STILL WITH YOU (CONTRACTED TO THE CEO)

The rain fell in relentless, suffocating sheets across London, turning the M4 into a treacherous black ribbon reflecting the frantic pulse of the city. Inside his top-floor office, Jace Dominic Fidel was a silhouette of cold ambition, silhouetted against the glass as he reviewed the final merger documents. His phone vibrated against the mahogany desk, cutting through the hum of the air conditioning. He answered without looking, his voice raspy from a day of negotiations. “Layla? I’m nearly done.” There was no soft laugh on the other end. Only the crackle of static and the haunting, distant wail of sirens. “Mr. Fidel? This is Sergeant Reynolds, Metropolitan Police. There’s been a catastrophic collision on the M4 near Slough. Your wife’s vehicle was at the center of it. She’s being transported to The Wellington Hospital. Sir... you need to get here now.” The phone slipped from Jace’s hand, hitting the plush carpet with a dull thud. The world narrowed to a suffocating pinpoint. He didn’t remember the elevator ride or the reckless drive through flooded streets; he only remembered the blur of his Bentley slicing through the dark, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge, and his own pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He burst into the private wing of The Wellington soaked to the bone, his bespoke suit clinging to him like a shroud. The air smelled of ozone and antiseptic. His mother, Lady Evelyn Fidel, stood near the reception desk, her face a mask of rigid, aristocratic grief. Beside her were his siblings: Scott, whose usual vibrant energy had been replaced by an ashen stillness, and Samara, whose eyes were raw and red. Between them sat Jamal. His six -year-old body was curled into a small, trembling ball, his face buried in the hem of Samara’s coat. Before Jace could reach them, the heavy double doors swung open. A consultant emerged, his surgical scrubs stained with a darkness that made Jace’s stomach turn. The man didn't speak immediately; he simply looked at Jace and gave a slow, devastating shake of his head. “We did everything humanly possible,” the doctor said, his voice a hollow echo. “Internal hemorrhaging... the trauma was too great. The baby... neither survived. Layla was pronounced dead at 11:14 p.m. I am profoundly sorry, Mr. Fidel.” The world didn't just stop; it fractured. Jace’s knees gave way, and he hit the marble floor with a sickening sound. A raw, animalistic howl tore from his throat a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that seemed to vibrate through the very walls of the hospital. He pressed his palms against his chest, gasping for air, as hot, unstoppable tears carved paths through the rainwater on his face. Jamal’s head snapped up. His wide, terrified eyes locked onto his father’s collapsed form. The realization hit the boy like a physical blow. “Mummy?” he whispered, the word fragile and thin. “Mummy’s gone?” Samara reached for him, but Jamal wrenched himself away. He sprinted toward the glass doors of the trauma unit, his small fists pounding against the panes. “Mummy! Mummy, come back! Open the door!” Hazel Tiana Smith arrived moments later, looking as though she had run through the storm itself. Her coat was heavy with rain, her hair plastered to her cheeks. She had driven from South Kensington the moment Evelyn’s panicked call came through. Seeing the chaos, she dropped her bag and slid across the floor, catching Jamal just as he was about to collapse. The boy turned, saw her familiar face, and let out a shattered cry. “Aunt Tiana... they said Mummy’s gone... she’s not coming back!” Hazel pulled him into her lap, her arms a tight, unyielding vise around his small frame. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her own tears soaking into his shirt. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice thick with a pain that matched his own. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.” Jamal clung to her with a terrifying desperation, his fingers knotting into her wet coat. He refused to move, his body wracked with exhausted, hiccuping sobs. A few feet away, Jace remained on his knees, his forehead pressed against the cold floor. Scott crouched over him, a steadying hand on Jace’s heaving shoulders. “Jace... breathe, mate. You have to breathe.” The doors at the end of the hall opened again as Loretta Smith hazel’s elder sister and her husband, Lucian Fidel Jace’s eldest brother rushed in. Lucian’s face was a mirror of Jace’s shock; he and Loretta had been married for eight years, their union the original bridge between the Fidel and Smith families. Loretta knelt beside her sister, her hand trembling as she stroked Jamal’s hair. Lucian moved toward Jace, dropping to the floor and pulling his younger brother into a fierce, silent embrace. Jace collapsed into Lucian’s arms, his sobs muffled against his brother’s shoulder but no less violent. They stayed there, a broken tableau of two families stitched together by tragedy, until a nurse gently guided them toward a private family room. Hazel carried Jamal the entire way; he refused to let his feet touch the ground, his arms locked around her neck like a lifeline. Across the room, Jace sat with his face buried in his hands. Every time he looked up and saw his son clinging to Hazel—the woman who had been Layla’s best friend and their shadow for years,a fresh wave of grief twisted his features. He was the father, the protector, but in the wake of the storm, he was as lost as the boy in Hazel’s arms. Five days later, the sky over London was the color of bruised slate. A fine, persistent mist hung over the private cemetery, clinging to the black umbrellas that formed a somber circle around the open earth. Jace stood at the edge of the grave, his eyes fixed on the mahogany casket. He looked immaculate in his black suit, but his posture was that of a man holding himself together by a single, fraying thread. Rain mingled with the tears on his face; he didn't bother to wipe them away. Jamal stood beside Hazel, his small hand buried in hers. He hadn't let go of her for more than five minutes since the night at the hospital. She had been the one to dress him this morning, knotting his tiny tie and carrying him when his legs went leaden. The vicar’s voice droned on, a rhythmic hum against the patter of rain. Then came the sound,the hollow, final thud of the first clod of earth hitting the casket lid. Jace broke. A choked, jagged sob ripped from his chest, and his legs finally gave out. He sank into the mud at the grave’s edge, heedless of his clothing or the eyes of the mourners. He wept openly, his shoulders convulsing with a grief that felt bottomless. Jamal cried out, trying to reach for his father, but Hazel held him firmly for a moment. “Go to him, Jamal,” she whispered. “Go to Daddy.” The boy broke free and threw himself at Jace. “Daddy... don't cry... please don't cry!” Jace pulled Jamal into his chest, crushing the boy to him as they rocked together in the dirt, a father and son drowning in the same sea of sorrow. Hazel didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, ignoring the gasps of the distant relatives, and knelt in the sodden grass beside them. Her black silk dress soaked through instantly, but she didn't care. She wrapped her arms around both of them,one arm pulling Jamal tight, the other reaching across Jace’s broad, shaking shoulders. She pressed her cheek to Jamal’s head and closed her eyes, letting her own tears fall into the mud. She offered no platitudes, no empty promises. She simply became the anchor, holding them both steady in the center of the downpour as the earth slowly reclaimed the light of their lives. They stayed that way long after the umbrellas disappeared and the cemetery grew silent three broken souls bound together by a tragedy that had only just begun. Everything was simply falling apart!