Chapter 2b: The Phone Call II

Elena’s vision blurred. The hallway tilted sideways. She stumbled back from the door, her shoulder hitting the wall hard enough to hurt.

Jennifer was suddenly at her elbow, steadying her. “Mrs. Thorne? Are you okay? You look pale.”

“I need…” Elena’s voice came out strangled. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course. It’s just down the…”

But Elena was already running. She made it to the bathroom and into a stall before she threw up. Her whole body shook as she heaved, losing the coffee she’d drunk, losing everything, until there was nothing left.

She slumped against the stall wall, breathing hard. Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely lock the stall door.

Isabelle was alive. Marcus knew. And he’d just told her nothing else mattered.

Not his business. Not his marriage. Not Elena.

Nothing else mattered compared to Isabelle.

Elena pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from screaming. Five years. Five years of her life, wasted on a man who’d been in love with someone else the entire time. Five years of trying to be good enough, pretty enough, interesting enough, and it had never mattered at all.

Because she wasn’t Isabelle.

The bathroom door opened. Footsteps approached, then stopped outside her stall.

“Mrs. Thorne?” Jennifer’s voice was soft, careful. “I brought you some water.”

Elena wanted to tell her to go away. To leave her alone in her humiliation. But her throat was too raw from throwing up.

She unlocked the stall door and stepped out. Jennifer stood there holding a bottle of water, her expression professionally blank. But her eyes were kind. Too kind.

She knew, Elena realized. Jennifer knew about Isabelle. Maybe everyone knew. Maybe Elena was the only one who’d been stupid enough to believe Marcus could ever love her.

“Thank you,” Elena whispered, taking the water. Her hands were still shaking.

“Should I call someone for you? Your friend, maybe? Victoria?”

“No.” Elena’s voice came out sharper than she intended. “No, I’m fine.”

“Mrs. Thorne…”

“I said I’m fine.” Elena pushed past her, heading for the door. She needed to get out of here. Out of this building where everyone knew her husband loved someone else. Out of this bathroom where she’d just thrown up her dignity along with her breakfast.

“You forgot the lunch,” Jennifer called after her.

Elena didn’t stop walking. “He can starve.”

She made it to her car before the tears started again. She sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, and tried to breathe.

Isabelle was alive. Marcus knew. Nothing else mattered.

The words kept repeating in her head like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: Jennifer said you stopped by. Is everything ok?

Elena stared at the message. He didn’t even ask why she’d left in such a hurry. Didn’t come out of his office to check on her. Just sent a text, checking a box, covering his bases.

She typed and deleted three different responses. I heard you on the phone. Delete. Who’s Isabelle? Delete. How could you? Delete.

Finally, she just wrote: Everything’s fine.

The lie felt familiar on her fingers. She’d been telling it for five years.

Another text from Marcus: Good. I have to work late again tonight. Don’t wait up.

Translation: he was meeting Isabelle.

Elena turned off her phone and started the car. She drove home on autopilot, barely seeing the road, nearly missing two red lights. By the time she pulled into their driveway, she couldn’t remember the drive at all.

The house felt different now. Colder. Emptier. Like it knew what she’d learned, like it was mourning with her.

Elena walked inside and went straight to Marcus’s office. He kept it locked, but she knew where he hid the key, taped under his desk drawer, because he thought she was too naive to look.

She unlocked the door and went straight to the filing cabinet he thought she didn’t know about. The one with his personal documents, his private papers, his secrets.

The drawer was locked too. Elena grabbed a letter opener from his desk and pried it open. The lock broke with a satisfying crack.

Inside, she found files labeled with dates and business deals. And underneath them all, a box. Leather-bound, expensive, clearly important.

Elena pulled it out with shaking hands and opened it.

Photos spilled out. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

All of Isabelle.

Isabelle laughing. Isabelle at the beach. Isabelle in a cocktail dress. Isabelle and Marcus together, his arms around her, looking at her the way he’d never once looked at Elena.

And underneath the photos, recent ones. Time-stamped from the last six months.

Isabelle at a restaurant. Isabelle getting out of a limo. Isabelle wearing a black dress and a fortune in diamonds. Isabelle is very much alive.

Elena’s hands shook as she picked up one of the recent photos. On the back, in Marcus’s handwriting: Finally found her. She’s alive. She’s perfect. She’s coming back.

The date was from three weeks ago.

Three weeks. Marcus had known Isabelle was alive for three weeks, and he hadn’t said a word. He’d kept coming home to Elena, sleeping in his office, treating her like an inconvenience, all while planning his reunion with the woman he actually loved.

Elena took out her phone and started photographing everything. Every photo, every note, every piece of evidence. Her hands were steady now. Her vision was clear. The shock was wearing off, replaced by something else.

Something that felt a lot like rage.

When she’d documented everything, she put it all back exactly as she’d found it. She locked the filing cabinet drawer with a piece of tape to hold it closed. Then she locked Marcus’s office door and put the key back in its hiding place.

By the time Victoria arrived at noon, Elena was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a plan.

Victoria took one look at her face and said, “What happened?”

Elena looked up at her only friend and said, very calmly, “Marcus’s dead girlfriend isn’t dead. And I think it’s time I hired a private investigator.”