I let it go. For now.
That perfect Valentine’s Day in New Orleans felt like a lifetime ago, though only a month had passed. We’d grown closer in some ways—she let me sleep in her bed every night, let me make love to her, let me question her doctors insistently. But there was no progress on the things that mattered.
Dede was now twenty-nine weeks pregnant and still insisting we had time before telling the kids and making our relationship real beyond the privacy of her bedroom. She deflected every conversation with a smile and kisses.
I was working in the guest room of her house while she and Kandi were out shopping when the video call came through from Phoibe. I almost didn’t answer. But she was my assistant, and it was nearly midnight in Athens.
I clicked accept.
Phoibe’s face filled the screen. Her makeup was smudged, and her blonde hair fell in disarray around her shoulders. The camera angle showed her sitting on what appeared to be hercouch, wearing a silk robe that had fallen open to reveal a black lace bralette beneath.
“Aris.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just... I didn’t know who else to call.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying her through the screen. “What happened?”
“It’s Emmanouil.” She pressed her fingers to her cheek, where I could see slight redness. “He came by to pick up our daughter and we got into a fight about the settlement and he…” Her voice broke. “He hit me.”
I waited, saying nothing.
“I can’t believe he actually hit me.” She looked directly into the camera. “I’m so scared, Aris. What if he comes back?”
“Have you called the police?”
“I... no. I called you first.”
“Why?”
“Because I trust you.” The robe slipped further off one shoulder. “Because you’ve always been someone I could count on. Remember when we—”
“Phoibe.” I cut her off. “If your ex-husband assaulted you, you need to call the police immediately. Not me.”
“I know, but I needed to hear a friendly voice first. Someone who understands—”
“Call the police. File a report. Document the injury.” My tone was flat. “If you need legal support, I can have one of the company’s attorneys contact you within the hour.”
“That’s not—” she stopped. “I don’t want lawyers right now, Aris. I just need... could you maybe come here? I know you’re in America, but I really need—”
“If Emmanouil struck you, that’s assault. It needs to be reported through official channels.”
“So you won’t help me.” Not a question—an accusation.
“I’m offering you access to the best legal representation in Athens. I’m advising you to file a police report immediately. That is help, Phoibe.”
She adjusted her robe, pulling it closed. “I should have known better than to call you. You’re so far away, dealing with God knows what in America. I’m just your assistant. Why would you care if I’m hurt?”
“If you were genuinely hurt, you would have called emergency services, not me. If you were genuinely frightened, you wouldn’t be sitting in your apartment in lingerie making video calls.” I paused. “And if this were a real crisis, you certainly wouldn’t be using it to ask me to come back to Athens.”
Her face flushed red. “How dare you—”
“I am not your friend. I am not your confidante. I am your employer. If you’re in actual danger, get professional help.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Her tears had dried remarkably quickly. “I come to you hurt and scared, and you accuse me of lying?”
“I’m suggesting you handle this situation appropriately. Which doesn’t include calling your boss for emotional support while dressed for a completely different kind of call.”
“Fine.” She stood, and her robe fell fully open now in a way that seemed entirely deliberate. “I’ll handle it myself. Like I handle everything myself.”
“Good. I’ll have HR send you the crisis resources within the hour.”
