Damien had bought out her art galleries and agreed not to sue her for defamation if she got the hell out of Los Angeles and didn't look back. The last I heard, she was in Florida.
Apparently, she decided to tempt fate by returning.
I don't realize that I've stopped dead until the mechanical voice of the revolving door chides me to "Please keep moving".
I take a step forward, then another. I'm actually considering just making the full circle back to the lobby when Giselle looks up, sees me, and flashes a tentative smile.
Well, fuck.
I step out of the safety of the door and into the bustle of a city coming to life. People scurrying into the building. Horns blaring. A news helicopter overhead.
And Giselle, hurrying over to meet me, her smile just a little too bright. "Nikki," she says. "Congratulations."
"Excuse me?" My voice is cold. Hard.
She swallows, her smile faltering. "I heard that you're pregnant," she says, dashing my hopes that the gossip was localized in Dallas. "Or is that just a rumor?"
I raise a brow. "A rumor? Who would be vile enough to start rumors about me? Especially about something personal."
Her shoulders sag. "Do you want me to say I'm sorry again? I am. I was a mess back then. I had so many debts, and I was so scared that everything was going to come crashing down around my shoulders." Her mouth twists ironically. "And then it all did crash, and I survived. And I realized that now I have to live with every horrible thing I did during those dark days. So if you hate me, that's okay. I deserve it."
I exhale slowly. "I don't hate you, Giselle. I did," I admit. "But now you're not even on my radar."
My words are biting, and I expect to see the force of them cut through her. Instead, she just nods as if she understands completely. Hell, maybe she does. Maybe she really is contrite.
I don't know.
Honestly, I don't much care. All I know is that she went out of her way to hurt not just me but also my relationship with Damien. And not even out of spite or jealousy, but simply to push her own self-interests.
Even if she is in a better place now, that doesn't mean I'm ready to forgive.
"Why are you here, Giselle?" I demand.
"I have an appointment. With Damien."
"You set up an appointment with Damien?" I can't believe he didn't tell me he was going to meet with Giselle.
"Not with him. Through his assistant."
I nod, relieved. Rachel was only working weekends when I was dating Damien. Odds are she doesn't even remember the drama that Giselle caused back then.
She glances at her watch. "I should go. She squeezed me in at eight-thirty. I told her I was only in town for the morning and, well, I don't want to be late." The corner of her mouth quirks up. "I have a feeling Damien will be as enthusiastic about seeing me as you are." Her voice is high and self-deprecating. "And I don't need to add fuel to an already unpleasant fire by being late. But, seriously," she adds, her tone shifting toward sincere, "congratulations. I'm happy for both of you. Truly."
With a final apologetic smile, she scurries inside. I stand there for a minute, trying to recall why I'd come onto the plaza in the first place. Muffin, I remember and take a step toward the kiosk.
"A latte, Mrs. Stark?" the barista asks, but I shake my head. Right now, the idea of food sitting heavy in my stomach sounds like the most horrible thing ever.
"No," I say. "Never mind, I'm good."
But I'm not good, and that bothers me. Because I can't deny that seeing Giselle has cast a gray pallor over an otherwise beautiful day.
10
What have you ever earned on your own?
The vile words flash at me from my cell phone as I enter my office building. Another anonymous message. Another stab to my gut.
I'd ultimately decided that the first message in Dallas was from another applicant for the Greystone-Branch position. Maybe someone trying to psych me out. Someone who didn't realize I'd already finished the interview. I'd pushed it out of my mind, and since there'd been no repeat, I'd forgotten to mention it to Damien. Maybe I would have remembered if I weren't pregnant, in a public spotlight, and crying at my sister's grave, but all of that drama pushed one vile text message right out of my head.
Now, it's back, front and center and with traveling companions.
And I know that I need to tell Damien.
I'm about to call him, but then I remember that he had to face Giselle this morning. Considering the negative impact she'd had on my mood, I expect that Damien will be equally put out. And hearing that I have a new pen pal isn't going to make him happy either.
