Terms and Conditions May Apply

I don’t like answering unknown numbers.

Actually, that’s not accurate—I don’t like numbers, known or otherwise. Phones are vectors. Voices are unpredictable. Both are unacceptable variables before noon.

So when mine starts vibrating across the desk, I let it.

Once. Twice. Three times.

It stops.

Good.

Then it starts again.

I stare at it. It stares back, glowing with insistence.

Diana doesn’t look up from her book. “You’re being summoned.”

“I’m being harassed.”

“Answer it.”

“No.”

A pause. A page turns.

“Put it on speaker.”

…That’s different.

I pick it up, thumb hovering like I’m about to disarm something explosive. Then I answer, immediately placing it on the desk, far enough away to be respectful of my personal boundaries.

“…Hello.”

“Ah! Finally!” a voice bursts through, loud, confident, and already unpleasant. “Is this Beckett Bloodbriar?”

I close my eyes briefly. “Unfortunately.”

Diana snorts softly.

“Great, great—so I’m calling from SecureFuture Investments, and we’ve been reviewing your profile—”

“No, you haven’t,” I say.

A beat.

Then, undeterred, “—and we have an exclusive opportunity that’s time-sensitive—”

Diana raises a finger without looking at me.

Wait.

I stop talking.

This should be interesting.

“I just need to verify a few details,” the voice continues. “You handle freelance digital work, correct? So you’d definitely benefit from—”

“Which database did you pull that from?” I ask.

Another pause. Smaller this time.

“Sir, this is a curated outreach—”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Diana finally looks up, eyes glinting. She mouths: Let them continue.

I lean back.

“Go on,” I say.

Ten minutes later, I have learned three things:

They don’t know anything real about me.

They assume I’m financially careless because I work from home.

They are deeply, catastrophically overconfident.

Diana stands and walks over, slow, deliberate. She rests a hand on my shoulder—light, grounding.

“May I?” she murmurs.

I nod.

She leans down, just enough that her voice carries clearly into the phone.

“This is his wife speaking.”

The tone on the other end changes instantly.

“Oh! Wonderful, ma’am, perhaps you’d be interested in—”

“Unlikely.”

Silence.

She smiles—not kindly.

“You’ve contacted a household that does not make decisions impulsively, does not respond to pressure tactics, and most importantly…” She tilts her head slightly. “Does not tolerate incompetence.”

“I—excuse me?”

“You’ve contradicted yourself twice,” she continues smoothly. “You claimed prior knowledge of our finances, then asked baseline verification questions. You described your offer as ‘exclusive,’ yet failed to define its parameters. And your email follow-up—yes, we received it—contained three grammatical errors in the first sentence alone.”

I glance at my inbox.

Oh.

She’s right.

Of course she is.

On the other end, the confidence cracks. “Ma’am, with all due respect—”

“None has been demonstrated,” she cuts in.

I feel something warm settle in my chest.

Familiar.

Safe.

“And one more thing,” she adds lightly. “You assumed my husband would be the easier target.”

I blink.

The caller hesitates. “I—well, statistically—”

“How unfortunate for your statistics,” she says.

The call ends shortly after.

Not dramatically. Just… abruptly. Like a structure realizing it has no foundation.

I exhale.

“That was efficient.”

Diana straightens, smoothing her sleeve. “They were inefficient. I simply clarified.”

I pick up my phone, scrolling through the email again. The errors are… impressive.

“They used ‘your’ again,” I say.

“Of course they did.”

I glance at her. “You checked that before I even opened it.”

“I check everything before you open it.”

“…That’s mildly concerning.”

“It’s preventative.”

An hour later, I forget about it.

Which is why it’s almost disappointing when my phone buzzes again.

This time, it’s an email.

From the same company.

I open it cautiously.

Then I pause.

Then I reread it.

Then I slowly turn my phone toward Diana.

“They sent a revised pitch,” I say.

She leans in.

We both stare.

It’s… better.

Grammatically correct. Structurally sound. Almost professional.

Almost.

At the bottom, there’s a note:

We apologize for any prior miscommunication and appreciate your feedback.

Diana hums.

“They’re learning,” I say.

“Mm. Pain is an effective teacher.”

I scroll further.

There’s an attachment now. A full breakdown of their “opportunity.”

Numbers. Charts. Terms.

I skim it once.

Then again.

“…This is still a scam,” I conclude.

“Of course it is.”

“But it’s a better-written scam.”

“Yes.”

We sit with that for a moment.

Then, slowly, I feel it—that quiet, creeping amusement.

“They improved,” I say.

“They adapted,” she corrects.

“They’re still going to fail.”

“Undoubtedly.”

That evening, we take a walk.

It’s late enough that the streets are mostly empty—acceptable conditions.

I keep my distance from everything. People, surfaces, existence.

Diana walks beside me, unbothered, composed.

“They thought you’d be naive,” I say.

“They thought you’d be impulsive,” she replies.

“They thought you’d be out of touch.”

She smiles faintly. “And instead, they encountered both.”

I glance at her.

“…We’re a problem.”

“We’re a solution,” she says. “To a very specific kind of mistake.”

When we return home, the twins are waiting.

Persephone looks up first. “You’re late.”

“It’s 8:12,” I say.

“Yes.”

Hades leans forward. “We reviewed the email.”

Of course they did.

“And?” I ask.

“It lacked sophistication,” Persephone says.

“But showed improvement,” Hades adds.

Diana nods approvingly. “Good. You noticed.”

I remove my coat carefully. “They’re still going to collapse.”

“Obviously,” Persephone says.

“Human hubris,” Hades continues, “does not scale with competence.”

I pause.

Then I look at Diana.

She looks back at me.

And for a brief moment, there’s that shared understanding—quiet, certain, untouched by everything outside this house.

“They’ll try again,” I say.

“They always do,” she replies.

Later, as I settle back into the familiar stillness of my office, I check my inbox one last time.

There’s another message.

Short.

Polite.

Careful.

We appreciate your time and will not contact you further.

I stare at it.

Then I close the tab.

“They’ve learned,” I murmur.

Diana’s voice drifts from the doorway, soft and certain:

“No,” she says.

“They’ve retreated.”

And really, that’s the difference.

Learning changes you.

Retreating just delays the inevitable.