Arthur's thumb hovered over the 'End Call' button, his impatience with the conversation mounting. He'd seen enough of Dane Adams' dismissive attitude to expect nothing but a curt farewell. But the moment Marley's name slipped through his lips into the receiver, the line crackled with a sudden change in energy.
"Who is with her?" Dane's voice ice-picked through the connection, frosty and sharp.
Taken aback, Arthur frowned, the phone pressed hard against his ear. He'd pegged Dane for the type who'd find such trivialities beneath him, yet here he was, sounding like a man brooding over unfinished business. "She's alone," Arthur replied, his voice laced with a hint of mischief. "But she ran into Olivia at the boutique. They're now causing quite the spectacle."
"Is she injured?" The question came out of nowhere, abrupt and laced with an unexpected concern that didn't fit the Dane Adams that Arthur knew – the detached businessman who treated emotions as liabilities.
"Ha!" Arthur chuckled, a wicked twist to his lips. "Marley? She can handle a catfight. I just thought you'd enjoy the show from afar." He anticipated laughter or perhaps a sarcastic remark, given Dane's notorious indifference.
Instead, what followed was the sound of shuffled papers and the distant hum of activity; Dane was multitasking, perpetually buried in the machinations of Swisco's empire. "Take care of her," he ordered coldly, a command devoid of debate, and then the phone clicked dead.
Arthur stood there, his hand still holding the phone aloft, his expression morphing into one of startled confusion. Take care of her? Since when did Dane play the role of concerned lover? Since when did Marley Brooks become more than a shadow of Dane's past?
The store's ambient noise buzzed around Arthur—a cacophony of consumerism that felt suddenly alien. His gaze drifted across the boutique where Marley, with her Coline-like beauty, stood her ground against Olivia's seething aggression. His friend asked him to 'take care of her.' Was he now to play the guard dog? Was he expected to step into the fray, to shield and protect? The very notion sat heavy in his gut, a strange mix of responsibility and resentment tying knots in his chest.
Dane's words echoed in his head, a mantra that seemed to betray hints of a deeper emotion than Arthur could fathom. If Marley was indeed injured, would Dane hold him accountable? Would he—could he—trust Arthur with something so personal, so precious?
As the women continued their verbal sparring, Arthur's eyes narrowed, his mind working through the implications. There was more to this than a simple feud between exes. Dane's sudden display of protectiveness suggested stakes that were higher than mere pride or rivalry.
Arthur's attention remained fixated on the unfolding drama in the boutique across the way, his gaze a steady beam cutting through the throng of shoppers. The air was thick with the scent of perfumes mingling into an overpowering cocktail, yet all he could sense was the tension emanating from Marley's poised figure.
"Arthur?" The voice beside him wavered, tinged with uncertainty and the slightest quiver of jealousy. "Why are you so interested in those girls? Do you know them?"
Without shifting his stare from the escalating confrontation, Arthur replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Go to that store," he commanded curtly, his words carrying an undercurrent of urgency.
His girlfriend, her eyes wide with confusion and a twinge of hurt, hesitated at first. Then, upon seeing the severity etched onto his usually carefree visage, she complied. She clicked away in her high heels, each step resounding like a tick of a clock, marking the seconds as they slipped into uncertainty.
Five minutes later, Olivia's shrill indignation cut through the hum of idle chatter, her voice sharp enough to slice silk. "This is preposterous!" she seethed, her glare fixed on the manager as if he were an ant beneath her magnifying glass. "Why won't you accept my membership card? Do you have any idea who I am?"
The store manager, a man of middling years whose once-pristine suit seemed to wilt under Olivia's fury, offered nothing but a placating smile and a bow of regret. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss. We truly apologize for the inconvenience," he said, though the reason behind his refusal remained cloaked in professional secrecy.
Olivia slammed a manicured hand on the glass countertop, the sound reverberating like a gavel proclaiming a verdict. "I demand an explanation!" she barked, her eyebrow arching in a challenge.
Arthur watched, his heart thudding unevenly against his ribs, as the exchange continued. The manager's lips moved, but no satisfactory answer would come forth. It was clear Olivia would get no further with her threats and bluster.
From his vantage point, Arthur felt an unnerving blend of fascination and dread. Dane's parting command echoed in his mind—a haunting refrain insisting he take care of her. But how? And why did it matter so much?
The weight of accountability settled around his shoulders, a mantle he had not asked for but could not shrug off. As he observed the scene, questions churned inside him like restless spirits. What sort of game was this? Was it merely a spat between scorned lovers or something more insidious?
Marley Brooks stood amidst the pastel sea of chiffon and silk, her confusion palpable as the boutique's air hummed with tension. The high-pitched protests of Olivia echoed off the walls, grating like a saw against wood. When Marley's gaze collided with that of the newly arrived model—a messenger sent by Arthur—she couldn't help but feel a malicious spark of satisfaction.
"Isn't it obvious?" she murmured, her voice soft yet edged with steel, her smile not reaching her cool, blue eyes. "They simply don't wish to sell to you."
Olivia's face contorted into a snarl, her glare scorching. She snapped her head towards the manager, her voice escalating to a shrill threat. "I will call my husband to deal with this!"
The word 'husband' left a sour taste in Marley's mouth, knowing full well that Oscar was still legally tethered to her, not Olivia. The audacity thickened the air, and Marley fought down the bile rising in her throat. With deliberate grace, she swiped her card, purchasing an item so mundane yet so pointedly chosen—men's underwear. The cashier blinked at the selection but said nothing, sensing the undercurrents at play.
As Marley turned on her heel, the rustle of her coat whispered promises of departure from the sordid spectacle. Olivia's voice clawed at her back, venomous and vile. "Oscar doesn't need you anymore."
A laugh, bitter and barely audible, escaped Marley's lips as she glanced over her shoulder. Her retort was icy, a dagger wrapped in velvet. "These? Oh, I'm afraid they're far too large for Oscar."