Chapter 7 - The Unforgiving Ring
Back in Connecticut, rain continued to wash over the quiet coastal town of Madison.
Marisol sat at her kitchen table, wearing a comfortable oversized sweater, a warm mug of chamomile tea resting between her hands. Outside, the evening shadows lengthened across the lush lawn. The house was peaceful. Clara, a trusted postpartum doula and family friend, was upstairs finishing the crib assembly that Royce had abandoned for two weeks.
Her phone buzzed against the table.
ROYCE.
Marisol took a slow sip of tea, watching the screen illuminate the dark wood. She let it ring five times before swiping her finger across the glass. She put it on speaker.
"Marisol!" Royce’s voice was ragged, desperate, competing with the roar of commercial terminal traffic in the background. "What the hell did you do? Have you completely lost your mind?"
"Hello, Royce," she said, her voice soft, steady, and terrifyingly calm. "Did you enjoy your flight?"
"I'm standing at a commercial taxi stand in Scottsdale with two plastic bags because your lawyers impounded the jet!" he shouted, his voice cracking with rage and humiliation. "You froze my cards! You locked me out of the company! You went to Davis behind my back! We have an eight-year history together! You're carrying my son!"
"I am carrying my son, Royce," Marisol corrected him gently. "And the only thing I did was call the loan my mother gave you. You remember that loan, don't you? The one you used to save your business while you bought diamond rings for Kira Sandival?"
The silence on the other end was sudden, absolute, and suffocating. Even across two thousand miles of telephone wires, Marisol could hear the sudden hitch in his breath.
"You... what are you talking about?" he stammered, his bravado crumbling like dry sand. "Kira is an employee. I told you, this was an expansion trip—"
"Save it, Royce," Marisol interrupted, her voice devoid of tears, carrying the crisp finality of a surgical report. "Hannah Brooks showed me the wedding proofs six weeks ago. The photographs of your hand around her waist while my family toasted our future. I have the receipts from the New Haven hotel room. I have the credit card statements for her Stamford apartment. I have the wiretap authorization Davis filed when he audited the marketing accounts."
May you like
Royce let out a choked sound, a pathetic gasp of someone who realized they had been naked under a spotlight for months without knowing it. "Marisol... please. It was a mistake. It didn't mean anything. She threw herself at me, and I was stressed about the financing—"
"You chose her," Marisol said. "You chose her on our wedding day, you chose her in New Haven, and you chose her when you told me you were flying to Scottsdale while I sat in a hospital parking garage with swollen feet and your unborn child. You made your choice, Royce. Now live with it."
