Chapter 33 — Victor Calls First
I let Victor’s call ring three times before answering. Not because I was brave.
Because Marcus covered my hand with his and mouthed one word.
Record everything. So I did.
Then I answered. “Mr Lang.” “Mrs Hart,” Victor said, as if we were meeting at a charity lunch instead of standing across a wet street after someone had sent a warning to my hotel room.
The silver car idled beneath the plane tree. Its wipers moved though the rain had thinned to mist.
Victor’s silhouette was still. A man who had never been chased did not know how to sit like prey.
“I hear you had an eventful morning,” he said. “That sounds like something you would know more about than I do.”
A soft laugh. “You are acquiring confidence at an alarming pace.”
“No. I am wasting less energy hiding it.” There was a pause.
Good. Let him adjust.
“You should understand something,” Victor said. “Ryan is finished if this continues.”
“Ryan finished himself.” “He is your husband.”
“He remembered that late.” Marcus’s eyes flicked to mine. Careful.
I was very careful.
Careful did not mean soft. Victor said, “I can make this easier.”
“For whom?” “For everyone.”
“Everyone usually means you.”
His voice cooled. “You have photographs, a household inventory, and the word of my wife while she is upset. That is not a case.” “No,” I said. “It is a reason for lawyers to ask better questions.”
Another pause. He had expected ignorance. Powerful men love ignorance. It lets them sound patient while they steal the room.
“What do you want?” he asked.
There it was. The question hiding behind every threat.
“I want the truth documented.” “Truth is rarely as useful as settlement.”
“Then perhaps you have been buying the wrong thing.”
Marcus almost smiled. Victor did not. “I can offer money.”
“I know.” “Enough to change your life.”
“My life already changed.”
“You misunderstand me.” “No,” I said. “You misunderstand me. I did not come for your money. I came because you thought women were furniture.”
Silence. Then his voice dropped. “You were a maid in my house.”
“Yes.”
“And you should have stayed one.” The street seemed to go quiet around that sentence.
I looked at the silver car, at the man who built rooms from signatures, silence, frightened wives, and ambitious fools. “Victor,” I said softly, “that was your mistake.”
Marcus held up one finger.
Keep him talking. Victor obliged.
“You think Diana will stand beside you? She will not. Comfort makes weak witnesses.” “Does it?”
“Lila will protect herself. Ryan will blame you. Your marriage will become evidence against you. By the time this reaches any hearing, you will be a bitter wife with copied images and a story.”
His contempt should have hurt. Instead, it organised me.
“Say that again,” I said. “What?”
“That I am a bitter wife with copied images and a story.”
He laughed. “You are a bitter wife with copied images and a story.” Marcus looked at the recording screen.
Enough. “Thank you,” I said.
Victor stopped laughing. “What have you done?”
“Documented the truth.” His voice sharpened. “You recorded this call?”
“You called me.” “You little—”
He stopped himself.
Too late. The mask had cracked, and we had both heard it.
Marcus took the phone gently from my hand. “Mr Lang, this is Marcus Vale. All future communication with my client goes through my office.” Victor hung up.
Across the street, the silver car remained still.
Then its rear window lowered. Victor looked directly at me. No smile now.
Only the first clean outline of fear on him. My phone buzzed.
Diana: I am with Marcus’s associate. I have the tablet copies.
Then another message arrived. Lila: I want a deal.