“No, Marcus,” I said, and for the first time in twelve years, my voice didn't tremble.
“What?”
“You don't need two hours,” I said softly:
“You don't need to come home at all.”
I tapped the red button, severed the connection, and dropped the phone into the crimson pool on the marble.
What Marcus Hale did not know was that across the city, at the Bellamy Hotel, two thousand imported Dutch white roses framed the private terrace, a sixteen-piece string orchestra was playing Debussy, and Vivian Cross was holding out her left hand to receive an eleven-point-four-carat flawless diamond ring worth nearly four million dollars—an engagement ring purchased with corporate capital from a company I had helped him build from a two-room garage in Mountain View.
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