Home Wrecker

The 7:30 am consultation

Emma was awake before her alarm on Tuesday. At 6:00 AM, the apartment was still and cold, a stark contrast to the luxurious warmth of the Thompson estate. She didn't dress in casual wear; she put on a tailored silk blouse and sharp black trousers, professional armor for a professional meeting. She wanted to feel the part of the sophisticated strategic advisor, even if Ryan could only hear her voice.

She brewed a single, strong cup of espresso, ignoring the pastries Sophia had offered her days ago. Focus was key.

By 7:20 AM, she was seated at her desk, Ryan's private email and the anniversary budget spreadsheet open on her screen. She didn't need to review the budget; she had memorized every allocation. She was reviewing her notes on Ryan Thompson: his board appointments, his last three major mergers, the details of the Modernist Art collection he’d donated. She needed to speak his language, make him believe their ten minutes were the most efficient and stimulating part of his day.

The phone rang precisely at 7:30 AM. His private number. Emma allowed one full ring before answering, injecting just a hint of brisk efficiency into her voice.

"Good morning, Mr. Thompson. Emma Taylor speaking."

"Ms. Taylor. Prompt. I appreciate that," Ryan's voice was sharp, low, and perfectly articulate. He sounded like a man who was already two hours into his workday. "Let's make this quick. Ten minutes. What is the strategic flow?"

"Of course, sir. I’ve broken the anniversary down into three strategic pillars," Emma began, immediately lifting the conversation out of the superficial event details.

"Pillar One is Intellectual Alignment," she stated. "The art deco keepsakes you approved are perfect, but to capitalize on that narrative, I suggest placing a brief, elegant card alongside them,not just a thank you, but a quote from one of the artists in the collection you donated. It subtly validates the guests' own intellectual curiosity, linking it back to the Thompson brand of sophisticated achievement."

Ryan made a low, approving sound. "A quote. That's good. Simple, effective. Go on."

"Pillar Two is Contained Exclusivity. Sophia has ensured the aesthetics are luxurious, but the party must feel exclusive, not merely extravagant. I want to replace the standard open bar service at cocktail hour with a small, highly trained team dedicated to creating one custom signature cocktail designed exclusively for this event,something premium, perhaps using your favorite aged scotch."

She paused, letting the subtle personal reference land.

"This controls the flow, elevates the bar service to an 'experience,' and, frankly, reduces the potential liability we discussed," Emma concluded.

"Liability and exclusivity in one proposal. You're efficient, Ms. Taylor," Ryan noted. "I like the focus on Scotch. Send me three options. What’s your final pillar?"

Emma’s pulse quickened. She was not only holding his attention, she was successfully soliciting a personal choice from him.

"Pillar Three is Future Leverage. Every detail points forward. The jazz quartet is excellent, but for the final hour, to send guests home with genuine buzz, I recommend booking a brief, unannounced set by Julianne Vance,the cellist currently receiving rave reviews on the European circuit. It's expensive, but securing her now, before she hits the US, makes the Thompsons look forward-thinking and culturally ahead of the curve. It gives the guests something concrete and surprising to gossip about for weeks."

She waited. The silence was untouchable. She knew the Julianne Vance suggestion was risky it was a significant unbudgeted expense but it was a power move designed to impress his business acumen.

"Julianne Vance," Ryan murmured. "Ambitious. That would be a statement." He sighed, not in annoyance, but consideration. "You've given me more to think about in five minutes than I usually get in an entire board meeting. Send me the Vance retainer details and the scotch options immediately. I'll authorize the expense."

"Understood, Mr. Thompson. I will have that on your desk before 9 AM."

"Very good. Thank you, Emma."

He used her first name. It was barely noticeable, but Emma felt the shift of familiarity like a subtle physical touch.

"Thank you, Ryan," she replied, matching his casual intimacy before hanging up.

The ten minutes were over. She had walked in a planner, and emerged a collaborator.

Just as the elation of the call peaked, her personal cell phone buzzed. It was a local number, one she hadn't dialed in years but knew by heart: Mama.

Emma’s shoulders tightened. She took a deep breath, replacing the tailored, professional mask with one of weary, practiced patience.

"Hello, Mama."

"Emma, you haven't picked up in a week," her mother's voice was thin, laced with the familiar edge of guilt and complaint. "Did you forget about the utility bill? It's due today, and they threatened to shut off the power if I don't pay the full balance this time."

The sophisticated language of art, scotch, and liability instantly evaporated, replaced by the bitter, hard edges of her past. Emma’s office suddenly felt small and cold again.

"I sent the money last week, Mama. The full amount," Emma said, keeping her voice flat. "Did you spend it on something else?"

"I needed new medication! Don't you dare accuse me," the voice snapped, defensive and sharp. "Just send another two hundred dollars to cover the difference, please. I'm worried sick, Emma."

Emma closed her eyes briefly, visualizing the opulent space of the Thompson Great Hall. Two hundred dollars was less than the cost of one centerpiece vase.

"Fine. It will be wired to your account within the hour," Emma said, not allowing a single syllable of emotion to crack her resolve. She wasn't resentful; she was focused. This constant, draining reality was precisely the reason she was sitting here, playing this dangerous game.

"Thank you, dear. I knew you wouldn't let your mother down." The relief was instant, followed by a quick hang-up.

Emma put the phone down gently, the trace scent of poverty and need clinging to the air around her. The small, cold triumph she had felt moments before solidified into pure, sharp steel. The Thompson world wasn't a want; it was a necessity. She had to succeed, not just to build a beautiful life, but to permanently escape the gravitational pull of the one she had left behind.

She opened her banking app to wire the money to her mother. While the transfer processed, she switched to a secure, encrypted messaging app, scrolling to a contact 'Liam'.

A message from last night flashed: "Status update: Rachel officially moved from ICU to general recovery. Prognosis positive, but facing months of intense rehab. Out of the game for good."

The message provided a grim satisfaction. Rachel, the "original planner," was alive, which kept Emma legally clean, but she was incapacitated,permanently removed from the running. Emma had often thought of Rachel’s fate: a few days of excruciating abdominal pain from the tampered catered lunch, followed by a ruined career. The thought didn't bring remorse, only clarity. There were no accidents in Emma's world, only carefully engineered outcomes.

She quickly typed a reply to Liam: "Ensure silence remains the priority. Double her retainer."

Closing the app, Emma returned to her work. She focused on the Julianne Vance retainer details and the Scotch options for Ryan. The two hundred dollars she had just wired to her mother, the thousands she was paying for Rachel's silence,all of it was a temporary investment. The final prize, Ryan Thompson's world—would cover every debt, every secret, and every sacrifice she had made to get there.