Don’t Beg For My Return

CHPT 4

A sharp, throbbing pain behind Clara’s eyes pulled her from sleep as the morning sun crept through the curtains.

Her head felt heavy, pounding with the fierce ache of her usual migraine.

Without opening her eyes, Clara reached her hand toward the nightstand, her fingers feeling across the polished wood for the small porcelain dish.

Every morning for five years, Marcus had placed two white pills and a glass of warm water on that exact spot before six o’clock.

Her fingers found only cold, bare wood.

Clara opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh light. The small dish was not there. The glass of warm water was gone.

She sat up, clutching her aching temples, the events of the previous night hitting her mind all at once. Marcus had packed his clothes, taken Mia, and walked out of the house.

Irritation flared in Clara’s chest as she swung her legs over the bed.

"Still throwing his tantrum," Clara muttered under her breath, standing up and heading into the master bathroom.

She turned on the brass faucet to wash her face, needing the warm water to soothe her pounding head.

The pipe let out a violent, coughing rattle. The faucet shuddered and sputtered, spitting a thin, brownish stream of water across the porcelain basin.

Clara splashed the water onto her face in a hurry.

Almost immediately, a sharp, burning itch set in across her cheeks and forehead. She looked up into the mirror, gasping as bright red patches spread across her skin.

Her severe mineral allergy had flared up.

Without the special water filtration running in the basement, the hard water of the district was like poison to her sensitive skin.

Clara grabbed a dry towel, dabbing at her burning face as tears of frustration welled in her eyes.

She marched downstairs to the kitchen, where Julian was sitting at the marble island with a cup of instant black coffee.

"Good morning, Clara," Julian said softly, giving her a gentle, sympathetic look. "Did you sleep well? I tried to find the tea leaves Marcus usually keeps, but I couldn't locate anything."

"The water filter in the basement is broken," Clara snapped, her hand pressing against her burning cheek. "My face is breaking out in hives."

Julian set his cup down, looking worried. "Let me call an emergency plumbing company right away. You shouldn't have to deal with this before our big day at the office."

Within forty minutes, an elderly master plumber in blue overalls arrived at the villa.

Clara led him down the concrete steps into the cool, damp basement, pointing toward the heavy metal pipes connected to the main water line.

"The water upstairs is coming out brown and full of minerals," Clara said impatiently. "Replace the filter cartridge immediately. I have a board meeting in an hour."

The plumber knelt beside the large copper tank, shining his flashlight across the intricate valves and brass pipes.

He tapped the metal casing with his wrench, his eyebrows pulling together in deep confusion.

"Ma'am, where did you buy this system?" the plumber asked, looking back over his shoulder.

"I don't know," Clara replied, tapping her foot. "It was already here. Just take out the old part and put in a standard replacement."

The plumber shook his head, pointing his light at a small, hand-turned brass wheel.

"There are no standard parts for this, lady," the plumber said, his voice full of disbelief. "This entire valve network was custom-made on a metal lathe. Whoever built this machined every single copper ring by hand to match the exact mineral levels of this specific hill."

Clara froze on the basement floor, the plumber’s words hitting her like a sudden blow.

"What do you mean custom-made?" Clara asked, her voice dropping slightly.

"Look at these welds," the plumber explained, touching the neat lines of metal. "This system softens the water through a three-stage filter designed for someone with severe skin trouble. One of the hand-turned rubber gaskets is dry and worn out. No store in this city sells this blueprint. You have to find the craftsman who built it to cut a new seal."

The memory hit Clara with sudden, breathless clarity.

Four years ago, Marcus had spent three consecutive weekends in this damp basement, covered in gray metal shavings and grease.

She had stood at the top of these very stairs, shouting at him for running the noisy lathe while she was trying to review quarterly financial reports on her laptop.

Marcus had only looked up at her with a gentle, tired smile, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

I am almost finished, Clara, he had told her back then. Your skin won't burn when you wash your face anymore.

Clara’s fingers tightened against her jacket, an uncomfortable knot tightening deep in her stomach.

"Can't you just bypass it?" Clara asked, pushing the memory away with sheer force of will.

"I can turn the main bypass valve so you get city water," the plumber warned, standing up with his toolbox. "But it will be pure, untreated hard mineral water. It will ruin your skin in days."

"Just turn the valve," Clara ordered, turning her back on the basement and walking up the stairs.