I slip my phone back into my bag and make a mental note to tell him tonight.
I'm already reconsidering if I should call him now when the elevator stops at my floor, and I step off, ready to toss a smile to Marge. But instead of Marge at the reception desk, I see a tiny little girl with big blue eyes and coal-black hair. She sits up straighter when she sees me, picks up a pencil, and says very clearly, "May I help you?"
"Why, yes," I say. "I'm looking for Nikki Stark. I have an appointment with her."
From the corner of my eye, I see my sister-in-law, Sylvia, fighting a grin from where she's sitting on the reception room sofa holding the baby, Jeffery, in her lap.
Ronnie giggles, then sighs. "No, no, Aunt Nikki. That's wrong. You can't be looking for yourself."
I let my eyes go wide. "You're right! How did you get to be so smart, anyway?"
She slides off the chair and trots around the desk toward me, then shrugs. "I just am."
"You just are?" I repeat. "You just are?" I raise my voice to a tease, and at the same time rush forward to scoop her up, lift her into my arms, and twirl her around.
She squeals with delight. "Faster, Aunt Nikki! Faster!"
But faster isn't in the program today because my ever-present nausea has decided to pay a visit, and so I plunk us both down on the couch beside Syl. Ronnie immediately scrambles out of my lap and goes back to Marge's desk because "I'm supposed to be in charge until she comes back."
I meet Syl's eyes, and see that she's trying not to laugh. "Marge is in Peter's office," she explains, referring to the freelance graphic artist who has the smallest office suite on this floor. "She asked Ronnie to watch the desk while she gathered some papers to forward to him in Maryland."
"His mother asked him to fly out and help her move," I comment. "Mine didn't even send a change of address postcard."
Syl frowns. "What?"
I wave away the words, then pull one of my feet up onto the couch. My ankles have been aching all morning. "Never mind. It's not important. I'm much more interested in holding this little guy." I reach for Jeffery as Syl lifts him to his feet, and he toddles over the sofa cushions to plunk down in my lap.
"Ni-Ni!" he says with a big grin, and I pull him in and cuddle him close, then press kisses all over those adorable baby cheeks.
"So why are you here?" I ask.
"Oh. Well. Ronnie has a two-week summer camp in Burbank, and Stella has a doctor's appointment," she adds, referring to her nanny. "I took the morning off to bring Ronnie, and since we were nearby, and . . ." She trails off, her cheeks going pink.
I sit back with sudden understanding, Jeffery snuggled in my arms. I flash a wide smile and then lift a shoulder in a small shrug. "We were going to invite you to brunch on Sunday and tell you then. I didn't want to steal Jane's thunder before the premiere."
Syl looks like she's about to say something, but right then Marge comes back into the room, and Ronnie scurries around the desk to cling to her mom's legs.
"Come on," I say, standing and balancing Jeffery on my hip. "Let's go into my office."
I have a basket of crayons, coloring books, and Lego Duplos that I keep for the kids, and Ronnie immediately races toward it. I put Jeffery down beside her, and when I turn around, Syl engulfs me in a hug.
"Congratulations," she says, giving me a squeeze before she steps back and gr
ins broadly. "I'm so happy for you guys!"
"I'm a terrible sister-in-law," I say, and Syl laughs. "We should have called you and Jackson first thing."
"You're fine. I'm just nosy."
I laugh as she settles into one of my guest chairs.
"Nosy," she repeats, "and maybe a little concerned." She wrinkles her nose apologetically, but I get where she's coming from. Syl's mother isn't quite the nightmare mine is, but it's fair to say that we've both had our share of parental issues. She doesn't know all the details about my life growing up, but she was in the thick of it when I was planning my wedding. So she knows enough to understand that I have issues with my mom--and to know that the idea of being a parent myself would make me nervous.
"Thanks," I say sincerely. "But I'm fine. Truly," I add when she just watches me, her expression suggesting she's assessing my veracity. "I was freaked at first--this was entirely unexpected--but now I'm kind of floating."
