Page 100 of The Call She Made That He Never Answered
Her tone snapped me awake. I sat up abruptly and realized I wasn't wearing clothes.
My shirt and jacket were scattered on the floor. Unease crawled through me.
"Ella, what's going on?"
"Check your phone." She said. "I sent you some photos."
I opened the messages.
Blood rushed to my head. It was an extreme close-up—Vivian leaning down to kiss my cheek, her red lips pressed against my alcohol-flushed skin while my eyes were closed, looking defenseless, almost like I was enjoying it. The second photo showed her unbuttoning my shirt in an intensely suggestive pose, her fingertips teasing at my collarbone. The lighting was deliberately dark, and the photographer clearly crouched by the bed.
"Fuck!" I roared, threw off the covers, and jumped out of bed.
Not caring about my nakedness, I slammed the intercom button and snarled: "Get Vivian into my office right now!"
I threw on my shirt and pants, buttons misaligned, but no time to fix them. I called Ella back, this time on video.
When it connected, I saw Ella sitting on the couch in the Rochester apartment. Her face was ghostly pale, hands clasped over her swollen belly. Her eyes were calm, unreadable. That lack of control terrified me more than anything.
"Ella, listen to me, the photos aren't real!" I explained carefully to the screen, cold sweat sliding down my neck. "I was drunk last night. I didn't know anything. I swear to God, I didn't do anything."
Ella watched me silently.
That silence was worse than any accusation. I felt my world collapsing. I'd worked so hard to earn back her trust, convinced her to give me another chance, and now—everything was ruined.
"Ella, please believe me..."
"I believe you." She finally spoke.
I froze. "What?"
"I said, I believe you." She sighed. "Lucas, I know Vivian did this. The photo angles are too deliberate. And if something really happened between you two, she wouldn't just take these photos, and she definitely wouldn't send them to my phone. This kind of provocation is too obvious."
My eyes suddenly burned.
"Ella."
"But I'm not letting her get away with it this time." Her voice turned serious. "Lucas, keep your phone on. Don't hang up. I want to confront Vivian myself."
I'd just positioned my phone on the desk stand when the office door opened.
Ella heard it too. She raised a finger to her lips.
Vivian walked in on red-soled stilettos. She'd clearly dressed up—silk blouse with a plunging neckline. Without invitation, she sat down, abandoning her usual sweet act for a triumphant smile that made my stomach turn. If Ella hadn't asked, I'd throw her out right now.
"Lucas, you're awake?" She leaned forward on my desk, that cloying perfume invading my space. I suddenly understood why Ella wouldn't even touch the passenger seat after Vivian had been in my car.
When I didn't respond, Vivian's voice turned more suggestive. "You drank so much last night. I had such a hard time getting you settled. Don't you remember how tight you held me?"
My hand clenched into a fist on the desk, jaw locked. "Vivian, are you bored with how smoothly your life's been going? Looking for some excitement?"
The anger in my voice was unmistakable. Vivian heard it—she was smart enough—but instead of fear, her smile deepened.
She laughed softly, walked around the desk, and reached for my shoulder.
"Those were just capturing our intimate moments. Lucas, stop pretending. It's not like we haven't been together before. Remember at Harvard? In that Boston apartment, you always said you loved it when I wore that black lace—"
"Shut your mouth!" I shot up, shoving her hand away hard enough to make her stumble. "Vivian, do you have amnesia? We broke up years ago. You've never been short on men. Stop playing the devoted lover. To me now, you're just an employee. Who gave you the nerve to sneak into my lounge and take that disgusting shit?"
