The Ninety-Ninth Call, Her Final Plea

1 When the boss’s wife called for the ninety-ninth time, she didn’t ask what time he would be home. She only said one sentence: “Please tell Joe he needs to come home today.” My hand on the mouse froze. For the first twenty-six calls, her question was always, “What time will Mr. West be home tonight?” Back then, I always had a ready excuse for him. The brand ambassador, Miss Avery, had a sudden stomachache, and he had to drive her to the ER. The client, Ms. Albright, had one too many drinks, so he was escorting her back to her hotel. His old college classmate, Brooke, had just returned to the country and was unfamiliar with the city, so he was helping her look at apartments. Then, starting from the twenty-seventh call, her question simplified: “Is he coming home tonight at all?” And this time, the perfect excuse was right on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It felt like she didn’t need his excuses anymore. When I passed the message to Joe, he didn’t even look up from his desk. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy her something nice in a few days when I have a free minute. She’ll get over it.” I opened my mouth, the words hovering in my throat, but ultimately, I swallowed them down. I had worked as Joe West’s executive assistant for five years, managing hundreds of corporate public relations disasters. But in that quiet office, a sudden, heavy realization hit me. This marriage was heading toward a cliff, and no amount of PR could save it. … “Mr. West, about your wife…” “I know,” Joe interrupted, his tone even, carrying a touch of weary indulgence. “Vivian isn’t unreasonable. She just wants attention. Order a designer bag and have it sent over. Tell her I really can’t get away tonight.” The heavy mahogany door of the executive suite swung open. Brooke walked in, clutching a stack of files from the marketing department. She had recently returned from Europe, and Joe had personally bypassed HR to slot her into the company. Today, she wore an oversized white button-down, the top few buttons casually undone, projecting an effortless, borderline provocative charm. “Joe, save me,” she groaned. “The brand preview is tonight, and if you aren’t there, the team is going to eat me alive.” Joe looked up, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction of a second. “You’re wearing that?” Brooke looked down at herself and laughed, waving a hand. “It’s called effortless chic. Since when do you care about my outfit?” I lowered my eyes, focusing on my tablet. “Mr. West, you have the video conference with the European investors at eight.” Brooke immediately threw her hands up. “Fine, forget it. I’ll go alone. It’s not like anyone in marketing actually respects me anyway.” Joe was silent for two seconds. Then he shut his laptop. “Push the conference to tomorrow morning.” My fingers paused over the screen. “The marketing preview is critical tonight,” Joe justified. Brooke’s eyes lit up. She practically threw herself forward, her shoulder bumping against his chest. I stood by, quietly shifting my gaze away. “You are a lifesaver!” she squealed. She claimed they were just buddies, but her fingers remained wrapped around his sleeve, refusing to let go. Joe looked down at her hand, a helpless, fond smile gracing his lips. “Still as impatient as ever.” He turned to me. “Lynn, head over to the house. Go to the walk-in closet and bring back that champagne silk gown.” I froze. That gown had arrived from Paris just last month. It was a custom piece Vivian had spent three years designing. She hadn’t even had the chance to wear it once. Joe glanced at Brooke’s micro-hemline. “There will be press tonight. It’s not appropriate for you to go looking like that. Borrow Vivian’s dress for the evening.” Brooke waved her hands half-heartedly. “Oh, come on. That’s your wife’s dress. It feels wrong for me to wear it.” She said it felt wrong, but her eyes were practically shining with greed. Joe’s voice remained smooth and untroubled. “It’s just for one night. Vivian is sensible. She won’t mind.” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Mr. West, perhaps it would be better if you went back to get it yourself. Your wife did ask you to come home today.” That was the absolute limit of what I could say as his assistant. Any further, and I would be crossing the line into taking sides. And after all, Joe was the one signing my paychecks. Joe looked up at me, his eyes cool. “Not tonight. You go get it. And tell her I’ll come home to make it up to her as soon as I’m done here.” Half an hour later, I arrived at the West estate. Vivian was wearing a simple, muted knit sweater, her hair loosely swept up in a clip. “Ma’am, Mr. West asked me to retrieve a specific gown,” I said softly. Vivian didn’t ask a single question. She simply stepped aside to let me in. “It’s in the main closet. Go ahead.” As I slipped off my shoes and walked into the foyer, my