Sylvia's smile lights up the room. "I know what you mean, both of mine were unexpected, though in entirely different ways."
I laugh. Ronnie is Jackson's biological daughter, and when Sylvia and Jackson first got together, Syl had no idea the little girl existed. As for Jeffery, he and my little peanut have conception-by-failed-birth-control in common.
"I would have called yesterday, but I didn't realize that the news had spread outside of Dallas. Jamie called me before my interview and didn't say a thing, so I just figured the gossip was localized."
I frown, because Jamie's the most tied-in person I know. She's been addicted to social media and the internet for years, but now she's even more obsessive about checking all the gossip sites. She calls it "professional research" and "staying on top of her game".
So surely she would have seen the coverage. After all, the odds of Sylvia noticing and Jamie remaining clueless are slim to none.
So surely she knew. But why the hell didn't she say anything about the baby?
"It's not too widespread," Syl says, interrupting my thoughts. "That's actually why I wasn't sure. I've seen a couple of mentions that you fainted on the lawn of your family home--true?"
I roll my eyes. "Yes and no. It used to be my family home, but apparently my mother has moved on."
Syl opens her mouth, ostensibly to ask me about that, but I just wave the words off, because I'm really not in the mood to even think about that woman.
"They're just covering the fainting?" I ask. "I should have gone online myself, but I didn't have the stomach for it."
"Mostly just that," she says. "But I've seen one or two sites that say you're pregnant. Nothing reliable, though. Jackson said it was probably all bullshit, but I guess I had a feeling. I've seen you go through some pretty rough stuff, you know, and you're really not the fainting type."
I laugh so hard that Ronnie looks up, startled. But Syl is right. Since she was Damien's assistant before he and I got married, she had a bird's-eye view of our tumultuous relationship--and the obsessive, horrible, invasive tabloid coverage we'd been subjected to.
"Oh, hell," she says, glancing at her watch. "I need to get the princess to art class."
Across the room, Ronnie stands up, her hands on her little hips. "Mommeeeee. I'm not a princess! I'm a mermaid!"
"I thought you were a mermaid princess," Syl says, and Ronnie just rolls her eyes. I watch, soaking it all in, and imagining a day when I can tease my own daughter like that. And, yes, wondering if I'll know how. Because God knows, there wasn't ever a whit of humor between my mother and me.
"Toys back in the basket," Syl orders. "Hurry up."
"I can do it," I say.
"Trust me," she says. "Start them early." She reaches down, gathers up a few crayons, and scoops Jeffery up in a single practiced motion. As soon as he's settled on her hip, she reaches a hand down for Ronnie, who reaches up at the same time to grab hold of her mother's hand. My eyes sting, and I blink back tears. And though I totally blame it on hormones, I can't deny that the simple, easy connection between mother and daughter has my heart twisting with both longing and regret.
"Did you say something about brunch on Sunday?" Syl says as she shuffles her tribe toward the door.
"Absolutely," I say as my phone rings. "A small group. I'll text you the time. You're free?"
"We're totally in," Syl says, then points to my phone. "Get to work and let me know if I should bring anything." She blows me a kiss and disappears out my door.
I grab the phone, expecting it to be the call I set up with a client in Seattle.
Instead, it's Damien.
"Hi, stranger," I say. "I was just going to text you. Syl was just--"
"Nikki," he says, his voice firm enough to cut me off. "I'm so sorry."
"About what?" I say, then, "Oh! Giselle." Seeing Sylvia and the kids had completely wiped her from my mind.
"I had no idea she was back in town, much less that she'd made an appointment to see me."
"I know. She told me she went through Rachel."
"I was on the verge of throwing the bitch out of my office--"
"Did she tell you what she wanted?"
We're talking over each other. Me, trying to sound like it doesn't matter. Him, with latent fury tainting his voice. He's known Giselle for years--they'd even dated for about five minutes before she got married. And he'd been sympathetic when she and Bruce had divorced. After all, she'd lost pretty much everything in their split. But then he'd learned that she was fucking with me--with us--and Damien had put all of his resources to work and essentially run the bitch out of town with her tail between her legs.
