I'm still fuzzy on why such massive resources are devoted to Sofia's mental health. I understand that she's a friend, but as far as I know, Damien doesn't assign assistants to keep tabs on all of his friends.
"Let me know the moment you get through to Alaine," he says to her. Alaine is now a chef in Los Angeles, but since he and Sofia and Damien were tight in their youth, Damien is hoping that he's heard from her. He moves behind his desk and glances down at the neat piles of paper. "And since I'm in town anyway, bring me the projections on the Newton project."
"Of course, Mr. Stark." She pauses in her exit to nod at me. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fairchild. I'm sorry the circumstances couldn't have been more pleasant."
"A pleasure to meet you, too," I say. I remain by the window until the door shuts behind her, then I move to Damien's side. "Any luck?"
"Unfortunately, no. She checked herself out of the most recent rehab facility about a week ago, and no one's heard from her since."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
He grimaces. "It's not the first time, but usually she turns up after a few days back in her apartment in St. Albans, drunk or stoned off her ass and ready to go get dried out again."
"How old is she?"
"Twenty-nine. A year younger than me."
I nod, digesting the information. "And she's in rehab voluntarily? I mean, a judge didn't put her there?"
"Sometimes I think it would be easier if one did," he says flatly. "But no, it's voluntary."
"I see," I say, but of course, I don't. His desk is the size of the bathroom I share with Jamie, and made of chrome and glass and polished teak. I hop up on it, letting my legs dangle as I think about what he's told me--and about what he hasn't. "I get that you're worried something happened to her," I say. "What I don't understand is why. She's an adult and she checked out legitimately. Maybe she just decided to travel. To go hang with some other friends. They said she was almost dried out, right? Maybe she wants to prove to herself that she can operate sober on her own."
I expect him to shoot me down. To tell me--rightfully--that I don't know a thing about this girl. Instead, he seems to seriously consider my words.
"She may have done just that," Damien says. "But if you suddenly couldn't find Jamie, what would you do?"
Considering that happened not so very long ago, he knows exactly what I would do. Completely freak out. "Point taken, Mr. Stark."
"There's another reason, too," he says. His voice is casual, his movements equally so as he moves to the window where I was standing only moments before. I join him, and we both look out over this industrial section of the city. But it's not the view that has captured my attention. It's the reflection of Damien's face in the glass. His voice and manner may be casual; his expression is not.
I don't say anything, and after a moment, he continues. "She and I had an agreement. I'd foot the bill, and she'd finish the treatments. I don't like having my conditions ignored."
I nod. Knowing what I know of Damien, what he is saying makes perfect sense. The only thing I don't understand is why, and though I'm almost certain he will shut me down, I decide to voice the question. "Why are you paying for the treatment? And not just this one round. There've been others, too, right?"
The silence that hangs after my question seems unusually heavy, and I am not sure how much longer I can stand the weight of it bearing down upon me.
When he finally speaks, the words are soft, but there is a harshness to them that I don't understand. "I've been paying Sofia's way for as long as I've had the money to do so."
My question is once again "Why?"--and it bursts past my lips before I can think better of it.
I am looking at him now, not at his reflection. But Damien is still looking through the glass, and I can't help but wonder if he's seeing the city or the past. Is it me that he is standing beside? Or is Sofia next to him?
I squeeze my hands into fists, because I do not want to be jealous of a ghost, and yet I feel those tiny green seeds begin to sprout inside me.
Damien still hasn't answered my question, and I think that perhaps I have gone too far. But then he finally speaks, and I am suddenly cold--chilled to the bone for Damien, and for the innocent girl who was his friend.
"She was Richter's daughter," Damien says. "And he didn't leave her a dime."
It takes me a minute to fully comprehend what he is saying. "Sofia is Richter's daughter, but he left all of his money to you?"
"He did," Damien says.
"So that's why you take care of her? Why didn't you just sign the money over to her?"
