Chapter 9 - The Panicked Ring
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The morning of the wedding rehearsal luncheon, the city was flooded with bright, clear sunlight. I stood in front of the small mirror in my apartment, adjusting the crisp lapels of my tailored crimson suit. It was bold, powerful, and blood-red—a stark, intentional departure from the drab prison grays I had worn for two long years.
My burner phone suddenly vibrated on the wooden table. The caller ID was unlisted, but I knew the frantic rhythm of the rings before I even picked it up. It was Richard.
I let it ring four times before slowly sliding my thumb across the screen.
"Margaret!" Richard’s voice exploded through the speaker, devoid of his usual polished charm. He sounded like a man drowning in deep water. "What the hell is going on? My black cards were just declined at the hotel! My corporate wire transfers are blocked!"
I took a quiet, deliberate breath, savoring the raw, unadulterated terror vibrating in his voice.
"Good morning, Richard," I said smoothly, checking my red lipstick in the reflection. "How is the rehearsal coming along? Are the white roses fresh?"
"Did you do this?!" he practically screamed into the line. Background noise echoed around him—clinking silverware, worried hushed whispers, and Savannah’s shrill voice complaining about an unpaid catering invoice. "My lawyers aren't answering! The bank vice president put me on hold! What did you do to my accounts?!"
"You're asking the wrong question, darling," I replied, my voice dropping to a icy, deadly whisper. "You shouldn't be asking what I did. You should be asking what I kept."
"You have nothing!" he rasped, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You're a convicted felon! You're a disgraced, broke nobody!"
"If I'm a nobody, Richard, then why is your entire financial empire crumbling before you can even eat your lunch?" I let out a soft, mocking chuckle. "Hold onto your champagne glass, my love. The real show hasn't even started."
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I hung up before he could respond, immediately dropping the burner phone into a glass of cold water on the counter. I turned to Beatrice, who was holding her leather briefcase and looking at me with absolute pride.
"The stage is set," Beatrice said. "Shall we go crash a party?"
