Page 29 of Enduring Promise

She paused, her gaze softening as her fingers lightly brushed the edge of her champagne flute. “He was a brilliant man, often busy at work in the library

upstairs. But even when his mind was consumed with his projects, he always found a way to remind me I was never far from his thoughts. Whether it was a small note slipped under my door or simply checking in on me while I planned events in this very hall.”

The room was captivated, the guests leaning in slightly as Madame Fournier crossed the space with deliberate steps, her elegant gown sweeping the floor behind her. She stopped in front of an ornate wooden box mounted on the wall, its intricate carvings gleaming in the warm light.

“This,” she said, opening the box to reveal a metallic intercom device, “was one of his favorite tools for staying connected. When he was too immersed in his work to leave the library, he would use this to call me or play a record, and we would listen to the music together, each from opposite ends of the house.”

Her lips curved into a fond smile, and the room seemed to exhale collectively, caught in the nostalgia of her words. “This intercom system was also the source of one of our longest arguments,” she added, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “We once debated for over an hour—through this very device—whether chocolate soufflé should be served before or after the dancing at one of our winter galas.”

A ripple of polite laughter spread through the crowd, but Madame Fournier held up her hand, her expression turning more serious. “Tonight, I would like to share with you a piece of that history. A reminder of how we are all our brother’s keepers. We are all called to do what is right.”

She turned to the intercom and pressed a button, the metallic device crackling to life with a hiss of static. The sound filled the room, and the guests exchanged curious glances, whispering among themselves.

“Listen closely,” Madame Fournier said, holding up her hand for silence.

The static cleared, and two voices emerged, low at first but quickly growing clearer. The room hushed, every guest straining to hear the conversation being transmitted.

“I’m just saying, Claire, you can’t keep doing this.” Michael’s voice came through, sharp and irritated. “You’re acting like a child, and it’s exhausting.”

There was a collective murmur of confusion among the guests, some glancing at one another with raised eyebrows. Hillary, who stood near Russ at the edge of the room, felt her stomach tighten.

“I’m not a child, Michael,” Claire’s voice responded, trembling but firm. “I’m trying to talk to you about this because it’s important.”

The murmurs ceased as the gravity of the situation dawned on the room. Madame Fournier remained composed, her hand still resting lightly on the intercom. The voices on the other end continued, filling the air with a tension so palpable it seemed to press down on everyone in the room.

“You’re blowing everything out of proportion,” Michael snapped. “This is why I didn’t want to come here in the first place. This place is ridiculous, and so are these people.”

“Then why did you come?” Claire shot back, her voice breaking slightly. “Why did you even bother if you think so little of everyone here?”

Hillary exchanged a glance with Russ, both of them frozen as they realized what was happening. This was the plan—a desperate, dangerous plan—but hearing it unfold in real-time was more harrowing than they had anticipated.

The voices crackled through the intercom, carrying every sharp word and charged pause. The air in the grand hall was stifling as the guests listened, their murmurs of confusion growing louder until Madame Fournier raised her hand again. The room fell silent once more, the tension almost unbearable.

“I came because you were dodging my calls, Claire,” Michael’s voice rang out, tight with irritation. “What else wasI supposed to think? That you’d finally lost it? That you were about to do something stupid?”

Claire’s voice wavered slightly, but she held her ground. “What does that mean? What did you think I was going to do, Michael?” she demanded, her tone sharper now.

There was a heavy pause. Even through the static, the weight of his silence was palpable.

Downstairs, the guests shifted uncomfortably. Someone whispered, “What’s going on?” but was immediately hushed. Hillary, standing near Russ, barely breathed as she listened, her eyes fixed on the intercom.

Finally, Michael’s voice returned, colder and more calculated. “Are you trying to trick me?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate. “Are you recording this conversation?”

A wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the room, and Russ stiffened beside Hillary. He started to move toward the door, but Hillary grabbed his arm, her grip firm. “Wait,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

On the intercom, the sounds of shuffling and rustling grew louder. Michael’s voice was sharper now, his frustration palpable. “Are you?” he demanded. “Tell me the truth, Claire. Are you recording me?”

Claire’s voice came through, shaky but defiant. “I’m not recording anything,” she insisted. “You’re being paranoid.”

There was more rustling, and a small noise that sounded like a phone hitting the floor. “You swear?” Michael asked, his voice low and menacing.

“I swear,” Claire said quickly. “Michael, please. You’re scaring me.”

The rustling stopped, and the room fell silent except for the hum of the intercom. Everyone downstairs held their breath, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

After a long pause, Michael’s voice softened, but the anger lingered beneath the surface. “Do you know why I’m paranoid, Claire?” he asked, his tone almost conversational. “Because if you exposed me—if you betrayed me—everything I’ve worked for would be over. My career, my reputation... gone.”

He let out a sharp laugh, bitter and humorless. “You’re one of the only people who knows the truth. The real results. The patient outcomes. I trusted you with my life, and then you stopped answering the phone. What was I supposed to think?”

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