11. TRUTH #3
I hesitated. “I don’t know yet. Amai said we’d be here for a little while. He’s got some things he needs to handle first.”
“Things,” my mama repeated, her tone skeptical. “What kind of things?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He didn’t say.”
“Mm-hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Well, you call me every day, you hear? I don’t care if it’s just to say you still breathing. I need to know you okay.”
“I will,” I promised.
“And Truth?”
“Ma’am?”
“You keep your eyes open,” she said. “Don’t let that man charm you into being blind.”
I swallowed hard. “I won’t.”
“Good. Now go eat something before you pass out. You sound weak.”
I smiled despite myself. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you too, Mama.”
The line went dead, and I sat there for a long moment, staring at my phone.
My mama’s words echoed in my head, sharp and insistent.
Lock in. Pay attention. Figure out what’s really going on.
She was right.
I needed to stop reacting and start acting. I needed to stop letting Amai—or anyone else—control the narrative of my life.
I needed to know who he really was.
And I needed to figure out what he was hiding.
I sat there on the edge of the bed for another minute, my mama’s voice still ringing in my ears.
My body felt weak, drained from the morning sickness, exhausted from everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.
Part of me wanted to lie back down, pull the covers over my head, and sleep until Amai came back.
But the other part of me—the part that had survived Phillip’s betrayal, the part that had rebuilt my life from nothing, the part that refused to be a victim—wouldn’t let me rest.
Lock in.
My mama’s words weren’t just advice. They were a command.
I pushed myself up off the bed slowly, testing my legs. They felt shaky but stable enough. My stomach was still unsettled, but the worst had passed. I could move. I could think.
I could search.
I looked around the bedroom with fresh eyes.
It was beautiful—rustic but expensive, with exposed wooden beams and soft lighting.
The bed was massive, covered in high-thread-count sheets that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
There was a dresser against one wall, a closet on the other, and a nightstand on each side of the bed.
But there was nothing personal about it.
No photos on the nightstands. No books with dog-eared pages. No clutter. No evidence that anyone actually lived here.
It looked like a hotel room. Or an Airbnb rental.
I walked over to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Empty. I opened the second drawer. Also empty. The third drawer had a few folded towels—white, pristine, perfectly stacked.
Nothing else.
I moved to the closet and opened it. There were a few hangers with clothes—men’s clothes, expensive brands, all in Amai’s size. A black suit. A pair of jeans. A few shirts. But they looked like they’d been placed there for convenience, not because this was where he kept his wardrobe.
I ran my hand along the shelf above the hanging clothes. Dust. Not much, but enough to tell me this closet wasn’t used regularly.
I closed the closet door and stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Or rather, what I wasn’t seeing.
This cabin was beautiful. It was expensive. It was well-maintained. But it didn’t feel like Amai’s home. It felt like a place he used. A utility. A safe house.
I left the bedroom and walked down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The hallway was lined with framed prints—generic landscapes, the kind you’d find at a furniture store. Nothing personal. Nothing that told me anything about the man who owned this place.
I passed the bathroom where I’d thrown up earlier. It was clean now—Amai must have wiped it down. The thought made my chest tighten, but I pushed it aside. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by his tenderness right now.
I needed to focus.
I moved into the living room. It was spacious and open, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lake. The furniture was modern and comfortable—a large sectional sofa, a coffee table made of reclaimed wood, a stone fireplace with the bear rug in front of it.
The bear rug where we’d made love last night.
I forced myself to look away from it and focus on the rest of the room.
There was a bookshelf against one wall, filled with books. I walked over to it and scanned the titles. Classic literature. Business books. A few thrillers. They were arranged neatly, spines perfectly aligned, like they’d been placed there for decoration rather than reading.
I pulled one out at random—The Count of Monte Cristo. The pages were crisp, unmarked. It didn’t look like it had ever been opened.
I slid it back onto the shelf and pulled out another. Same thing. Pristine. Untouched.
These weren’t books someone read. They were props.
I moved along the shelf, running my fingers over the spines, and that’s when I felt it—a book that was slightly out of alignment with the others. I pulled it out. Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.
