My Ex-Husband's Greatest Regret
The screen lit up with an unfamiliar, unlisted number from the southern territory.
I frowned, my thumb hovering over the screen. Was it a supplier from the morning's ledger? A courier confirming delivery routes?
"Excuse me for a second," I told Martha and Clara, stepping away from the table toward the quieter edge of the greenhouse, surrounded by tall hanging ferns.
I swiped the green icon and brought the phone to my ear.
"Hello?" I answered neutrally.
There was a moment of heavy, ragged breathing on the other end of the line—the sound of someone gasping for air, trembling with panic.