Chapter 2: The Eavesdropper’s Curse
The revelation didn’t come with a dramatic confrontation; it came by accident, disguised as a mundane errand.
Two nights after the email incident, Marcus and I found ourselves standing outside Brianna’s upscale downtown apartment. We were only there to drop off an expensive crystal vase—an engagement gift his elderly Aunt Carol had accidentally shipped to our address. I had stayed in the car initially, but the evening air was stifling, and the tight, anxious knot in my chest demanded I keep moving, so I followed Marcus up to the fourth floor.
The hallway smelled faintly of expensive floral perfume and stale air conditioning.
Marcus raised his hand to knock, balancing the heavy box against his hip. But before his knuckles could strike the wood, we noticed the door was slightly ajar. The deadbolt hadn’t caught.
We were about to push it open and announce ourselves when Brianna’s voice drifted out from the kitchen, sharp and clear. She had someone on speakerphone. It was Tasha, her fiercely loyal, equally shallow maid of honor.
“I had to invite her, obviously,” Brianna was saying. The sound of a wine glass clinking heavily against a granite counter echoed through the crack in the door. “Marcus is paying for the entire weekend, the cabana, the bottles, everything. If I didn’t invite his precious wife, he’d probably pull the funding.”
I froze. A cold dread, sharp as a physical blade, coiled in my gut. Marcus froze beside me, his hand still hovering inches from the wood.
Tasha’s laughter crackled through the phone speaker, tinny and cruel. “So, what’s the bet? You think she’ll actually show up in the white two-piece?”
Brianna lowered her voice into that falsely intimate, viciously sweet register she used when she was feeling particularly powerful.
“Fifty bucks says she claims she has a ‘migraine’ or a ‘stomach bug’ the morning of,” Brianna sneered. “There is absolutely no way she’s putting that bloated, lumpy stomach in a white bikini next to us. Did you see her at brunch? She looked completely sloppy. She’s huge right now.”
My breath hitched. The air in the hallway suddenly felt too thin to breathe. I took a step back, wanting to run, wanting to hide under the covers of my bed and never look at this family again.
But Marcus caught my wrist. His grip was tight, anchoring me to the floor. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. His thumb hit the voice memo app.
He pressed record.
“Honestly, it’s a brilliant trap,” Tasha chimed in, her voice dripping with amusement. “If she actually shows up and puts it on, we’ll just stick her in the back of the group shots. Or we’ll make sure she’s sitting down with a towel over her. She’s way too big for a swimsuit around us anyway. It’ll be hilarious.”
“It’s a win-win,” Brianna agreed, pouring more wine. “She backs out on her own because she’s too insecure, I get my perfect photos without her ruining the aesthetic, and Marcus can’t say I didn’t include her. I literally rolled out the red carpet. It’s not my fault she doesn’t fit the vibe.”
Marcus held the phone steady. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths. He recorded every poisonous syllable until the conversation shifted to whether they should book a spray tan artist for the hotel room.
Then, without a single sound, he slid the phone back into his pocket. He didn’t push the door open. He didn’t yell. He carefully set the heavy box with the crystal vase down on the hallway carpet, right at the threshold of her door.
He turned around, placed his hand on the small of my back, and guided me toward the elevator.
Neither of us spoke until the heavy metal doors shut, encasing us in the quiet sanctuary of our vehicle in the underground parking garage. The silence was deafening, pressing against my eardrums. I stared blankly through the windshield at the concrete wall ahead.
“I want to go home,” I whispered, my voice finally breaking, the tears I had been fighting spilling hot over my eyelashes. “Please, Marcus. I just want to go home.”
Marcus didn’t start the engine. He unbuckled his seatbelt, turned his entire body toward me, and took both of my trembling hands in his. His eyes were dark, swirling with a protective fury I had rarely seen in the seven years I had known him.
“We are going home,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “We are going to go home, and we are going to rest. And next weekend, we are going to that water park.”
I shook my head frantically. “No. I can’t. You heard them—”
“I heard them,” he interrupted gently but firmly. “And next weekend, we are going. But we aren’t going there to celebrate her, sweetheart. We are going there to burn her little kingdom to the ground.”
