Clive had left for a meeting. He promised to be back, but Dahlia didn't hold her breath.
She was alone in the silence of the VIP suite.
Her phone chimed. A voicemail.
She fumbled for it. She pressed play. Her finger slipped and hit the speakerphone icon.
Dahlia!
Gaynell's voice filled the room. It bounced off the high ceilings.
You ungrateful little brat! I called your building's superintendent and he said you haven't been home in three days. Where are you? Are you with a lover?
Dahlia curled into a ball. Make it stop.
If you ruin this marriage, Dahlia, I swear to God, I will call in the markers I hold on Gertie's nursing facility. You think Harrington's checks clear without my sign-off on the Douglas family trust disbursements? I can bury her in paperwork and debt so fast her head will spin. You think Harrington will protect you? He doesn't care about you. You are a broodmare to him. Nothing more.
The door clicked open.
Dahlia didn't hear it over her mother's screaming voice.
So you better be pregnant, or you better be dead. Those are the only two excuses I will accept.
The message ended.
Silence rushed back into the room.
But it wasn't empty silence. It was heavy. Breathing.
Dahlia wiped her tears quickly. She reached for the phone to turn it off.
A hand intercepted hers.
Large. Warm. Calloused.
Clive took the phone from her hand.
Clive? Dahlia gasped.
He didn't answer. He ended the call. He turned the phone off. He tossed it onto the sofa across the room.
The thud was loud.
How much of that did you hear? she whispered. Her voice was trembling.
Enough, Clive said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. It was the eye of a hurricane.
He walked to the bed. He sat down. The mattress dipped.
Is that true? he asked. About your foster mother?
Dahlia nodded. She couldn't speak. The shame was choking her.
And the threats?
Always, she whispered.
Clive stared at her. He looked at the bandages covering her eyes. He thought about the prenup. The money she asked for. He had thought she was greedy. He had thought she was just another Douglas, looking for a payout.
He had been wrong.
She wasn't greedy. She was a hostage.
He felt a cold rage settle in his bones. It was a familiar feeling, one he used in boardrooms to destroy competitors. But this time, it was personal.
Why didn't you tell me? he asked again.
Because you're a Harrington, she said. You and the Douglases... it's all the same world. I'm just the currency.
Clive felt like he had been slapped.
Is that what you think I am? Just a checkbook?
Aren't you?
Clive looked at the takeout bag in his hand. He had brought her congee from her favorite place in Chinatown. He had remembered she mentioned it once, six months ago.
He opened the container. The smell of ginger and chicken filled the room.
Eat, he said.
He dipped the spoon in. He blew on it.
Dahlia hesitated.
Open, he commanded.
She opened her mouth. He fed her.
It was intimate. It was domestic. It was completely at odds with the conversation they just had.
The spoon clicked against her teeth.
Sorry, he mumbled.
It's okay.
He fed her the whole bowl. Every spoonful was an apology he didn't know how to say out loud.
When she was finished, he wiped her mouth with a napkin.
Dahlia, he said.
Yes?
No one threatens my wife. Not even her mother.
Dahlia felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was something else. Hope?
Clive stood up.
I have to make a call.
He walked out to the balcony. He dialed Arthur.
Arthur. I want a forensic audit on the Douglas family trust. I want to know every debt, every lien, every skeleton in their closet.
But sir, that's your father-in-law.
Not for long, Clive said. If they want a war, I'll give them a massacre.
