Chapter 6 - The Burner Phone and the Ghost
I waited until the house was entirely silent,
the only sound the low, steady hum of the central air conditioning unit working against the residual summer heat.
Nicholas was asleep,
his breathing heavy and rhythmic,
a stark contrast to the chaotic, rapid beating of my own heart.
I slipped out of bed,
moving with the practiced silence of a woman who had spent months tiptoeing around a monster.
I bypassed the nursery,
knowing Julian was sound asleep,
and crept down the back stairs to the basement,
the darkness feeling less like a threat and more like a protective cloak.
I reached behind the pile of winter coats,
my fingers brushing against the cold, hard plastic of the burner phone.
The screen glowed a dull blue as I powered it on,
the battery indicator showing a fragile thirty percent.
It was enough.
I had memorized Marcus Vance’s number from a file Nicholas had left out years ago,
a rare slip in my husband's otherwise impeccable security.
My fingers trembled as I punched in the digits,
each press of the keypad feeling like I was dismantling a bomb.
The phone rang once,
twice,
three times,
the sound echoing loudly in the quiet basement,
making me cringe and glance nervously at the ceiling.
"Yeah,"
a gruff, sleep-roughened voice finally answered,
the single word carrying a heavy weight of suspicion and exhaustion.
"Marcus Vance?"
I asked,
my voice a mere whisper,
barely audible over the static of the cheap connection.
"Who is asking?"
he shot back,
instantly alert,
the sleep entirely gone from his tone.
"My name is Sophie,"
I paused,
taking a deep breath,
"Sophie Sterling."
There was a long, pregnant silence on the other end of the line.
"Nicholas Sterling’s wife?"
Marcus finally said,
his voice dripping with a mixture of disbelief and deep-seated animosity.
"What the hell do you want at two in the morning?"
"I want to hire you,"
I said quickly,
knowing I had to hook him before he hung up.
"To do what? Help your husband ruin another career?"
"No,"
I replied,
my voice hardening with resolve.
"I want to hire you to destroy him."
Another silence stretched between us,
longer this time,
heavy with unspoken questions and calculations.
"I am listening,"
Marcus said softly,
the hostility dialing back just a fraction.
"He is trying to frame me for severe mental illness,"
I explained,
the words rushing out in a frantic stream.
"He is tampering with my medication,
forging psychiatric records with Dr. Arthur Evans,
and building a case to take my son away from me."
I heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end.
"Arthur Evans? The high-society shrink?"
"Yes,"
I confirmed,
"I have pictures of the forged documents,
but I cannot go to the police,
Nicholas has too much influence."
Marcus let out a low whistle.
"If this is true,
Sterling is playing a very dangerous game.
Why come to me?"
"Because he ruined you,"
I stated plainly,
knowing he needed a personal stake in this fight.
"And because you are the only person who hates him enough to take the risk,
and smart enough not to get caught."
Marcus chuckled,
a dark, humorless sound.
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Mrs. Sterling.
But taking on a partner at a top-tier law firm requires serious capital.
My services are not cheap,
especially for a suicide mission."
"I have access to money,"
I lied smoothly,
knowing Nicholas monitored every cent in our joint accounts,
but banking on my ability to find a loophole.
"We need to meet."
"Not a chance,"
Marcus shot back.
"If Sterling is setting you up,
he is watching you.
Meeting in person is a rookie mistake."
"Then how do we do this?"
I asked,
desperation creeping back into my voice.
"There is a coffee shop in the garment district,
'The Rusty Mug',"
Marcus instructed,
his tone shifting to pure business.
"Go there tomorrow at noon.
Order a black coffee under the name 'Evelyn'.
Leave your purse on the empty chair next to you.
I will handle the rest."
"Okay,"
I breathed,
"The Rusty Mug, noon, Evelyn."
"And Mrs. Sterling?"
Marcus added,
his voice dropping an octave,
"If this is a setup by your husband to finish the job he started two years ago,
I promise you,
you will both regret it."
"It is not a setup,"
I swore,
"It is survival."
I ended the call,
my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the small device.
I powered it off,
shoving it deep into the pocket of my sweatpants.
I had an ally.
A dangerous, volatile ally,
but an ally nonetheless.
I crept back upstairs,
slipping into bed beside the man who wanted to destroy me,
staring at the ceiling as the first light of dawn began to bleed through the curtains.
The pieces were moving on the board,
May you like
and for the first time in six months,
I was the one making the rules.
