it.