You sold your entire career and reputation to marry a dying 72-year-old woman, Marcus, Julian Cross sneered across the mahogany conference table, tossing the tabloid front page between our coffee...
The phone rang again. This time, it was Richard. I almost didn’t answer.
“Marcus, please. Just hear me out,” he pleaded, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine remorse. “I’m sorry. I really am. I want to make things right before… before this whole mess consumes us.”
He suggested dinner at his apartment, just the two of us. “No lawyers, no agendas. Just father and son.”
Part of me screamed caution. But another, smaller part, still yearned for a connection with my father. And the lockbox, containing Section 14-B, felt too vulnerable left alone. I decided to bring it with me, hidden inside my leather briefcase. It was a mistake, I knew, but I went anyway.
His apartment was quiet, smelling of old spices and disuse. He was strangely solicitous, offering me a beer, asking about my apartment. Too solicitous.
He kept glancing at my briefcase, which I’d placed carefully on the coffee table. He tried to make eye contact, but his gaze kept darting to the worn leather. A flicker of suspicion ignited within me.
“So, about this whole Eleanor business,” he said, trying to sound casual, “what exactly are you planning?”
I kept my answer vague, watching him closely. “I’m just trying to honor her wishes, Dad.”
He nodded, but his eyes never left the briefcase. “Right. Her wishes.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I need to use the restroom. Be right back.”
He stood, moving a little too quickly. As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, I heard the faint rustle of movement near the coffee table.
I stayed in the kitchen, perfectly still, pretending to rummage through the refrigerator. I could hear him fumbling with the clasp of my briefcase. My heart hammered.
I walked back into the living room, my footsteps deliberately heavy.
Richard froze, his hand half-submerged in my open briefcase. An envelope, thick and white, lay discarded on the floor next to him. Inside my brief case, the blue-ink original of Section 14-B was dangerously close to being pulled free.
His eyes widened, caught red-handed. He yanked his hand out, a flush spreading across his face.
“Marcus! I was just… looking for a pen,” he stammered, poorly.
I stepped forward, my voice low and steady. “You were looking for Section 14-B, weren’t you?”
He couldn’t speak, just stood there, shoulders slumping. He hadn’t just been eyeing the briefcase. Julian’s driver was probably waiting downstairs for the document.
“This is it, Dad,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “You’ve chosen your side. And it’s not mine.”
I snatched the briefcase, slamming it shut. The metallic click echoed in the silent apartment.
“You ungrateful brat!” he finally exploded, his face contorting. “Do you know what you’re doing? You’re ruining everything! Julian will crush you! He’ll crush us both!”
I turned and walked out, not looking back. His shouts followed me down the hallway, but they were just noise now. The last thread of hope for reconciliation had snapped.
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