As I lifted it off the shelf, something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
A photograph.
I bent down and picked it up, my heart beating a little faster.
It was a woman. Beautiful. Dark skin, long hair, full lips. She was smiling at the camera, her expression confident and knowing. She looked like the kind of woman who knew exactly how powerful she was.
I turned the photo over.
On the back, written in neat handwriting, was a single name: Yahmaria.
And below that, a timestamp. The photo was old—at least two years, maybe more.
I stared at the name for a long moment, my mind working through the implications.
Yahmaria.
An ex-girlfriend? A past lover? Someone important enough that Amai had kept her photo, but not important enough to display it openly?
I turned the photo back over and studied the woman’s face again. There was something about her—something in the way she looked at the camera—that made me uneasy. She didn’t look like someone who had been left behind. She looked like someone who was still in the game.
But the timestamp was old.
Whatever connection Amai had to this woman, it was in the past.
Of course he had exes. A man like Amai—wealthy, powerful, devastatingly attractive—would have a complicated romantic history. That was just reality.
I slipped the photo back into the book and returned it to the shelf, making sure it was aligned with the others.
It didn’t mean anything. It was just a photo. A memory from a life he’d lived before I existed in his world.
I moved away from the bookshelf and continued my search.
The kitchen was next. I opened cabinets and drawers, looking for anything that might tell me more about who Amai was.
But the cabinets were stocked with generic dishes and glassware.
The drawers held utensils and kitchen tools, all neatly organized.
There was nothing personal. No handwritten recipes.
No magnets on the fridge. No evidence of a life actually lived here.
I opened the pantry. It was fully stocked—canned goods, pasta, rice, snacks. Everything you’d need for an extended stay. But it felt clinical. Like someone had gone through a checklist and made sure all the boxes were ticked.
I closed the pantry door and leaned against the counter, frustration building in my chest.
There was nothing here. No clues. No secrets. No evidence of lies or deception.
Just emptiness.
I walked back into the living room and stood in the center of it, looking around. The cabin was beautiful. It was functional. It was safe.
But it wasn’t a home.
It was a place Amai used when he needed to disappear. A place where he could exist outside of his real life. A place with no history, no memories, no evidence of who he really was.
And that, more than anything, unsettled me.
Because if this place didn’t hold any part of him, then where did he keep the real version of himself? Where did he go when he needed to be honest? Where did he store the parts of his life he didn’t want anyone to see?
I thought about the way he’d looked at me last night. The intensity in his eyes, the possessiveness in his touch. I thought about the way he’d held my hair back this morning while I threw up, the way he’d confessed that he’d never believed he could have a wife or a child.
Wife.
Those moments felt real. They felt honest.
But this cabin—this empty, sterile, beautiful cabin—told a different story.
It told me that Amai was a man who knew how to compartmentalize. A man who knew how to keep parts of his life separate. A man who knew how to control what people saw.
And if he could control this space so completely, what else was he controlling?
I walked over to the windows and looked out at the lake. The water was calm, reflecting the gray sky above. It was peaceful. Quiet.
But beneath the surface, I knew there were things I couldn’t see. Depths I couldn’t measure. Currents I couldn’t predict.
Just like Amai.
My mama’s words came back to me again, sharper this time.
That man is hiding something. And you need to get your head out the clouds and figure out what it is.
I pressed my hand against the cool glass and closed my eyes.
She was right.
Amai was hiding something. Maybe not something dark or dangerous. Maybe just parts of himself he wasn’t ready to share. But the emptiness of this cabin proved that he was capable of keeping secrets. He was capable of creating spaces where the truth didn’t exist.
And if he could do that with a cabin, what could he do with a relationship?
I opened my eyes and stared out at the lake.
I didn’t have answers yet. I didn’t have proof of anything. But I had a feeling—a deep, unsettling feeling—that there was more to Amai than what he’d shown me.
And I needed to figure out what that was before I let myself fall any deeper.
Because my mama was right about one other thing too.
I needed to lock in.
I needed to stop floating through this man’s world like I didn’t have a say in what happened to me.