Chapter 6 - Beverly's Migraine
Graham stared at the photograph as if it were a venomous snake coiled on the mahogany table. His throat bobbed. He tried to speak, but only a dry, rattling gasp came out.
"Mara… where did you get this?"
"The Gilded Whisk sends its regards," I said, resting my hands lightly across my baby bump. "They were very curious why Lantern Quay was paying for two identical nautical cakes on the same morning. So I decided to check out the venue."
"This… this isn't what it looks like," he stammered, stepping forward, his hands raised in a pathetic gesture of appeasement. "Mara, let me explain. Colette is an important design partner. That was a PR stunt. The little girl is—"
"Her name is Iris," I cut him off, the coldness in my voice freezing the air between us. "She turned seven today. You had our company card billed eighteen hundred dollars for her party. And Beverly’s 'migraine' must have cleared up miraculously fast, considering she was sitting in the front row handing Iris a Cartier box."
Graham’s eyes darted toward the entryway, as if calculating whether he could bolt out the door. The smooth, invincible facade he had worn for eleven years was cracking into jagged shards.
"You spied on me?" his voice suddenly pitched higher, turning defensive, trying to claw back control. "You stalked my business meeting while you were supposed to be watching our kids?"
"Your *business meeting*?" I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that shook my entire chest. "You stood in front of fifty people, called that woman your wife, called that child your daughter, and claimed you built my company with your bare hands. And then you have the audacity to come into my house and tell me I need to learn to manage money?"
His phone buzzed violently on the counter.
Then it buzzed again. And again.
Graham snatched it up. His screen was flashing with alerts from his banking apps.
*DECLINED: South End Valet.*
*DECLINED: Pier 4 Catering Final Balance.*
*ACCOUNT SUSPENDED: Lantern Quay Corporate Card Ending in 8802.*
"What did you do?" Graham hissed, his face turning an ugly shade of mottled red. "What the hell did you do to my accounts?"
"Not your accounts, Graham. Mine. Lantern Quay is a sole proprietorship under my name. You are an employee. Or rather, you were an employee until two o'clock this afternoon when I terminated your access."
"You can't do that!" he shouted, slamming his palm against the dining table. "I built the logistics network! Vance & Whitcomb has commercial contracts signed! The deposit for the Pier 4 catering needs to clear by six o'clock or they'll hold our security bond!"
"Then I suggest you ask Colette for a loan," I said calmly. "Or better yet, ask your mother. She seems to have plenty of spare cash for jewelry."
Right on cue, Graham's phone rang. The caller ID flashed: *Mother*.
Graham stared at it, frozen.
"Answer it," I whispered. "Put it on speaker."
He didn't move. I reached across the table, tapped the green button, and hit the speaker icon.
Beverly’s shrill, excited voice filled the dining room:
"Graham, darling! It was simply magnificent! Iris looked like an absolute angel with that sailboat cake. Colette said the new studio space in Back Bay is already featured on the architectural blog. Did that drab little wife of yours ever figure out why you canceled June's party? Make sure she doesn't check the corporate statement until Monday!"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
May you like
Graham stood there, his phone glowing in his trembling hand, staring at the woman he had underestimated for over a decade.
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