I hear him exhale, and it sounds like defeat. "She wants to donate to the silent auction," he says, referring to the fundraiser for the Stark Children's Foundation that is part and parcel of the movie premiere on Friday.
"Oh."
His words surprise me. I'd expected--well, anything else. A request for a loan. To buy back one of her galleries. Simple forgiveness.
Instead, she's turned the tables. Instead of asking for help, she's offering it.
"Oh," I say again. "Well, I guess you should agree."
Damien clears his throat. "I already did."
I start to say oh one more time, but force my lips to stay closed. He did exactly what I just told him to do, so it's silly to be annoyed that he did it before asking me.
But silly or not, I am irritated.
Actually, I think I'm downright pissed.
"I didn't realize she'd managed to hang onto any of her pieces that were worth anything." The words come out sounding false. Like I'm making conversation with a stranger in a bar.
"She remarried," Damien explains. "Not only is her husband wealthy, but he knows the parents of one of the kids in the bus."
Immediately, my irritation morphs into something more gentle. "That's horrible. Those poor people." The premiere is for The Price of Ransom, the film adaptation of Jane's narrative nonfiction bestseller. It's a story about five third-graders who'd been kidnapped and held for ransom, then almost killed when a rescue attempt went horribly wrong.
The premiere--and all the activities surrounding it--is a fundraiser for the Stark Children's Foundation, tickets for which start at five hundred dollars and go up to ten times that.
"She and her husband are donating a Glencarrie," he says, referring to an up-and-coming artist whose work has been garnering six figures at various auctions lately. "I told her we'd appreciate the donation, and that they're welcome at the premiere. I'm sorry," he says again, before I can reply. "I should have asked you first."
"No. Of course, it's okay." This time, I really mean it. She apologized, after all. And she's donating a fortune to the foundation. "Besides, there's going to be a huge crowd there. Maybe I won't have to see her again."
Damien chuckles. "I love you."
"That's a good thing, considering I'm having your baby."
"How are you feeling?" I can hear the shift in his tone. Just the mention of the baby has lifted both our moods.
/>
"Good, actually. I feel really good. Syl was just here, though. The word is out. You should call Jackson, and we should start telling our friends."
"Agree. They should hear it from us. We can tell them when we call to invite them over for brunch."
"And brunch will be one big celebration." I glance at the clock. "I need to run. My client's going to call any minute, and then I'm meeting Jamie for lunch. I'm going to try and work late and get caught up, but I may come home early."
"Pregnancy exhaustion?"
"Try hormones," I say. "And the way they're hopping, you can expect me to jump you tonight."
"As I said, I'm always happy to help you with anything you need during your pregnancy."
"Very altruistic of you."
"Later, Mrs. Stark. And I'm looking forward to an evening of therapeutic aerobic activity."
I end the call and flip through my agenda for my notes. I'm still grinning when the phone chimes to signal an incoming text. I grimace, expecting that it's my client texting to tell me the obvious--that he's running incredibly late.
But when I pull up the phone, it's not my client.
It's not Damien either.
Instead, it's my new text stalker. And the message makes me cringe:
What makes you think you deserve it?
11
I stare at the phone screen, bile churning in my gut. I hate this feeling--weak, exposed--and for one crazed moment, I imagine myself hurling my phone across the room to shatter against the far wall.
I think about the hard plastic pieces, the raw edges as sharp as a knife.
And I think about how I can get this churning, nasty feeling under control. How I can calm myself. Center myself.
How I can use those shards of plastic as a lifeline to drag me back home.
No, no, a thousand times no.
That is not what I want. Cut, and whoever is baiting me wins.
Cut, and I'll destroy everything I've accomplished with Damien by my side.
Most of all, if I cut, then what kind of model will I be for my child? I press my free hand over my belly, determined to safeguard this precious baby. This child I hadn't expected but will now do anything to protect.