I wake screaming, clinging to Damien, my arms wrapped around him. Even the steady beat of his heart and his soft words cannot soothe me, because I can no longer tell what is the nightmare and what is reality.
All I want is for this to be over, but as we exit the Kempinski lobby two hours later—as the cameras flash and the reporters scream questions about the trial that is beginning today—I take it all back. I’m afraid that in wishing for it to end that I have been wishing for my own destruction. Instead, I want all this pre-trial nonsense to continue. I want to stay cocooned in the safety of the hotel if that’s what it takes to avoid reality.
From the moment we met, it was as if a magical bubble surrounded us. But the real world has begun to intrude. My mother, who flew into Los Angeles like a storm and ripped apart the fragile life I was finally building for myself. The paparazzi who almost broke me after they learned that I posed nude in exchange for a million dollars. And now this trial that is poised to rip away everything that Damien and I have managed to build together.
I have no intention of leaving Damien, and I believe that he has no intention of leaving me. But I can’t shake the fear that despite what we want, fate has other plans. Damien might be the strongest man I know, but can he fight the whole world?
The ride is all too short, and soon we arrive at the Criminal Justice Center, which houses the Munich District Court where Damien’s trial will take place. The building is modern, boxy in white stone and glass. It reminds me of both the federal courthouse in Los Angeles and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Considering the show that is about to be put on, I suppose that’s appropriate.
Over the last few days, I’ve been here a number of times for meetings between the attorneys. Those times, though, I hadn’t trembled. Today, I can’t stop shaking. A bone-deep quivering as if I am too cold. As if I will never be warm again.
I take a deep breath and ease toward the door that the driver is now holding open. I am stopped, however, by Damien’s hand upon mine.
“Wait,” he says, his voice low. “Here.” He shrugs out of his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.
I close my eyes—just for a moment. Just long enough to curse myself. Because, dammit, Damien shouldn’t be looking out for me. I should be the one supporting him, and I turn in the limo and pull him close and press a quick, firm kiss to his lips. “I love you,” I whisper, and hope those simple words say everything that I’m not saying.
His eyes lock on mine. “I know,” he says. “Now put the jacket on.”
I nod, understanding the unspoken message: No matter what, he will never stop looking out for me. I can’t argue with him about that; after all, I feel the same way.
I climb out of the car and stand up, my Public Nikki smile plastered across my face because reporters surround us, representing all of Europe and the States and even Asia. I’m practiced enough at hiding my emotions that I’m certain I look cool and confident. I’m not. I’m terrified. And from the way Damien grips my hand, I know that he realizes it. I wish I could be stronger, but it’s impossible, and I’m simply going to have to accept that. Until this is over—one way or the other—I’m going to be walking on a knife edge. I only hope that in the end, I can tumble into Damien’s arms, and not fall the other direction where I am left to plummet into the abyss alone.
“Herr Stark! Fräulein Fairchild! Nikki! Damien!”
The voices surround us, some English, some German, some French. Other languages, too, that I do not recognize.
Ever since I arrived in Munich, the press has been all over us. And not just about the trial. No, the tabloids are just as eager to analyze Damien’s love life. They are not—thank God—harping on endlessly about my portrait or the money Damien paid me. But they are gleefully digging through their morgues and running photos of Damien with the steady stream of other women who have been on his arm. Runway models. Actresses. Heiresses. Damien told me himself that he used to fuck a lot of women. And he told me that none of them were special. For him, there is only me.
I believe him, but I still don’t like seeing those pictures on newsstands and all over the television and Internet.
Right now, though, I’d be happy if the press’s only interest in us was who Damien was sleeping with. But that is not the focus of their attention today. Today, they’re out for blood, and murder is on the agenda.
It isn’t until we cross the threshold and enter the building that I realize that I have forgotten to breathe. I glance at Damien and manage a wan smile. He shakes his head. “If I could have left you in the hotel today, I would have.”
“I’d rather die than not be here with you.” Unfortunately, I think, being here may come close to killing me.
