Chapter 4 - The Unexpected Visitor at the Office
Two weeks after breaking off the engagement, I was back at my desk at the digital marketing agency where I worked as a senior project manager. Throwing myself into work had been my primary coping mechanism, and the distraction was working wonders. My desk was buried under campaign briefs, color swatches, and strategy reports when my phone buzzed with an unknown number.
I ignored it twice, assuming it was Julian trying another round of hollow apologies or his parents attempting some final, condescending maneuver to salvage their family's image. But on the third call, assuming it might be a client with an emergency, I swiped to answer.
"Emily?"
It wasn't Julian. It was Phipe Maro.
His voice lacked the effortless, aristocratic swagger I remembered from the restaurant. It sounded strained, tired, and uncharacteristically defensive.
"Mr. Maro," I said, my voice dropping into its most professional, icy register. "How did you get this number?"
"That doesn't matter," Phipe replied quickly, clearing his throat. "Emily, I am calling because... well, because Julian is in a complete state. He hasn't been to work in days. He refuses to leave his apartment, and frankly, our family dynamic has been severely disrupted by the... misunderstanding that took place a fortnight ago."
I stared at my computer screen, incredulous. "A misunderstanding? Mr. Maro, let's be entirely clear. There was no misunderstanding. Your wife insulted my parents, you backed her up, and your son proved he lacked the backbone to stand by the woman he claimed to love. That isn't a misunderstanding; that's a character flaw."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. When Phipe spoke again, the arrogant edge in his voice had been replaced by a tense, transactional urgency. "Look, Isabelle and I may have expressed ourselves... bluntly. But we are prepared to make concessions. We are willing to issue a formal apology to your parents—privately, of course—and we are prepared to reinstate the wedding arrangements with a significantly increased budget for the venue and reception. Julian is deeply remorseful. Surely you aren't going to throw away a brilliant future over a few careless dinner table remarks?"
I felt a cold wave of disgust wash over me. Even now, facing the total collapse of their son's life, they still believed everything could be bought, fixed, or managed with the right amount of capital and a carefully worded apology.
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"Mr. Maro," I said, my voice cutting through the phone line like a razor. "Listen very carefully to me. You and your wife spent your entire lives accumulating money and social status, but you completely forgot to teach your son how to be a man. You think my parents are ordinary because they don't wear designer suits or live in penthouses. But let me tell you something: my father can fix anything broken, and my mother has held the hands of people dying alone while you were busy worrying about table manners. Julian chose his pedigree over his integrity, and you chose your arrogance over basic human decency. Keep your money. Keep your social circles. And never call me again."
Before he could respond, I hit the red end call button, blocked the number, and sat back in my chair, feeling an immense, permanent sense of liberation. The air in the office had never felt fresher.
