Chapter 17 - The Silence of the Phone
In a cramped, damp basement apartment on the industrial side of Boston, the only light came from the flickering neon sign of a diner across the street humming through a grimy window.
Aaron Prescott sat on the edge of a sagging mattress, staring blankly at his phone.
No notifications.
No missed calls from board members.
No panicked texts from Jasmine.
No reminders of high-society galas, country club memberships, or executive retreats.
His phone was a dead brick in a world that had completely forgotten he existed. The high-end designer suits were gone, sold off to second-hand vintage dealers for pennies on the dollar. His luxury watches were long gone, traded to pay for a cheap lawyer who abandoned him the moment his retainer bounced.
He picked up the phone, tapping the screen to bring up an old photo—a picture from their wedding day.
In the photo, Claire stood beside him in her simple, elegant white dress, smiling softly, her eyes lowered in quiet grace. Back then, Aaron had looked at her with polite condescension, believing she was the luckiest woman in the world to carry his name.
He finally understood the bitter irony.
She hadn't been lucky to be his wife.
He had been unimaginably lucky to be in her orbit for even three years—and his own infinite stupidity was the only thing that had destroyed it.
A heavy knock rattled the wooden apartment door.
May you like
"Rent is due, Prescott!" a gruff voice yelled from the hallway. "And if you don't have cash by tomorrow morning, your boxes go out on the curb!"
Aaron didn't answer. He simply lay back on the mattress, pulled a thin, worn blanket over his face, and wept in the dark.
