Page 49 of The Call She Made That He Never Answered
Finally, Joe stepped closer, like he'd made up his mind.
"Helping you makes me happy." The words came fast, like something was chasing him. "I can't give you what your ex-husband could—the money, the lifestyle. But if you let me, I'll stay by your side. I'll help you however I can."
I stopped what I was doing and looked up at him. His eyes didn't carry Lucas's condescension. Just clumsy, awkward sincerity.
"Okay. Thank you, Joe," I said softly, meaning it. "You've already helped so much. Really."
My mood lifted.
After leaving Lucas, I'd fallen from a mirage back into real life. We were ordinary people. We worried about bills, stressed about work. Our struggles were shared. We understood each other.
I liked real life. Solid ground beneath my feet.
But Joe's words reminded me of something.
That night, I checked my bank account.
The past two years, I'd lived in a kind of fantasy. The Rockefeller family was a massive, well-oiled machine. The manor's operating expenses came from the family foundation. Beyond the major expenditures handled by accountants, all I touched was a sliver off the top—but that sliver was enough for me to donate regularly to a dozen charities.
At first, having that much money made me nervous. But after watching it flow out day after day, I'd stopped thinking about it.
I'd never had money growing up, so I'd never cared much about it. Then at the sanatorium, everything was covered—room, board, meals. My paycheck went straight to Maya's medical debt the second it hit my account. I'd gotten used to not having money. So I didn't miss what I'd never really had.
Now, doing the math, subtracting Maya's medical expenses and the massive cost of a kidney transplant, I didn't have much left to live on.
I stared at the numbers. Ran them again. Panic crept in. I'd forgotten something critical.
I was pregnant.
Which meant I wouldn't be able to work for a long time.
How was I going to pay for the baby?
Chapter Fourteen
Lucas
Ella never answered my calls again.
After she blocked me that night, rage burned through my chest like wildfire out of control. No woman had ever treated me this way. From the moment I hit puberty, I'd been surrounded by women who'd do anything for my attention, not cut me off like I was the goddamn plague.
But after two days of cooling off, the anger faded. I realized I couldn't treat Ella like those revolving-door girlfriends. She wasn't some disposable woman. She was my wife, legally registered, sworn before God to grow old with me, to be buried beside me when we died. I should've given her more patience, more tolerance. Not thrown in the towel over one setback.
I tried two more new numbers. Every call went nowhere. Eventually, I got nothing but that mechanical voicemail. That's when it hit me. Ella had probably changed all her contact information. I'd heard about women who burned everything after a breakup. Never thought Ella would do it to me.
My heart turned to ash.
I had one option left.
To pull it off, I waited until two a.m., making sure Mrs. Hughes and every servant in the manor had gone to bed. Then I crept downstairs like some kind of burglar, sneaking through my own goddamn house into the housekeeper's office behind the kitchen.
I didn't turn on the lights. Just used my phone's glow to search the bookshelf. I could've asked Mrs. Hughes for Maya's number in the morning, but I couldn't stomach it. The second I opened my mouth, those all-knowing eyes of hers would fill with pity—even for just a second, and that would be unbearable.
The thought of servants whispering behind my back about how "Mr. Rockefeller's reduced to hunting down his wife's whereabouts" would destroy what little authority I had left in this house.
I finally found the thick contact book. Mrs. Hughes, old-school as ever, kept everything handwritten. I used to mock how outdated and inefficient that was. Now it was my lifeline. I flipped to Maya's page, snapped a photo of the unfamiliar number, then slipped the book back exactly as I'd found it and escaped to the study.
Back at my desk, I stared at those digits on my screen, finger hovering over the call button. Couldn't press it.
