The silence goes on so long I pull the phone away from my ear to make sure we’re still connected.
“Robert?”
“I’m here. Daphne…” The ledger rustles in the background. He’s probably flipping the pages back and forth in one of his nervous habits. “It’s your call, of course, but a sale of this size…”
“It won’t end, that’s the thing.” I won’t go into too much detail about what happened last night, with Robert least of all, but I have to say something. “He doesn’t just want these two. He wants to buy all my paintings. That’s too much.”
“All of them? He wants to claim all your future work?”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
He whistles. “That would be—I mean, if this note is anything to go by, you wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”
When Robert says anything, he means money. I wouldn’t have to worry about money. If Emerson is serious about buying even half of the pieces I plan to paint in the foreseeable future, it means a ton of money for me, and a huge commission to the gallery. Shame burns at the back of my throat. It feels bad to say no, but it feels worse that I fell for his lies. Emerson made me feel special, only to treat me like a prostitute. Like a person for sale. Why can’t I get that through my head? Why can’t I forget how good it felt to kiss him.
“I don’t think that’s true. I think I’d have quite a bit to worry about.”
“You’d be set,” he insists. “Even if he didn’t want them all, your work would be so valuable, Daphne. People would be lining up for showings.”
I can hear how much he wants this, and what I hate most of all is how conflicted I feel.
Emerson was an incredible kisser. He was also a liar. He didn’t tell me who he was until he wanted something from me, and what he wanted turned out to be everything. He wanted to make a purchase of me.
And I’ll never admit that when he said it, with his body against mine, something went hot and liquid between my thighs. Before my brain snapped back to being offended, I liked it. I liked the way it sounded when he said it. Pure possession. That’s what it was. No two ways about it.
“Just think about it.” Robert manages to say this casually, which has to be tough for him. “Don’t decide anything today. It was a big night. Take some time, okay?”
“Okay.” Mainly, I want this conversation to end. “I’ll think about it. I’ll see you later on.”
I hang up and roll facedown into the pillows.
This is not how I imagined it would go when someone finally discovered my work, if they ever did.
There’s a knock at the door. I bet anything it’s Robert, feeling weird about the conversation. “One minute,” I say into the pillow. It’s not loud enough for whoever it is to hear me. It’s more of a personal commitment to getting out of bed. I do, and throw on a hoodie and leggings. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the way past the bathroom. Good thing, too, because my hair is a mess. A bun on the top of my head is an improvement. “Coming,” I call toward the door.
No one answers.
I slide the privacy cover on the peephole out of the way and look out.
Nobody in the hall, either. Some canvases I have stored out there. A package, maybe. I usually have things delivered to the gallery, but it’s not out of the question.
I pat my hair one last time and flip the lock. Open the door.
There’s no package waiting on the navy blue doormat.
There is a single, white orchid.
Goose bumps paint themselves from the top of my head to the base of my spine. It’s all I can do to pick my head up and look down the hall to make sure there’s no one there. My heart jumps into my throat and bangs around. The hall is empty. I take two shaky steps toward the stairs and look down. They’re empty, too.
But someone was here.
Someone left me a white orchid.
It was him. I know it was him. There’s only one person who would have any reason to leave me a flower, and it’s Emerson, and…
He knows. He knows where I live. He was standing down in the gallery when I came up.
I followed you, this flower says.
I stand over it on the doormat, my hands shaking. If I pick it up, does that mean I’m accepting what happened last night? That makes me want to crush it in my fist, take it down to the sidewalk, and throw it to the concrete.
A distant buzz comes from inside the apartment.
My phone.
I swipe the orchid from the doormat and rush in. Slam the door. Lock it tight. It’s a pure, delicate flower. White as snow. Flawless. It feels so fragile in my hand. There’s a warmth to the stem. Like he was holding it in his big palm.
The phone’s still ringing when I get to the bed. Eva’s name is on the screen. “Hi.” I sink down on the side of my bed, trying not to sound out of breath. “Why are you calling so early?”
And then I can’t help it. I bend my head to the petals and take a deep breath in. Soft petals. Delicate. Pure. I’m hoping for a trace of him, for the fresh-air scent of him. I want it more than I can say.
I want him more than I should ever want a rich asshole who wants to buy me.
“Hey, Daph.” Eva sounds tired. More than tired—exhausted. Afraid, almost. My stomach drops. All those days she didn’t text feel different now. And the way the security apartment was all lit up, all week. “Are you at home?”
“Yeah, of course I am. It’s barely daylight.” I force a laugh. “Are you at home?”
“No, actually. I’m at the hospital. New York-Presbyterian.”
“Are you serious?” Blood rushes out of my face. It was hot a few seconds ago, but now my cheekbones feel frozen.
“Listen, everything’s all right. I should have started with—it’s fine. Everyone is going to be fine. I wanted to call and let you know.”
“What’s happening?” I try to sound as cool and collected as possible, but not knowing is terrible. “Was there an accident?”
I can’t bring myself to ask about one person or another. Our family is too big. There are too many chances for something to go wrong.
“There wasn’t an accident.” Eva takes a deep breath, and I can’t understand why she’s having to steel herself if everything is going to be so, so fine. “I’m here because Leo is here.”
Panic sets in. This is why she’s trying to be so gentle about this. “For what?”
“He’s going to be fine,” she says. “That’s the thing I need you to know. They patched him up, and he’s going home tomorrow. Okay? I would have told you earlier, but he didn’t want you to worry.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“He got shot, Daph.” All the air squeezes out of my lungs. Eva keeps talking, but the words bounce off me and slide down to the floor. Something crumples in my hand. It’s the orchid. My nails have bitten through the soft petals. The flower’s ruined now.
Chapter Nine
Emerson
As it happens, a man can’t have iron-willed control over everything in his life. Most things, but not everything. I’m willing to admit to myself that Daphne Morelli might be the exception to the many rules I have about emotions and their place in a man’s mind.