eyes caught two large, packed suitcases sitting by the door. The photo wall was half-empty. The colorful sticky notes on the refrigerator, once filled with sweet reminders she wrote for Joe, were entirely gone. “Are you going on a trip, ma’am?” Vivian kept her head down, quietly taping up a cardboard box. “Just staying somewhere else for a few days,” she replied, her voice flat. I entered the closet to fetch the gown. To my surprise, almost all of Vivian’s personal clothes were gone. She walked in behind me, gently helping me pull the protective garment bag over the champagne silk. When her fingers brushed against the hem, they lingered. Just for a heartbeat, but I saw it. “Mr. West said he’ll have it sent back immediately after the event,” I offered, trying to fill the heavy silence. “No need,” she said, looking up with entirely vacant eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I stood there, suddenly remembering how she used to be when I first joined the company. Back then, Vivian was full of life. She wore bright, vibrant dresses, brought artisanal coffee to the office for the staff, and told me with a bright laugh, “Joe might look cold on the outside, but he has the softest heart.” Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the color began to drain from her. She stopped bringing treats to the office. She stopped smiling. Noticing my blank stare, Vivian let out a soft sigh. “I won’t be wearing it anyway,” she murmured. When I delivered the gown to the venue, Brooke was finishing her makeup. “You actually got it? Your wife won’t be furious, will she?” Joe glanced at her, his voice indifferent. “She’s not that petty.” She’s just past the point of caring, I added silently in my mind. That night, Joe was like a peacock in full display. On his left arm clung Brooke, whispering how nervous she was about her first big marketing event, her palms sweating. On his right was a young, rising influencer, holding up her phone and batting her eyelashes. Further out were two female corporate partners, including Ms. Albright. Throughout the evening, those women seemed to have only two goals. First, to find any excuse to press closer to Joe. Second, to boss me around. “Assistant Lynn, could you grab me some warm water?” “Lynn, check this photo for me. Does my face look too wide?” Their tones were completely casual, treating me like a personal maid rather than the executive assistant of a multi-million dollar corporation. Joe stood at the center of it all, charismatic, attentive, and perfectly chivalrous. But the longer I watched, the more a knot tightened in my stomach. I had seen how he treated Vivian. He wasn’t overtly cruel… he was just so dismissive of her, taking her presence entirely for granted. The brand promotional video began playing on the big screen. Brooke was called backstage to finalize some scheduling details. The moment she left, the young influencer slid closer to Joe, holding a glass of champagne. “Mr. West, I think my strap broke…” Her voice was pure sugar, and her TikTok livestream was still running. Joe glanced down. Deciding it was a harmless gesture, he reached out and casually adjusted the thin silk strap back onto her shoulder. The influencer immediately leaned into him with a coy smile. “You’re so sweet, Mr. West.” The live chat exploded instantly. “Oh my god, is this a real-life billionaire romance?” “The way he looked down at her… I’m melting.” “He looks so protective!” I wanted to step in and warn him, but I kept my mouth shut. I was just an assistant, after all. Then, as I monitored the screen, my heart dropped. Among the sea of cheering comments, I spotted a very familiar profile picture. It was Vivian. She had left a single comment: “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy together.” The words were quickly buried under the avalanche of heart emojis and shipping comments, but I saw them clearly. The tablet in my hands suddenly felt heavy as lead. I hurried over to Joe and whispered, “Mr. West, your wife is watching the livestream.” Joe was looking down at the influencer’s phone. He froze slightly at my words. “She just left a comment,” I added. The influencer’s smile stiffened for a second before she quickly put on an innocent face. “Oh? Is your wife watching? Did I make things awkward for you, Mr. West?” Her camera was still rolling, and the chat was going wild. “The real wife is watching?” “Oh damn, the drama is real!” “But they look so good together anyway.” Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, looking slightly annoyed. “She’s overthinking again.” The influencer murmured, “Should I go online and clarify?” Joe glanced at her. “No need. I’ll deal with her when I get home.” He spoke as if this public display of intimacy was just a product of Vivian’s oversensitivity. I looked at him, desperately wanting to ask: Do you really think you still have a home to go back to? But an assistant doesn’t ask those kinds of questions. The influencer blinked. “Are you going to go home and apologize to her now?” Joe hesitated. Just then, Brooke returned from backstage, lifting the hem of the champagne gown. “Joe, can I get a ride with you later?” Joe looked at her. “I’ll drop you off first.” I pulled out my phone and clicked on Vivian’s profile. Checking on the boss’s wife technically fell within my job description… or at least, that’s what I told myself to quiet my racing heart. My fingers trembled as I typed: Ma’am, do you need Mr. West to come home tonight? If so, I will remind him right away. The message sat there unanswered for a long time. Long enough for the valet to bring the cars around. Long enough for Brooke to slide into the passenger seat of Joe’s car and wave goodbye to me through the window. Finally, my phone buzzed. No need. He’s not coming back. I left some things in the foyer. Please hand them to him tomorrow. I didn’t get home until one in the morning. Before I could even slip off my heels, my phone went off like a bomb. My group chats were flooded with notifications. “Is your boss seriously dating that influencer girl?” “I thought he was sleeping with that Brooke girl from college?” “Is working at your office like living inside a drama series?” I was too exhausted to even wash my face. I wanted nothing more than to toss my phone into the washing machine. It felt like the entire city had more energy than me, especially when it came to gossiping about my boss’s love life. Just as I was about to power down the device, my best friend sent me a link. “The Mystery of the West Empire’s Silent Wife: Why does a woman who doesn’t work, has no children, and offers zero emotional support get to keep her ring?” I clicked on it, a cold smirk forming on my lips as I read. The anonymous source claimed Vivian was an insecure housewife who spent her days tracking Joe’s location and throwing tantrums. It painted Joe as a saint who only stayed in the marriage out of a profound sense of duty, surrounded by brilliant, successful women. The final line was a knife: “Only a woman who can build an empire with him deserves to stand by his side.” I nearly laughed out loud in my dark apartment. Build an empire with him? Joe’s very first round of seed funding had come directly from Vivian’s family trust. His first major clients were personally introduced to him by Vivian’s father. On the original draft of the company’s business plan, Vivian’s name was printed right beneath Joe’s. When I first started, the older employees used to whisper about how Vivian had pulled three consecutive all-nighters to rewrite a financial model, single-handedly saving a crucial project that investors were about to reject. Then, her visits to the office grew sparse. Some said she was in poor health and trying to conceive. Others said Joe cherished her too much to let her work so hard. Just last year, when Vivian expressed a desire to return and manage the marketing line, I happened to walk into the executive suite with some documents. I saw Joe holding her hands, his voice incredibly tender. “Just focus on resting and getting healthy at home, darling. Let me handle the stress of the company.” At the time, I thought he was the ultimate devoted husband. Now, I realized he was just systematically pushing her out of her own creation. The most twisted part was that whenever the firm faced a liquidity crisis or needed the influence of the Jiang family, Joe’s visits home would miraculously spike. Flowers, diamonds, private rooftop dining… I had to draft three different romantic itineraries a day. During those brief periods, he spoke to her with such sickening sweetness that I almost believed he had changed. By ten the next morning, the gossip article had reached the top of the local trending boards. I placed my tablet in front of Joe. “Mr. West, the internet is ripping your wife apart. Should we have the PR team issue a statement?” Joe glanced at the screen, a brief frown crossing his forehead. “Not yet.” I blinked, stunned. He took a slow sip of his espresso. “Brooke’s marketing event just gained traction. If we bury the news now, all her hard work goes to waste. I’ll explain it to Vivian later. She’ll understand.” Always that phrase. She’ll understand. I stood there, feeling a profound sense of disgust. Brooke got her spotlight. The influencer got her followers. Joe got to look like the charming, untouchable bachelor. And Vivian was left to be publicly humiliated by strangers. At ten-thirty, I went to the West house. The suitcases were gone. The remaining frames on the photo wall had been taken down. The house felt like a tomb. Vivian was gone. On the console table in the foyer lay a thick manila envelope, held down by a small sticky note. Lynn, please give this to Joe. As I picked up the envelope, the unsealed flap slipped, revealing a glimpse of white parchment inside. Divorce papers. Standing in that silent, empty house, I remembered Joe’s words from the night