Chapter 4

The phone rang once, twice. Each tone was an eternity. I stood in the dark guest room, clutching the device like a lifeline, my knuckles white. What if she didn’t answer? What if she was busy? What if, after all this time, even Emma had moved on?

The click of connection was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

“Sophia? Hey, isn’t tonight your big anniversary bash?” Emma’s voice was warm, laced with its usual energetic curiosity. “How’s it going? Did lover boy cry when he saw the video?”

The normalcy of her question was a dagger to my heart. A sob, harsh and unexpected, ripped from my throat. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle it.

The line went silent for a beat. “Sophia?” Emma’s tone shifted instantly. The lightness vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp alertness. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

I tried to form words, but all that came out was a choked, broken noise. I was shattering, right there on the phone.

“Breathe,” Emma commanded, her voice calm and firm. “Just breathe. In and out. I’m right here. You’re safe. Now, tell me what happened. One word at a time.”

I sucked in a ragged breath. The air felt thin. “The… party,” I managed to gasp. “Marcus… a recording…”

“What recording? Sophia, you’re scaring me. Did he hurt you?” Her voice was tight with a protective anger I hadn’t realized I’d been starving for.

“No. Worse.” The word was a whisper. I forced the story out in disjointed fragments. The old phone. The audio file. The cold, plotting voices. The sanatorium. The brand. The public humiliation. The shattered glass. His threats at the door.

When I finished, there was a long, heavy silence on the other end. I braced for pity. For disbelief.

I got neither.

“That soulless, calculating son of a bitch,” Emma hissed. The venom in her voice was pure, undiluted, and it felt like a balm on my raw nerves. There was no doubt. No questioning. Just immediate, absolute belief. And rage. A righteous, shared rage.

“I have no proof,” I whispered, the crushing weight of it all pressing down on me again. “It’s my word against his. He’s Marcus Thorne. Who’s going to believe me?”

“I believe you,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And we’re going to get proof. We’re going to get so much proof they’ll need a truck to haul his ass to jail.”

We. The word was a life raft.

“Listen to me, Sophie. Look around. Are you safe? Is he in the house?”

“I’m locked in the guest room. He’s… downstairs.” I could still hear him pacing, the low thrum of his furious voice as he presumably made calls to Lucas.

“Good. Stay there. Do not engage. He’s dangerous now. A cornered animal.” Her mind was already working, clicking into a mode I remembered from our university days—Emma the strategist, the fixer. “First, we secure the evidence. The old phone. Where is it?”

“In my hand.”

“Is it locked? Password?”

“No. It’s an old model. He never set a new one after he ‘lost’ it.”

“Perfect. Email the audio file to yourself. Right now. And to me. Use a brand-new email account he doesn’t know about. Do it now, while I’m on the phone.”

Her orders were clear, precise. They gave me a task. Something to do instead of just feeling. My fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the old phone. I found the file, attached it to a new email from a service I’d never used, and sent it to my main account and to Emma.

“Sent,” I said, a sliver of strength returning.

“Good. Now, hide that phone. Somewhere he would never think to look. Not your purse. Not your drawers.”

My eyes scanned the room. They landed on a vent near the floor. It was dusty, overlooked. I pried the cover off, dropped the phone inside, and snapped the cover back on.

“Done.”

“Okay. Step one complete. We have the smoking gun.” She took a deep breath. “Now, we need to think. The brand. ‘Scent of Memory.’ You have the original paperwork? The designs?”

A memory, faint but clear, surfaced. “I… I think so. When I moved my stuff out of the old studio, I put everything in boxes. Marcus wanted me to ‘declutter.’ I was going to throw them away, but I couldn’t. I stored them in the basement. Behind the Christmas decorations. He never goes down there.”

“That’s our next move. We need those originals. Before he does.” I could hear the sound of her typing rapidly. “I’m clearing my schedule for the next… however long this takes. We’re going to war, Sophia. And we’re going to win.”

Tears welled in my eyes again, but this time, they weren’t tears of despair. They were tears of relief. Of gratitude. I wasn’t alone in the dark.

“Emma… thank you. I don’t know what I’d do…”

“Stop,” she cut me off, her voice softening. “This is what sisters are for. We’re going to take that bastard for everything he’s worth. We’re going to get your life back. And we’re going to make sure he regrets the day he ever decided to cross you.”

For the first time since the recording started playing, a real, genuine emotion broke through the numbness. It wasn’t happiness. It was colder, sharper.

It was the thrill of the hunt.

“Okay,” I said, my voice firming. “What’s the plan?”

Emma’s smile was audible through the phone. “First, you get some sleep. Tomorrow, the real work begins. Welcome back, Sophia. It’s time to remind everyone—especially yourself—exactly who the hell you are.”

The call ended. I stood in the silence of the room, but it was no longer an oppressive silence. It was the quiet before the storm.

A storm I was no longer afraid of.

I had an ally. I had a target.

And I had nothing left to lose.