Amal persuaded banks to loan her the capital needed to make the owner an offer he wasn’t about to refuse. A few angel investors helped fund the massive renovations to the building's exterior and interior.
A year later, she changed the name of the facility to Phoenix, which symbolized the origins of the business, from disaster to triumph. Phoenix would be a medical spa where women and men could overcome whatever physical destruction had befallen them and ascend to a beautiful victory.
More importantly, Phoenix would boast amazing revenues and avenues for growth.
Reality had come quickly, swiftly. Most new businesses failed within the first year. Those that didn’t fail rarely made a profit for the first three to five years. Amal hadn’t been in the mood to wait five years before her bank accounts were in the black, so she’d expanded the services the spa provided.
Soon, she began to amass the amounts of money she deserved to make.
Things had been going well until six months ago. One ill-fated decision and now everything she’d worked for was at risk. Her entire world might come crashing down around her, but Amal would be damned if she was crushed.
Despite her frustration and anger, Amal had a plan. She was nothing if not cunning and creative, and her idea was high risk, but she had no choice. She had been burned, charred, and scarred because she had played with the wrong kind of fire.
She planned to rise from the ashes.
Her cell phone buzzed again.
Yanking the phone from her purse, Amal glared at the display. Another text, one she’d been waiting for. Amal accessed the message and read it: I got what you need
Relief snaking through her, Amal responded. 9 mm?
A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again. Yeah meet me at the bar
Taking a deep breath, Amal summoned courage, reminding herself of the reason for the trip to St. Killian. Paradise wasn’t really about rest, relaxation, and reunion. Her true motive was revenge, retribution, and retaliation. She would be vindicated. And if someone had to die so she could get back what had been viciously stolen from her, then so be it.
3
As lively calypso music mixed with the soft din of casual conversation around her, Vivian reflected on Amal’s opinions of her career choices, trying to be objective and not feel defensive.
Vivian, you’re an amazing badass investigative journalist. You should not be wasting your skills.
Despite what Amal thought, Vivian didn’t consider her work at the Palmchat Gazette a waste of her talent. She enjoyed the job and had plenty of opportunities to write complex stories with multiple angles. When she’d first taken the job, Vivian had been grateful for the distraction of a different landscape, but now she was no longer interested in covering wars in Africa, risking life and limb in lawless lands. The Sudan had taken a toll on her spirit and her soul. And yet, her heart had suffered the worst, because of Leo.
The truth was, she hadn’t been chased out of Africa by a tribal dictator, as some of her former colleagues believed. She’d fled because of her stupidity and foolishness because she’d been misguided enough to believe in happily ever after.
Her fairy tale had turned into a nightmare, and reality had been devastating, confusing, and frustrating. The reality was that Leo didn’t want to get married. When he’d first told her, Vivian hadn’t wanted to believe him. For some reason, she’d been dumb enough to believe she could change his mind. After all, his feelings for her hadn’t changed. By his admission, Leo had claimed to love her still. Somehow, someway, Vivian thought she could convince Leo to walk down the aisle and into together forever as long as they both lived. She was no longer living with those delusions.
Vivian ate the last goat fritter and then started on the jerk fries. Amal had been right. Vivian did still love Leo. Still, she’d spent the last year trying to get over him, trying to get past the disappointment. She wasn’t completely healed, but her wounds were no longer raw and gaping. She didn’t want Leo to walk back into her life and derail what little progress she’d made.
Leo’s rejection of her hopes and dreams had left Vivian feeling inadequate, unworthy, and ashamed. She’d been disconsolate and, more than anything, confused. Leo claimed to love her, claimed she was the only woman he’d ever loved and the only woman he wanted to love, and yet when he should have made her dreams come true, he had destroyed them with five words.
Words she now hated.
As a woman who was passionate about words, relying on them for her livelihood and enjoyment, Vivian never thought she would hate any words. And yet, on that hot Sunday morning in Juba, the Sudanese metropolis where they were based, at the Royal Palace Hotel, less than a mile from the White Nile River, those five horrible words uttered by Leo had nearly destroyed her.
Popping a fry into her mouth, Vivian watched as Amal sauntered alongside the U-shaped bar, turning more than a few heads.
Instead of heading back to their table, Amal sat on an empty stool near the end of the bar.
What was Amal up to, Vivian wondered. The bartender approached Amal, but she waved him away. Moments later, a waiter walked up to Amal. Tall and good-looking, he had lean muscles and short, blond-tipped dreadlocks. As he lowered his head to whisper in Amal’s ear, Vivian frowned. She recognized the waiter. The focus of an investigative crime story at the Palmchat Gazette, the waiter was rumored to be involved with a gang of criminals who got jobs at high-end restaurants with the intent of stealing from drunk, distracted tourists. Thinking about the story, Vivian remembered there hadn’t been enough solid evidence against the waiter