"That wasn't an option," he says. "For one thing, she had issues even back then. She's brilliant but impulsive, and she doesn't make the best choices. So I set up a trust. She can access money for her needs. I bought an apartment for her. I pay for her treatment. The bottom line is that she has a life and property because I didn't give her that money. If I had, she probably would have died from an overdose. At the very least, she would have either drunk, injected, or snorted it away."
I nod because that all makes sense.
"But the truth is that I would have helped her even if there had been no inheritance." For the first time since he has started speaking, he turns to face me. "She knew about what he did to me. Her friendship helped keep me sane."
"Oh, God." I'm not sure if he can hear the words through the hand that I have pressed against my mouth. But I am certain that he can see the horror--and the sadness--in my eyes. "She knew what kind of a monster her father was."
"She did," he says. "And we survived him together. In the end, I was better suited at survival than she was. But dammit, Nikki, she was there for me."
I am nodding, tears trickling down my cheeks. "Alaine, too?"
Damien shakes his head. "He didn't know anything. I value his friendship, of course. But my relationship with Sofia runs deeper."
I take his hand and hold it tight. Those tiny green tendrils have completely shriveled up. There is no jealousy. Instead, I am as desperate to find this woman as Damien. This poor girl who shared what little strength she had with Damien, and suffered through her own kind of hell simply from knowing that the blood of a monster flowed through her veins.
"You'll find her," I say. "When have you ever not gotten something you want?"
As I had hoped, that draws a small smile to his lips. He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight.
"The trial must have been hell for her," I say. "Her father. You." I keep my cheek pressed against his chest as his reply rumbles through me.
"We didn't talk about it. She didn't like to think about the fact that Merle Richter was her father. I spoke to her a few hours before you arrived in Germany, actually. I kept expecting her to bring it up. She never did."
I don't know what to say next, so I am relieved when Ms. Ives's voice comes across the intercom, telling Damien that she has Alaine on a video call, and does Damien want her to put it through to the wall screen?
Damien tells her to go ahead, and immediately a decorative mirror on the far side of the room turns opaque, then blue. And then, suddenly, I see Alaine's face.
"Damien," he says, "I was so pleased to hear about the dismissal."
"Thank you. You remember Nikki?"
"Of course. It is a pleasure to see you again, Nikki. Hopefully next time it will be in person with a glass of my best wine."
"I'd like that." When I met Alaine, I hadn't been able to place his accent. Since then, Damien has told me that he grew up in Switzerland. It's still not an accent I would recognize easily, but listening now, I can hear the influences of both French and German.
"I'm sorry I wasn't available when you called earlier. Your message said it was about Sofia?"
"She's gone again," Damien says. "Checked herself out a few days ago and took off. I haven't been able to find her, and I thought she might have called you."
"You are in luck, my friend," he says. "I know exactly where she is."
I meet Damien's eyes
and see the flash of relief. "Where?"
"Shanghai."
"Shanghai?" Incredulity laces his voice. "Why? When did you talk to her?"
Alaine's brow furrows. "Three, no four, days ago. Do you remember David, that drummer she was intrigued with a few years back? Apparently his band is booked for a week in a club there. She said she might be in Chicago, too, if a job the band is hoping for comes through."
Damien presses his fingertips to his temple. His expression is an odd mix of softness and concern. It's a paternal expression, the kind I imagine I'd see if he was worried about our own kids one day.
Our kids? I stiffen, but in surprise, not fear. The thought came unbidden, but it is not terrifying. On the contrary, it's soothing, as if I've been given a sneak peek into the future, and it is a future with Damien and a family.
"She called you?" Damien asks Alaine. "I've been trying to reach her by cell, but it just rolls over to voice mail."
"It was a video call," he says. "I asked if she'd talked to you, but she didn't want to bother you during the trial. I'm surprised she hasn't called you now that it's over, but knowing Sofia, she hasn't seen the news."
"Can you conference her in through the account she used?"
