Eda Roman POV:
The phone rang for a full minute. Each long, monotonous tone scraped against my eardrums. Finally, the ringing stopped, replaced by the mechanical click of the automated voicemail system. Over the past three years, eighty percent of the calls I made to Axel ended exactly like this.
I pulled the phone away and hit the redial button. I pressed my thumb so hard against the glass screen that it left a damp, smeary print of sweat.
I called him five consecutive times. Five times, the call was brutally rejected, sent straight to voicemail after a single ring.
On the sixth attempt, the line suddenly connected. But the voice that answered didn't belong to my husband. It was Mark, Axel's Chief Assistant.
Mark used his flawless, professionally polite voice. He informed me that the CEO was in the middle of a critical investment portfolio review.
I cut him off mid-sentence. I talked fast, the words tumbling over each other. I told him there was a life-or-death emergency at home and I absolutely needed to speak to Axel, even just for ten seconds.
Mark paused. I heard the rapid, precise clacking of a keyboard on his end. He was checking the schedule, treating my father's life like a calendar conflict.
His voice returned, colder this time. He flatly refused. He stated that the meeting was classified as Level S, and strict company protocols forbade any personal interruptions.
I gripped the phone with both hands. I explained that my father's leukemia had mutated. My voice broke, a pathetic, desperate sob leaking out of my throat.
Mark didn't miss a beat. He offered a dismissive platitude, promising to leave a memo on Axel's desk, but added that based on the itinerary, Axel wouldn't see it until late afternoon.
Right as he spoke, the background noise on the call shifted. Through the speaker, I distinctly heard Axel's deep, resonant laugh, followed by the clinking of glassware. It wasn't a tense, closed-door financial review. They were socializing.
I snapped. I demanded to know if Axel was standing right next to him.
Mark's tone didn't change. He simply said the cellular reception in the boardroom was poor, and he abruptly terminated the call.
I stared at the black screen of my phone. A massive, suffocating wave of betrayal crashed over me, pulling me under.
I turned my head slowly. I looked through the rectangular glass window of the hospital door. I watched the steady, weak rise and fall of my father's chest.
I took a deep breath. I reached up and aggressively wiped the wetness from the corners of my eyes. The fragile, pleading girl vanished. My gaze turned hard and entirely cold. Softness had never bought me anything in the Foley empire but contempt. My survival instinct, buried deep in my bones, finally woke up.
I turned away from the glass. I walked toward the elevator bank. My first few steps were shaky, but by the time I hit the button, my stride was rigid and unyielding.
I walked out through the sliding glass doors of the hospital lobby. The biting Seattle wind hit my face like an open-handed slap, clearing the remaining fog from my brain.
I stepped up to the curb and threw my arm out. A yellow cab pulled over. I yanked the door open and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat.
The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, asking for an address. I met my own reflection in his mirror. My face was the color of chalk.
I gave him the address of the Foley Group Headquarters. My voice was completely flat, stripped of all emotion.
The cab wove through the heavy downtown traffic. I stared out the window at the towering skyscrapers and the blur of pedestrians. I felt entirely detached from the world outside the glass, like a ghost haunting my own life.
I unclasped my cheap handbag and pulled out a tube of lipstick. I uncapped it, using the reflection of the tinted car window. I dragged the dark red color across my bloodless lips.
It was my war paint. It was the only armor I had left. I refused to walk into that hostile fortress looking like a victim.
The cab jerked to a halt in front of a massive, imposing glass tower. It was the absolute center of Axel's power.
I handed the driver a crumpled bill. I pushed the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. I tilted my head back, squinting against the harsh glare reflecting off the giant silver Foley logo above the entrance.
I pulled the lapels of my worn trench coat tighter across my chest. I took a breath and marched straight toward the revolving doors.
The moment I stepped into the sprawling, cavernous lobby, the blinding reflection of the polished marble floor made me dizzy.
Several receptionists at the massive front desk spotted me. Their hushed conversations stopped instantly. They exchanged knowing, judgmental glances.
I ignored them. I walked in a straight line toward the private executive elevators. Before I could reach the call button, two massive security guards stepped into my path, crossing their arms.
They looked down at me with blank, stony faces. They demanded I produce an appointment QR code, treating me exactly like a corporate spy or a random solicitor.
"I am Axel Foley's wife. Move."
