Chapter 3 - The Managing Partner’s Call
By the time Ethan and I reached our home in the hills overlooking the city, the adrenaline had begun to fade, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in my temples. I stood in front of the master bathroom mirror, carefully peeling off the sticky, wine-stained cotton of my shirt and tossing it straight into the laundry basket.
Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching me with a quiet, steady gaze.
“You handled that with a lot more restraint than I would have,” Ethan said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. “I was about two seconds away from having security escort her out the front doors in handcuffs.”
I splashed cold water on my face, looking up at my reflection. “If I had let you rescue me, she would have walked out of there believing she was still superior—just victimized by a powerful man protecting his wife. I needed her to understand that I built this. I didn't need your protection to put her in her place.”
“I know,” Ethan said, stepping closer and resting his hands gently on my bare shoulders, kissing the top of my head. “And that’s why I love you. But she’s not going to take this lying down, Maya. People like Lauren live in terror of being exposed as small people.”
He was right. Less than an hour later, while I was downstairs brewing a cup of chamomile tea, my cell phone buzzed violently on the kitchen island.
It was an unknown number with a local area code.
I swiped to answer. “Hello?”
“Maya? Maya Vance—I mean, Maya Bennett?” A breathless, frantic voice came through the speaker. It was Marcus Vance—no relation to my corporate husband, but rather the senior managing partner at Lauren’s wealth management firm, and a personal acquaintance of ours through local charity boards.
“Marcus,” I said evenly, wrapping my hands around my warm mug. “Good evening.”
“I am calling to offer my absolute, unreserved apologies on behalf of our entire firm,” Marcus blurted out, sounding genuinely panicked. “I just received a frantic, half-incoherent call from Lauren Pierce claiming that an catastrophic misunderstanding occurred at your restaurant tonight involving an account proposal.”
I took a slow sip of tea. “It wasn't a misunderstanding, Marcus. Your senior associate assaulted me with a glass of red wine because she thought I was a minimum-wage waitress, and then lied to my husband's face about it.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “My God. She... she told me there was a minor spill, but she omitted the—she omitted that part entirely.”
“She omitted a lot of things, I imagine,” I replied coldly. “Including her complete lack of professional integrity.”
“Maya, please,” Marcus pleaded, his voice dropping into a desperate negotiation tone. “Lauren is one of our top producers for mid-market portfolios. If we terminate her over a personal dispute, it’s going to trigger an internal review of her entire division. Is there... is there any way we can handle this quietly? A formal apology letter? A substantial donation to your favorite charity?”
I stared out the kitchen window into the dark, glittering expanse of the city lights below.
May you like
“Marcus,” I said quietly. “Send your compliance team to review the security footage from my restaurant tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM. After you watch your top producer deliberately ruin my clothes and lie to a prospective client, call me back and tell me if you still think this is just a personal dispute.”
The line went dead silent.
