Chapter 38: The Deposit
Sophia called at 2:13 in the afternoon, and her voice told Mark everything before the first full sentence landed.
No softness.
No flirtation.
No patience left.
He stepped out of Greystone’s side entrance to answer, one hand already tightening around the phone.
“I’m in the middle of—”
“No, you’re not,” Sophia cut in. “You’re avoiding me.”
The street was bright with late-day traffic. A delivery truck idled near the curb. Someone across the block laughed too loudly into a headset. The city moved with the rude indifference it always kept ready for private collapse.
Mark turned away from the windows and lowered his voice. “What is this about?”
Sophia let out a short breath.
“The apartment deposit. The furniture deposit. The jewelry balance. The card I used for the decorator. Do you want me to keep going?”
Each item landed separately.
Not because he had forgotten. Because he had been trying not to total the damage in one place.
“I told you I’m working on it.”
“No,” she said sharply. “You keep saying that. Working on it is not paying it.”
Mark closed his eyes briefly.
From inside the office, he could see Neil moving between desks with a folder under his arm. Ordinary work. Ordinary daylight. While out here, his old life was still sending invoices through the mouth of the woman he once believed proved he had made the right choice.
“It’ll be handled,” he said.
“When?”
“A few weeks.”
Sophia actually laughed then.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly.
Just with the tired disbelief of someone who had finally stopped buying a product she used to love.
“A few weeks?” she repeated. “Emily is on every business page in the city. She’s speaking at the Whitmore. She’s sitting at the main table with people who actually matter. And you’re asking me to wait a few weeks for a deposit you promised months ago.”
Mark felt heat move up his throat. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Compare us.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sophia said the one thing he had not been prepared to hear.
“I’m not comparing you to Emily. I’m comparing what you promised me to what you actually are.”
The traffic noise seemed to fall away.
Mark stared at the pavement.
He thought of the apartment windows. The city view. The wine rack she chose. The silk robe she left folded on the bed. All of it had looked like victory once. Clean. Upgraded. Proof that he had not ruined anything—only traded up.
Now even Sophia’s tone told the truth.
He had not looked powerful.
He had looked temporary.
“I need the money by Friday,” she said. “Not because I think you still owe me romance. Because you owe me facts.”
He said nothing.
Because what answer was left?
Sophia exhaled once more, quieter now.
“She saw you before I did,” she said. “That’s the part I can’t forgive.”
The line went dead.
Mark stood on the sidewalk with the phone still pressed to his ear and understood, with terrible clarity, that Sophia was no longer arguing for the future.
She was collecting from the past.
And tonight, when he walked into the Whitmore without an invitation, the city was going to show him exactly how little space remained for men who had already been read correctly.