Move? Her words throw me, and I realize with a start that she isn’t here to hurt me. No, she’s playing a much different game.
“You want me to break up with Damien.” I say the words levelly, but inside I’m cheering. I can work with that. I can pretend to agree. I can get out of here. Away from her and to Stark Tower. He’ll be back from Chicago soon, and he’ll know what to do. How to handle her.
“No,” she says. “You want to break up with Damien. Because you know that if you don’t, what I’ll release to the press will destroy him. And isn’t that what love is all about, Nikki? Isn’t it about protecting the ones you love? Just like the way Damien protected me from my father.”
The cold that had begun to recede presses against me again. “You wouldn’t release those photos.”
She shrugs. “Why not? It’s not like anyone can tell it’s me. Only Damien is identifiable.”
“Why not?” I repeat. “Because you’re sitting here telling me you love him. But that would absolutely destroy him.”
She shakes her head. “You’re destroying him. You’re keeping him from me. If you don’t let go, I don’t have a choice. How can you not see that?”
She takes a deep breath, then says brightly, “Well, I guess that about wraps things up here.” She stands, then nods at the desk and the photos scattered across it. “You can keep those. Like a souvenir. And, oh, I forgot about this.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small leather case. “I get that this situation is hard on you, I really do. So I thought this might help.” She puts the case on the corner of my desk, then hikes the purse back up on her shoulder. “And don’t even think about calling your security guy. Those friends I mentioned? I told them to release the photos to the press if I didn’t show up or if I got arrested or any silly shit like that.” Once again, she flashes that smile. “Nothing personal. I just like to be thorough.”
And then she’s sweeping out the door, leaving me frozen behind my office desk staring down at an array of photographs that have the power to destroy the man that I love.
I am frozen, I think. That’s why I can’t move. Why I am so cold, so goddamn cold.
But I don’t want to move. I want to sit here forever. I don’t want to see the world outside my office door. It is destroyed. A wasteland. Harsh and desolate.
How could it be anything else now that the bubble has finally shattered and the nightmares have swooped in?
I do not want to see, and yet I cannot help but glance down at the photo on top of the pile. Damien. His beautiful face distorted by a grimace that could either be pain or pleasure. The girl, legs wide, head back, back arched in a mockery of passion. She is unidentifiable, but I do not doubt that she is Sofia.
He’s mine. He killed for me. He’s mine.
With a violence that surprises me, I lurch to my feet, at the same time sweeping my arm out wide, sending the photos, the papers, the pens on the desk flying across the room. All that remains is the small case in the corner, the leather gleaming in the rays of afternoon light seeping in from the window. Reflections from passing cars make the light shimmer so that it blinks out a pattern on the innocuous case. I stare, mesmerized, as if those flashes of light are a message. As if they are calling me, urging me close, trying to lock me inside this new hell into which I have tumbled.
I hear a strange noise as I snatch the case, then realize it is my own whimper. Part of me doesn’t want to know, but the other part is too curious to be contained. I unzip it—then stare in horror at the gleaming set of antique scalpels.
A wave of thankfulness so potent that it almost knocks me over sweeps over me. Yes, I think. Thank God, yes.
But then sanity returns and I back away as if in horror. Only when I reach the wall, do I realize that the case is still in my hand.
Do it.
I tighten my grip and stare down at the blades.
I need to do this. I need it.
Slowly, as if sleepwalking, I return to my chair. I sit. I spread my legs. I yank up my skirt.
And then I press the tip of one shining, beautiful blade to my thigh. Immediately, I draw in a sharp thread of air as a bead of blood oozes from beneath the point of the blade. I shiver, mesmerized. I had not yet meant to cut, but the blade is so sharp, so perfect, that just that simple contact was enough to draw blood. And what now? A quick flick of my wrist? A slow, deliberate cut? Both are so sweetly tempting. Both would ease the maelstrom of ice and fear burning inside me.
Do it.
Do it, do it, do it.
I press down harder, feel the sting of cold steel against warm flesh. I moan from the ecstasy—and then I hurl the scalpel across the room, my cry of “No” echoing in the small space. The scalpel slams against the far wall, then drops to the floor with an unsatisfying metallic ping. I snatch up the case and hurl it, too, then leap to my feet and kick the chair, rip out a drawer, and slam my fist into the wall. I want to destroy this place, me, everything. I want to get lost in chaos.