before. She’ll understand. But this time, Vivian wasn’t planning on understanding anything ever again. When I placed the envelope on Joe’s desk, he was busy reviewing the traffic metrics from Brooke’s event. He tapped his fingers on the mahogany wood. “Brooke did an exceptional job with this.” I slid the envelope toward him. “Mr. West, your wife asked me to deliver this to you.” He opened it, and his eyes fell upon the divorce petition. He actually laughed. “She even hired a lawyer?” His tone wasn’t panicked; it was merely amused, like a parent dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. “She’s trying to make me chase her.” I hesitated, but the silence broke my resolve. “Mr. West… when she asked you to come home yesterday, I think this is what she wanted to discuss.” Joe slid the papers back into the envelope. “If she really wanted a divorce, she wouldn’t have used you as a courier. She would have faced me herself. She’s just waiting for me to apologize.” His phone rang. It was Ms. Albright. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm through the speaker. “You’ve been quite popular in the tabloids lately, Mr. West. With Miss Brooke running your marketing, I suppose you don’t need us old partners anymore?” After hanging up, Joe looked at me. “Book a dinner with Ms. Albright tonight.” I paused. “Sir, perhaps you should address the situation with your wife and the media first.” Even as I said it, I wanted to laugh at my own foolishness. Address it first. In Joe’s world, Vivian was always the last priority. The last to be explained to. The last to be handled. He looked up, a flash of annoyance in his usually calm eyes. “We cannot afford to lose Ms. Albright’s distribution channels. I will deal with Vivian tonight when I go home. Just do your job, Lynn.” I lowered my eyes. “Yes, sir.” The dinner was set at an exclusive private dining club. The moment we arrived, I knew something was wrong. Ms. Albright had arrived early and insisted on a table right next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a black SUV sat with its engine idling, and two people in the corner of the courtyard were holding up their phones, lenses pointed directly at us. I leaned in close to Joe. “There are paparazzi outside.” Joe frowned. “Lynn, don’t be paranoid.” Ms. Albright sipped her wine, offering a cold smile. “Your assistant certainly likes to hover, Mr. West. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were doing something scandalous.” I swallowed my pride but pressed on. “Ms. Albright, Mr. West was just trending in the tabloids last night. Any photos of the two of you tonight will be twisted into a new narrative.” Ms. Albright’s face went cold. “Mr. West, your assistant is capable, but her lack of discretion is going to cause trouble eventually.” Joe set his glass down. “Ms. Albright,” his voice was quiet, but it carried an icy edge, “Lynn has been with me for five years. I know exactly how she works, and I trust her judgment.” I stood beside him, my feelings suddenly a tangled mess. Joe wasn’t a monster. He was fiercely protective of his staff, fair, and incredibly generous to those who worked for him. That was why I had held out hope for his marriage for so long. But it was incredibly tragic that a man who could draw such clear, solid boundaries for his employees could treat his own wife’s dignity as entirely expendable. Ms. Albright sneered. “Is this defensive attitude your directive, Mr. West, or is she acting on her own?” I scoffed inwardly. If we don’t protect his image, the tabloids will claim you’re pregnant with his child by tomorrow morning. After the agonizing dinner concluded, Joe tried calling Vivian. First call: no answer. Second call: declined. Third call: went straight to voicemail. His expression finally darkened. “She’s still playing games?” I said softly, “I don’t think she’s playing, sir.” Joe shot me a warning glance, and I fell silent. After a long pause, he picked up his coat. “Let’s go home. Order some white roses, buy a necklace, and pick up some dessert from that boutique she likes.” I checked my records. “Mr. West, that dessert boutique closed down permanently.” “Then what else does she like?” I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t because I was bad at my job. It was because over the last few years, my memory had been filled with Brooke’s dietary restrictions, the influencer’s favorite brands, and Ms. Albright’s wine preferences. Vivian had simply never been on my list of tasks. Joe fell silent for several seconds. Finally, he draped his coat over his arm, maintaining his usual mask of indifference. “Forget it. I’ll ask her myself.” He dismissed me for the night. But the moment I unlocked my apartment door, my phone rang. It was Joe. As soon as I answered, the sound of his ragged, frantic breathing filled the receiver. “Lynn… get to the house. Now. Find out where Vivian went.”

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