The halls are bustling with attorneys and court personnel, all moving efficiently to wherever it is they are going. I barely notice them. Honestly, I barely notice anything, and it’s with a bit of surprise that a uniformed guard hands me my purse and I realize that we’ve stepped through security.
A polished man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair is hurrying toward us. This is Charles Maynard, the attorney who has represented Damien since he burst onto the tennis scene as a nine-year-old prodigy. He holds out his hand for Damien even as his eyes go to me. “Hello, Nikki. The row of seats immediately behind the defense table is reserved for my staff. You’ll sit there too, of course.”
I nod, grateful. If I can’t be beside Damien, at least I’ll only be inches away.
“We should talk before this begins,” he continues, his words directed to Damien. He glances at me. “You’ll excuse us?”
I want to scream in protest, but instead I nod. I don’t try to speak, too afraid that my voice will shake and betray me.
Damien reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Go on in,” he says. “I’ll see you shortly.”
Once again, I nod assent, but I don’t move. Instead I stand dully in the hallway as Maynard leads Damien a few yards away and then through the doors of the small conference room that I know has been assigned to his team for use during the trial. I stand a moment longer, unwilling to go through the heavy wooden doors that lead to the courtroom. Maybe if I never go in, the proceedings can never start.
I’m still there, cursing my own foolishness, when I think I hear my name from somewhere behind me, muddled by the sound of the crowd bustling in this wide, echoing hall. At first, I think it’s one of the reporters trying to get my attention. But there’s something familiar about it. I frown, because surely it’s not—
But it is. Ollie.
I see him the instant I turn around. Orlando McKee, the boy I grew up with, who has been one of my best friends since forever. The man who has repeatedly said that Damien is a danger to me.
The man who Damien believes is in love with me.
There was a time when I would have run to him, thrown my arms around him, and spilled out all my fears. Now, I’m not even certain how I feel about seeing him here.
I stand frozen as he hurries toward me. He arrives out of breath, his hand outstretched for mine. Slowly, he drops his when he realizes that I am not reaching out in return.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I say blandly.
“I tried to reach you at the Kempinski this morning,” he says, “but you’d already left.”
All I want is for this to be over, but as we exit the Kempinski lobby two hours later—as the cameras flash and the reporters scream questions about the trial that is beginning today—I take it all back. I’m afraid that in wishing for it to end that I have been wishing for my own destruction. Instead, I want all this pre-trial nonsense to continue. I want to stay cocooned in the safety of the hotel if that’s what it takes to avoid reality.
From the moment we met, it was as if a magical bubble surrounded us. But the real world has begun to intrude. My mother, who flew into Los Angeles like a storm and ripped apart the fragile life I was finally building for myself. The paparazzi who almost broke me after they learned that I posed nude in exchange for a million dollars. And now this trial that is poised to rip away everything that Damien and I have managed to build together.
I have no intention of leaving Damien, and I believe that he has no intention of leaving me. But I can’t shake the fear that despite what we want, fate has other plans. Damien might be the strongest man I know, but can he fight the whole world?
The ride is all too short, and soon we arrive at the Criminal Justice Center, which houses the Munich District Court where Damien’s trial will take place. The building is modern, boxy in white stone and glass. It reminds me of both the federal courthouse in Los Angeles and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Considering the show that is about to be put on, I suppose that’s appropriate.
Over the last few days, I’ve been here a number of times for meetings between the attorneys. Those times, though, I hadn’t trembled. Today, I can’t stop shaking. A bone-deep quivering as if I am too cold. As if I will never be warm again.
I take a deep breath and ease toward the door that the driver is now holding open. I am stopped, however, by Damien’s hand upon mine.
“Wait,” he says, his voice low. “Here.” He shrugs out of his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.
I close my eyes—just for a moment. Just long enough to curse myself. Because, dammit, Damien shouldn’t be looking out for me. I should be the one supporting him, and I turn in the limo and pull him close and press a quick, firm kiss to his lips. “I love you,” I whisper, and hope those simple words say everything that I’m not saying.