I want the pain.
I want a way out.
I want Damien. Oh, dear God, I want Damien.
And then I collapse onto the floor, curl up in a ball, and cry.
Because Edward is not back from Malibu when I emerge from my office, I call a taxi, then step out into the bright sunshine, surprised to find that the earth is still rotating and that people are still going about their daily lives. Don’t they understand that the wheels have stopped turning?
I feel as though I am sleepwalking, and when I arrive at Stark Tower, I come in through the street level doors and move in a haze through the ornate lobby toward the security desk. I drift past the guards, and hear Joe call after me, “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay? You look a little under the weather.”
I am very under the weather, but I don’t bother stopping to tell that to Joe.
I have my own card key now, and I use it to call Damien’s private elevator. I ride up with no plan other than crawling into Damien’s bed and going to sleep until he returns from Chicago. I want to feel close to him for just a little longer. To breathe in the scent of him.
I want to make a memory of him, because I am about to sacrifice him in order to save him.
I have spent the last few hours thinking this through, and I see no other way. I can’t tell him about Sofia’s threat. If I do, he might let her go through with it. Might actually let her release those photos thinking somehow that he is protecting me. But I was in Germany with him, and I watched him break. And now that I’ve seen the photos myself, I am even more certain that those pictures plastered across the tabloids would destroy him. And every time he looked at me, he would see the reason for that intrusion into his life. Even if he could dig himself out of the inevitable hole, it would become a wedge between us. And I would rather walk away now than see our relationship shatter under the weight of something as vile as those photos.
I could go to the police, but how would that help? Then there would be more people aware of the photos and more risk that they are made public.
Even if I could tell him, so what? Could he convince Sofia not to release the photos? Maybe. But then he would live with that threat hanging over him for the rest of his life, and I do not want that for him or for us.
And would he even try to convince her? Or would he simply take control, doing whatever he had to in order to eliminate a threat? If what Sofia says is true, he killed Richter to protect her. Would he eliminate Sofia in order to protect himself? Me? Our relationship?
“You want me to break up with Damien.” I say the words levelly, but inside I’m cheering. I can work with that. I can pretend to agree. I can get out of here. Away from her and to Stark Tower. He’ll be back from Chicago soon, and he’ll know what to do. How to handle her.
“No,” she says. “You want to break up with Damien. Because you know that if you don’t, what I’ll release to the press will destroy him. And isn’t that what love is all about, Nikki? Isn’t it about protecting the ones you love? Just like the way Damien protected me from my father.”
The cold that had begun to recede presses against me again. “You wouldn’t release those photos.”
She shrugs. “Why not? It’s not like anyone can tell it’s me. Only Damien is identifiable.”
“Why not?” I repeat. “Because you’re sitting here telling me you love him. But that would absolutely destroy him.”
She shakes her head. “You’re destroying him. You’re keeping him from me. If you don’t let go, I don’t have a choice. How can you not see that?”
She takes a deep breath, then says brightly, “Well, I guess that about wraps things up here.” She stands, then nods at the desk and the photos scattered across it. “You can keep those. Like a souvenir. And, oh, I forgot about this.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small leather case. “I get that this situation is hard on you, I really do. So I thought this might help.” She puts the case on the corner of my desk, then hikes the purse back up on her shoulder. “And don’t even think about calling your security guy. Those friends I mentioned? I told them to release the photos to the press if I didn’t show up or if I got arrested or any silly shit like that.” Once again, she flashes that smile. “Nothing personal. I just like to be thorough.”
And then she’s sweeping out the door, leaving me frozen behind my office desk staring down at an array of photographs that have the power to destroy the man that I love.
I am frozen, I think. That’s why I can’t move. Why I am so cold, so goddamn cold.
But I don’t want to move. I want to sit here forever. I don’t want to see the world outside my office door. It is destroyed. A wasteland. Harsh and desolate.
How could it be anything else now that the bubble has finally shattered and the nightmares have swooped in?
