My mouth parted in shock at the utter rudeness of his comment. “I am not wilting. I am merely…hibernating.”
Wilting was a word used to describe dying plants, not a healthy human being. I’d never been more insulted, though he wasn’t entirely wrong.
I’d only left my apartment once in the past week, and that was to check on Christian’s plants. We’d gotten over our argument in his office last week, and I had both my keys to his place and my watering responsibilities back.
I’d been subsisting on smoothies and food deliveries, which wasn’t good for my wallet or waistline, and my skin craved the natural warmth of sunshine.
But every time I attempted to go outside, my mind spiraled to the note and all the places my stalker could’ve gotten to me.
I’d depleted the burst of courage I’d gotten the morning after I found the note, and I had no idea how to replenish it.
“Call it whatever you want. The result is the same,” Christian said, clearly unimpressed by my euphemism. “Fifty minutes to get ready.”
“I’m not going.”
“Forty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds.”
“Nothing’s changed in the past three seconds. I’m. Not. Going.”
“This was our deal.” His cool voice sent a rush of indignation down the back of my neck. “You accompany me to events; I pose in your photos and act as your boyfriend. You don’t want to cut off the momentum when it’s going so well, do you?”
He was right, but that didn’t mean I appreciated Christian telling me what to do.
“Are you blackmailing me?”
His smile was all lazy charm and amusement. “Not blackmailing. Persuading.”
Now he liked euphemisms.
“Same thing in your world.”
“You’re learning.” Christian tapped the face of his watch. “Forty-four minutes.”
Our eyes clashed in a battle of defiance versus indifference.
I had no desire to leave my apartment. I could live here for the rest of my life and be happy. It was safe, quiet, and fully equipped with movies, ice cream, and internet. What more could a girl want?
Human company. Sunshine. A life, a voice whispered.
I gritted my teeth. Shut up.
Make me. I could practically see the disembodied voice sticking its tongue out.
Arguing with myself and sounding like a fifth grader. That had to be a new low.
“Forty-two minutes, Stella.” Christian’s eyes flickered with the soft glow of rising danger. “I have a business deal to close, so if you insist on holing yourself up like a scared hermit, tell me now so I can terminate our deal.”
Scared hermit. The words slithered down my spine like a taunt.
Was that how he saw me? Was that who I was? Someone so thrown off by one anonymous note that I let it rule my life?
Where was the girl from the morning after, the one who’d marched out of the house and vowed not to let fear win?
She was as ephemeral as morning rain and dreams of perfection. Always fighting to live and always dying by the blade of my anxiety.
The doorknob slipped against my hand.
“Fine.” The word rushed out before I could change my mind. “I’ll go.”
If only to prove that I wasn’t as weak as the world thought I was.
No smile, but the glow of danger dimmed until mere embers remained. “Good. Forty minutes.”
My lips pressed together. “You are, without doubt, the most insufferable countdown timer that’s ever existed.”
Christian’s laugh followed me into my room, where I flicked through my closet before settling on a silky camisole under a blazer, jeans, and velvet flats.
Apprehension tore at my nerves, but I kept my expression neutral as I reentered the living room.
Cool, calm, collected.
Christian didn’t say a word when he saw me, but his stare pressed against my body in a way that warmed me from the inside out.
We rode to the gallery in silence except for the soft classical music piping from the speakers. I was grateful he didn’t try to make conversation. I needed to gather all my energy for a night out when my body had already been in home relaxation mode.
My nerves intensified when the gallery came into sight.
I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.
I was with Christian, and my stalker wouldn’t attack me in the middle of a public party.
I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine, I repeated.
Luckily, the gallery opening was less crowded than the fundraiser. There were three dozen guests max, encompassing a mix of creative and high society types. They milled about the stark white space, talking quietly over glasses of champagne.
Christian and I circulated the room, making small talk about everything from the weather to cherry blossom season. I pitched in where I could, but unlike at the fundraiser, I let him take the lead.
I was too tired to be witty and charming, though it did feel nice to be in public again for the first time in a week.
I stuck by Christian’s side until Wyatt arrived with his wife.
“You do what you have to do,” I said. “I’m going to check out the rest of the exhibition.”
There was no way I could listen to them talk business without falling asleep.
“Interrupt me if you need me.” Christian leveled me with a dark stare. “I mean it, Stella.”
“I will.” I won’t. The thought of interrupting someone mid-conversation gave me hives. It was awkward and rude and I would rather throw myself into an ice pool in the dead of winter.
While he spoke with Wyatt, I made my way through the exhibit one piece at a time. The artist Morten (first name only) specialized in abstract realism. His paintings were lush, sometimes haunting, and always beautiful. Bold strokes of color depicted the darkest of emotions: rage, envy, guilt, helplessness.
I stopped in front of a canvas half-hidden in the corner. In it, a gorgeous young girl stared off to the side with a wistful expression. Her face was so realistic it could’ve been a photograph had it not been for the streaks of color dripping down her cheeks and onto her abstract torso. The streaks coalesced into a dark pool of water at the bottom of the painting, while her black hair curled away from her face and faded into a rendition of the night sky.
The piece wasn’t as big or flashy as the other paintings, but something about it tugged at my soul. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, like she was dreaming of a paradise she knew she’d never reach. Or maybe it was the melancholy of it all—the sense that despite her beauty, her life was more dark days and lonely nights than it was rainbows and sunshine.
“You like this one.” Christian’s voice startled me from my reverie.
I’d been staring at the painting for so long I hadn’t realized he’d finished his conversation with Wyatt.
I didn’t turn around, but the heat of his body enveloped mine at the same time goosebumps peppered my arms. It was a paradox, much like the man standing behind me.
“The girl. I…” Relate to her. “Think she’s beautiful.”
“She is.” The soft, meaningful dip in his voice had me questioning whether he was talking about the painting or something else.
A seed of awareness blossomed at the prospect, and it only grew when he rested a hand on my hip. It was so light it was a promise more than a touch, but it thrilled me all the same.