She thought it was Damien, but it was just Marcus. Make fishing across ten screens.
Her phone had slipped from her grasp in a moment of distracted haste, and the call connected before she could summon the resolve to decline it. Now it was too late; his voice filtered through the speaker like an unwelcome intrusion into the sanctuary of her evening.
“Elena, you haven’t been taking my calls. Are you still upset?” Marcus’s tone carried its familiar authoritative cadence, yet tonight, to Elena, it resonated with an almost visceral repulsiveness, each syllable grating against the fragile composure she had carefully reconstructed over the past days.
She swiftly drew the device away from her ear, holding it at a distance as if the mere proximity might contaminate her further.
She offered no