She spent twenty minutes in her dressing room applying thick layers of heavy foundation to conceal the red rash spreading across her cheeks.

When she arrived at Bennett Tech thirty minutes later, Julian walking beside her, the ninth-floor executive hallway was in total disarray.

Project managers were running between glass cubicles, clutching stacks of error printouts with pale, panicked faces.

The moment Clara stepped through the glass doors, the lead system engineer, David Miller, rushed toward her, his tie crooked and his shirt drenched in sweat.

"Director Bennett! Thank God you're here!" David gasped, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

"What is going on out here, David?" Clara asked sharply, her headache throbbing behind her eyes. "Why are the engineers shouting?"

"The Orion Framework deployment has stalled!" David cried, pointing through the glass wall of the server room. "The fifty-million-dollar contract we signed last night requires the live data bridge to go online by noon today. But the server is demanding the master administrative handshake key!"

Clara frowned, stepping into her private office and tossing her leather briefcase onto the mahogany desk.

"The handshake key?" Clara repeated, looking around the room. "Doesn't the technical department have the master credentials?"

"No, Director Bennett!" David said, his voice shaking with terror. "The security core has a private secondary encryption lock. We thought you had the master key in your executive vault!"

Clara spun around, her eyes locking onto Julian, who was standing quietly near the door.

"Julian," Clara said, her voice rising with urgent authority. "You managed the technical prospectus for the contract last night. What is the deployment key?"

Julian’s face went completely white.

His hands began to tremble, his fingers clutching nervously at the edge of his woolen scarf as cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Clara... I... I don't have the root code," Julian stammered, his eyes darting toward the floor.

"What do you mean you don't have it?" Clara demanded, taking a step toward him. "You presented the entire architecture to the board yesterday!"

"Marcus was the one who ran the final server updates from his laptop at home," Julian said in a breathless, fragile whisper.

Julian suddenly stepped closer, his eyes welling up with delicate, hurt tears as he clutched his chest.

"Marcus knew the contract was closing today," Julian murmured, his voice trembling with practiced grief. "He must have locked the deployment key from his laptop before he left the house. He did this on purpose out of spite, Clara! He wanted our project to fail so you would look incompetent in front of the investors!"

David gasped, clutching his head in horror. "If we miss the noon deployment window, the trade group will trigger the twenty-million-dollar breach penalty!"

A wave of pure, blistering fury washed over Clara’s chest.

She remembered Marcus sitting in the corner of their living room night after night, typing quietly on his plain black laptop while she worked on her tablet.

She had assumed he was playing simple computer games or reading naval articles.

Now, hearing Julian’s words, she was convinced Marcus had deliberately planted a trap inside her company’s system just to force her onto her knees.

He was holding Bennett Tech hostage to get revenge for a missed dinner.

"He thinks he can sabotage my life's work?" Clara said, her voice dropping into a cold, dangerous whisper that made David flinch.

She turned to her executive secretary, Chloe, who had just rushed into the room with a notepad.

"Chloe," Clara ordered, pointing directly at the desk speakerphone. "Dial Marcus Vance’s personal number right now."

"Yes, Director Bennett," Chloe said quickly, tapping the ten-digit number into the executive phone console.

"Put it on speaker," Clara commanded, leaning both hands against the edge of the mahogany desk, her eyes blazing with absolute authority.

"Tell him this," Clara continued, her voice echoing clearly across the tense room. "Tell Marcus that if he brings his laptop to this office and unlocks the system before noon, I will overlook his childish behavior last night. I will even drop the matter of him running away with Mia."

David and Julian watched the glowing green light on the console as the line connected to the city telecom network.

Clara waited, crossing her arms over her chest, fully expecting to hear Marcus’s tired, apologetic voice answer on the other end.

For five long years, Marcus had never let her phone ring more than twice, whether it was noon or three o'clock in the morning.

There was no ringing tone.

Instead, a flat, cold, automated operator voice echoed loudly through the speakerphone.

The telephone number you have dialed has been permanently deregistered by the subscriber. There is no forwarding contact available for this user.

A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the executive office.

Clara’s silver pen slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the glass desk with a sharp, hollow click.

She stared down at the blinking red light on the console, the air completely rushing out of her lungs.

Marcus had not just ignored her call.

He had destroyed the number entirely.