Chapter 5 - The Warning on the Line
In the kitchen of the Beverly Hills mansion, the landline phone on the marble counter began to ring.
Cassandra Vale, holding a heavy brass key ring, froze. She looked at Wells, who was pouring himself a glass of Marcus’s sixty-year-old scotch with a trembling hand.
"Who is calling at three in the morning?" Wells whispered, his face pale under the kitchen lights.
"It’s probably the transport driver," Cassandra said, though her heart had begun to hammer against her ribs. She picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Cassandra," a voice said.
It was not the transport driver.
The voice was low, hollow, and carried the weight of a physical blow. It was a voice Cassandra had spent three years trying to charm, but now, it sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a grave.
"Marcus," Cassandra gasped, her hand automatically going to her throat, her fingers clutching her pearls. "Marcus, darling! You... you’re calling so late. The connection is terrible. We were just getting ready for bed—"
"If you touch my daughter," Marcus said, cutting her off with a quiet, icy precision, "I will not just ruin you, Cassandra. I will make sure the rest of your life is lived in a space so small you will forget what the sky looks like."
Cassandra’s smug smile finally flickered, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Wells, who was now staring at her in sheer terror. "Marcus, I don't know what you're talking about. Lily is fine. She’s... she’s having one of her episodes. She locked herself in your room. We’re just trying to help her—"
"I have the audit, Thomas," Marcus continued, his voice shifting to Wells, though he was still speaking through Cassandra’s receiver. "I have the wire transfers from the Mercer International escrow accounts to the shell companies in Panama. I know about the forty-five million. And I know about the border transport."
Wells dropped his glass. The crystal shattered against the marble floor, the dark amber scotch pooling around his expensive leather loafers. "Marcus... please... it was Cassandra’s idea! She said you were never coming back! She said the government was going to take everything anyway!"
"Thomas, shut up!" Cassandra screamed into the phone. She gripped the receiver, her face twisting into a mask of pure, vicious hatred. "Listen to me, Marcus. You are nine thousand miles away. You have no power here anymore. By the time your lawyers file a single motion, the girl will be gone, the money will be cleared, and you will be sitting in a federal cell for violating your travel ban. You lost this game the moment you left for London."
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"I didn't leave, Cassandra," Marcus whispered. "I just gave you enough rope to hang yourself."
The line went dead.
