Chapter 88: The Phone Call
Julian was allowed one phone call at 9:17 a.m., and he chose Ivy because panic still remembered habit, not love, not trust, only habit, the last surviving reflex from a life where she had answered whenever he called.
The officer placed the receiver before him and watched without curiosity while Julian typed the number from memory.
He had known it for years, once with pleasure, then convenience, now with the thin hope that even betrayal might answer if frightened enough.
The line rang five times.
On the sixth, Ivy picked up.
For one second neither of them spoke, and that silence held more history than either wanted counted.
Then Julian said, I need a solicitor.
Ivy’s breathing changed. That was all.
Not are you all right. Not what happened. Not I am coming.
Only a small adjustment of breath, the sound of a woman measuring whether attachment could still pay rent.
Julian closed his eyes. Ivy, listen to me.
I am listening, Julian.
Her voice sounded smaller than it had in the ballroom, flatter than it had on camera.
The performance had left her, and without it she sounded almost ordinary.
I need you to contact Marcus Hale, Julian said. Tell him to coordinate with my litigation team and Merevale’s counsel.
Ivy said nothing.
Marcus Hale, he repeated. His number is in my office drawer.
Your office is sealed, she said.
That was not fear. That was accusation.
Then call Derek.
Derek is not answering me.
Julian’s hand tightened around the receiver, and the officer looked at the clock.
Ivy, you need to help me.
A laugh came through the line, not loud, not pleased, only broken in a way that made him suddenly cold.
Help you?
Yes.
With what money, Julian?
He heard traffic somewhere behind her, a hotel room television, perhaps a kettle clicking, ordinary sounds where his emergency had failed to become the centre.
My accounts are frozen, she said. My cards are dead. They took the dress. They took the car. They are asking questions about me everywhere.
This is not the time.
When was the time? When I was wearing your future in front of cameras, or when you looked at my stomach like a receipt you regretted?
Julian stared at the scratched table before him.
Do not start with that.
You started it when you counted weeks, she said.
The officer shifted. Two minutes.
Ivy, he said, lowering his voice because control used to live there. If I go down, you go down too.
The silence that followed was different.
He heard her understand the sentence, not as threat, but as information she might use.
Then her voice softened. Julian, I am pregnant.
He almost laughed, because she had chosen the oldest shield again and it sounded cheaper through a custody phone.
We both know what I know, he said.
She inhaled sharply. No, Julian. You suspect. You do not know.
That was true, legally. He hated that it was true.
Call Marcus, he said.
Another pause came.
Then Ivy hung up.
The receiver clicked against his ear with a small domestic finality, more intimate than the cell door.
Julian dialled again, and this time the line connected to a recorded message saying the number was not accepting unknown calls.
He tried once more, because men who built empires out of access hated proof that access had ended.
Same cold message.
The officer held out a hand for the receiver, and Julian gave it back slowly, feeling something detach inside him.
In the hotel room, Ivy looked at her phone, blocked the custody number, opened Clara Wren’s email, and stared at it for a very long time, considering what betrayal might pay when loyalty had gone bankrupt.