His eyes lock on mine. “I know,” he says. “Now put the jacket on.”
I nod, understanding the unspoken message: No matter what, he will never stop looking out for me. I can’t argue with him about that; after all, I feel the same way.
I climb out of the car and stand up, my Public Nikki smile plastered across my face because reporters surround us, representing all of Europe and the States and even Asia. I’m practiced enough at hiding my emotions that I’m certain I look cool and confident. I’m not. I’m terrified. And from the way Damien grips my hand, I know that he realizes it. I wish I could be stronger, but it’s impossible, and I’m simply going to have to accept that. Until this is over—one way or the other—I’m going to be walking on a knife edge. I only hope that in the end, I can tumble into Damien’s arms, and not fall the other direction where I am left to plummet into the abyss alone.
“Herr Stark! Fräulein Fairchild! Nikki! Damien!”
The voices surround us, some English, some German, some French. Other languages, too, that I do not recognize.
Ever since I arrived in Munich, the press has been all over us. And not just about the trial. No, the tabloids are just as eager to analyze Damien’s love life. They are not—thank God—harping on endlessly about my portrait or the money Damien paid me. But they are gleefully digging through their morgues and running photos of Damien with the steady stream of other women who have been on his arm. Runway models. Actresses. Heiresses. Damien told me himself that he used to fuck a lot of women. And he told me that none of them were special. For him, there is only me.
I believe him, but I still don’t like seeing those pictures on newsstands and all over the television and Internet.
Right now, though, I’d be happy if the press’s only interest in us was who Damien was sleeping with. But that is not the focus of their attention today. Today, they’re out for blood, and murder is on the agenda.
It isn’t until we cross the threshold and enter the building that I realize that I have forgotten to breathe. I glance at Damien and manage a wan smile. He shakes his head. “If I could have left you in the hotel today, I would have.”
“I’d rather die than not be here with you.” Unfortunately, I think, being here may come close to killing me.
The halls are bustling with attorneys and court personnel, all moving efficiently to wherever it is they are going. I barely notice them. Honestly, I barely notice anything, and it’s with a bit of surprise that a uniformed guard hands me my purse and I realize that we’ve stepped through security.
A polished man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair is hurrying toward us. This is Charles Maynard, the attorney who has represented Damien since he burst onto the tennis scene as a nine-year-old prodigy. He holds out his hand for Damien even as his eyes go to me. “Hello, Nikki. The row of seats immediately behind the defense table is reserved for my staff. You’ll sit there too, of course.”
I nod, grateful. If I can’t be beside Damien, at least I’ll only be inches away.
“We should talk before this begins,” he continues, his words directed to Damien. He glances at me. “You’ll excuse us?”
I want to scream in protest, but instead I nod. I don’t try to speak, too afraid that my voice will shake and betray me.
Damien reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Go on in,” he says. “I’ll see you shortly.”
Once again, I nod assent, but I don’t move. Instead I stand dully in the hallway as Maynard leads Damien a few yards away and then through the doors of the small conference room that I know has been assigned to his team for use during the trial. I stand a moment longer, unwilling to go through the heavy wooden doors that lead to the courtroom. Maybe if I never go in, the proceedings can never start.
I’m still there, cursing my own foolishness, when I think I hear my name from somewhere behind me, muddled by the sound of the crowd bustling in this wide, echoing hall. At first, I think it’s one of the reporters trying to get my attention. But there’s something familiar about it. I frown, because surely it’s not—
But it is. Ollie.
I see him the instant I turn around. Orlando McKee, the boy I grew up with, who has been one of my best friends since forever. The man who has repeatedly said that Damien is a danger to me.
The man who Damien believes is in love with me.
There was a time when I would have run to him, thrown my arms around him, and spilled out all my fears. Now, I’m not even certain how I feel about seeing him here.
I stand frozen as he hurries toward me. He arrives out of breath, his hand outstretched for mine. Slowly, he drops his when he realizes that I am not reaching out in return.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I say blandly.
“I tried to reach you at the Kempinski this morning,” he says, “but you’d already left.”