I do not want to see, and yet I cannot help but glance down at the photo on top of the pile. Damien. His beautiful face distorted by a grimace that could either be pain or pleasure. The girl, legs wide, head back, back arched in a mockery of passion. She is unidentifiable, but I do not doubt that she is Sofia.
He’s mine. He killed for me. He’s mine.
With a violence that surprises me, I lurch to my feet, at the same time sweeping my arm out wide, sending the photos, the papers, the pens on the desk flying across the room. All that remains is the small case in the corner, the leather gleaming in the rays of afternoon light seeping in from the window. Reflections from passing cars make the light shimmer so that it blinks out a pattern on the innocuous case. I stare, mesmerized, as if those flashes of light are a message. As if they are calling me, urging me close, trying to lock me inside this new hell into which I have tumbled.
I hear a strange noise as I snatch the case, then realize it is my own whimper. Part of me doesn’t want to know, but the other part is too curious to be contained. I unzip it—then stare in horror at the gleaming set of antique scalpels.
A wave of thankfulness so potent that it almost knocks me over sweeps over me. Yes, I think. Thank God, yes.
But then sanity returns and I back away as if in horror. Only when I reach the wall, do I realize that the case is still in my hand.
Do it.
I tighten my grip and stare down at the blades.
I need to do this. I need it.
Slowly, as if sleepwalking, I return to my chair. I sit. I spread my legs. I yank up my skirt.
And then I press the tip of one shining, beautiful blade to my thigh. Immediately, I draw in a sharp thread of air as a bead of blood oozes from beneath the point of the blade. I shiver, mesmerized. I had not yet meant to cut, but the blade is so sharp, so perfect, that just that simple contact was enough to draw blood. And what now? A quick flick of my wrist? A slow, deliberate cut? Both are so sweetly tempting. Both would ease the maelstrom of ice and fear burning inside me.
Do it.
Do it, do it, do it.
I press down harder, feel the sting of cold steel against warm flesh. I moan from the ecstasy—and then I hurl the scalpel across the room, my cry of “No” echoing in the small space. The scalpel slams against the far wall, then drops to the floor with an unsatisfying metallic ping. I snatch up the case and hurl it, too, then leap to my feet and kick the chair, rip out a drawer, and slam my fist into the wall. I want to destroy this place, me, everything. I want to get lost in chaos.
I want the pain.
I want a way out.
I want Damien. Oh, dear God, I want Damien.
And then I collapse onto the floor, curl up in a ball, and cry.
Because Edward is not back from Malibu when I emerge from my office, I call a taxi, then step out into the bright sunshine, surprised to find that the earth is still rotating and that people are still going about their daily lives. Don’t they understand that the wheels have stopped turning?
I feel as though I am sleepwalking, and when I arrive at Stark Tower, I come in through the street level doors and move in a haze through the ornate lobby toward the security desk. I drift past the guards, and hear Joe call after me, “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay? You look a little under the weather.”
I am very under the weather, but I don’t bother stopping to tell that to Joe.
I have my own card key now, and I use it to call Damien’s private elevator. I ride up with no plan other than crawling into Damien’s bed and going to sleep until he returns from Chicago. I want to feel close to him for just a little longer. To breathe in the scent of him.
I want to make a memory of him, because I am about to sacrifice him in order to save him.
I have spent the last few hours thinking this through, and I see no other way. I can’t tell him about Sofia’s threat. If I do, he might let her go through with it. Might actually let her release those photos thinking somehow that he is protecting me. But I was in Germany with him, and I watched him break. And now that I’ve seen the photos myself, I am even more certain that those pictures plastered across the tabloids would destroy him. And every time he looked at me, he would see the reason for that intrusion into his life. Even if he could dig himself out of the inevitable hole, it would become a wedge between us. And I would rather walk away now than see our relationship shatter under the weight of something as vile as those photos.
I could go to the police, but how would that help? Then there would be more people aware of the photos and more risk that they are made public.
Even if I could tell him, so what? Could he convince Sofia not to release the photos? Maybe. But then he would live with that threat hanging over him for the rest of his life, and I do not want that for him or for us.
And would he even try to convince her? Or would he simply take control, doing whatever he had to in order to eliminate a threat? If what Sofia says is true, he killed Richter to protect her. Would he eliminate Sofia in order to protect himself? Me? Our relationship?
