Chapter 7 - The Video Call
At exactly 8:00 p.m., my laptop screen flickered.
The Zoom interface opened with a sharp chime, displaying a split-screen video feed from a cramped, fluorescent-lit shipboard administrative office somewhere in the bowels of the Royal Horizon.
The image was grainy, distorted by satellite lag and bad Wi-Fi.
Four faces crowded into the small camera frame, looking like survivors of a shipwreck who had just realized the lifeboat was full of holes.
My mother’s mascara was smeared in dark tracks down her cheeks, her hair standing up in wild, static-charged clumps. My father looked ten years older, his collar unbuttoned, his face the color of wet paste.
Vivien was sitting in the corner of the frame, clutching a bottle of hotel water, her eyes red and swollen, staring blankly at the wall.
And Marcus—confident, smooth Marcus—was leaning over the desk, his face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the monitor.
“Audrey!” Marcus barked the moment my video feed connected, his voice cracking slightly. “What kind of sick, pathetic stunt are you pulling? Some crooked prosecutor in the district attorney’s office just slapped a federal asset freeze on every corporate account I manage. My clients are screaming, my office is locked, and the captain of this damn ship just told us we’re being detained for questioning when we dock in Miami!”
I didn't move. I sat back in my leather desk chair, a steaming mug of tea resting between my hands, my face perfectly calm under the warm glow of my desk lamp.
“Hello, Marcus,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the tinny laptop speakers. “Enjoying the Caribbean?”
“Audrey, stop this right now!” my mother shrieked, leaning so close to the webcam that her nose appeared distorted and huge on my screen. “Your father is a sick man! How could you do this to your own family? While we were trying to celebrate, while we invited you to share in our joy—”
“You bought me a five-dollar lottery ticket as a joke,” I interrupted quietly.
The room on the other end of the screen went dead silent.
The only sound was the low, rhythmic thrum of the ship’s emergency diesel generators vibrating through the hull.
“What?” my father whispered, his voice trembling.
“You handed me a crumpled piece of thermal paper across the Thanksgiving table,” I said, leaning forward so they could see every detail of my face. “You laughed when I opened it. You told me it felt more appropriate for my situation. You reminded me, in every subtle and not-so-subtle way, that I was the invisible daughter—the one who didn't deserve a seat on the luxury cruise, the one who existed only to serve food and clean up your mess.”
Marcus sneered, trying to recover a shred of his arrogant swagger. “It was a joke, you bitter little b—structured humor. Get over yourself. Drop the lawsuits before I sue you for malicious prosecution!”
“You can’t sue anyone, Marcus,” I said softly.
I reached to the side of my desk, picked up a thick, leather-bound legal folder bearing the stamp of the federal district court, and dropped it onto the glass surface of my desk with a heavy, deliberate thud.
“Because right now, the FBI’s white-collar crime division is executing a search warrant on your home office in the suburbs. They’re pulling every file on your illegal bridge loans, your forged signatures on Grandma Grace’s mortgage rider, and those charming text messages you exchanged with Diana while planning to leave Vivien stranded with zero dollars and maximum debt.”
Vivien’s head snapped up.
May you like
Her face went from pale to a chalky, translucent white. She slowly turned her head toward her husband, her eyes wide with a terrifying, dawning horror.
“What... what did she say?” Vivien whispered, her voice shaking so hard the water bottle in her hand rattled against her teeth. “Marcus... what is she talking about? Who is Diana?”