I see Alaine's eyes shift up, as if he's examining the various options on his computer monitor. "I think so. Hang on." Alaine's image stays on the screen, but a smaller box appears in the corner. It's a snapshot of a girl with spiky black hair tipped with red. She has a multi-pierced ear filled with tiny silver rings. Her elven face is small and delicate and her skin is unnaturally pale. Her deep brown eyes are ringed with pitch-black kohl. The only color comes from her lips, which are wide and full and striking with bloodred lipstick. It's hard to tell her age, but even though Damien said that Sofia is almost thirty, she looks barely twenty to me. Then again, I have no idea how old this image is.
"I think this will do it," Alaine says, then almost immediately adds, "Well, damn the girl."
It takes me a second to understand what has happened, but then I see that a red X has appeared as a watermark over the image. "What is that?" I ask.
"She's closed her account," Damien says. "You don't have another contact number?"
"Other than her cell phone? No." Alaine's mouth is curved down into a frown. "I swear I don't know what she's thinking half the time. But she said she'd call after Shanghai and let me know where they're going next."
"Tell her to call me, too. For that matter, hook me into the call."
"Will do. And, Damien, don't worry. She will turn up. She always does. And we both know that she is a mercurial soul."
"She's a disturbed soul," Damien says.
"Aren't we all?" Alaine says, but there is a sparkle in his eyes, and it's obvious that he doesn't understand the fundamental truth of his words.
As soon as the screen goes blank, Damien calls Ms. Ives back in and gives her a list of instructions, including searching the file for David and then tracking his current band to Shanghai. She takes meticulous notes and promises to contact him the moment she has information. As soon as she's left, Damien folds me into his arms.
"Are you okay?"
"Frustrated," he says. "But I'm fine."
I see the worry etched on his face, but when he looks at me and smiles, it all seems to fade.
"Thank you," he says.
"For what?"
"For everything."
My answering smile is so broad it's almost painful. "Anytime, Mr. Stark."
"I think I'm done here for now," he says. "You've never been to London, have you? Do you want to stay the night? We could go to Harrods. Catch a show in the West End. See a few sights."
"No," I say. "I just want to be with you. I just want to go home."
"And that's another reason that we are perfect together," Damien says. "I want exactly the same thing."
Chapter Ten
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Stark, Ms. Fairchild. Would you care for a glass of champagne?"
"Yes, thank you," I say, taking the glass gratefully. Damien and I are seated side by side in the rich leather recliners. There's a polished table in front of us and equally shiny wood trim throughout the interior of the very large cabin. The seats are so comfortable I'd happily have them at home. The flight attendant is tall and slim, with a mass of curls piled on her head in a way that manages to look both cute and professional.
I sip the champagne, sigh, and have to admit that there's something to be said for the billionaire lifestyle.
"What happened to the other plane?" I ask Damien. We'd flown from Munich to London in a small jet, similar to the one he keeps hangared in Santa Monica. While comfortable, it pales in comparison to this one.
"This is the Lear Bombardier Global 8000," he says. "We're crossing the Atlantic, remember? Not to mention all of the United States. I thought traveling in a plane with sufficient fuel capacity made sense. Plus it's easier to get work done with an actual office. And sleep in an actual bed," he adds, trailing his finger lightly up my leg and giving me shivers.
"This thing has an office and a bed?"
"There's a bed in the stateroom," he says.
"Wow." I want to get up and explore, but the attendant has already asked that we fasten our seat belts as the plane is now taxiing toward the runway.
Now, she's standing next to the jump seat. She's speaking into a headset, presumably communicating with the pilot. A moment later, she hangs up, then walks toward Damien and me. "Mr. Stark, you've had a telephone call from Mr. Maynard. He tried to reach your cell, but apparently the call didn't connect. When he realized you were on board, he called the tower and asked that we get a message to you to call him at your earliest convenience."
"Can we hold on the runway?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll call him now," he says, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. I watch from beside him, frowning as he's put through to Charles. I can't imagine why Maynard would be calling--could the court have changed its mind? Is it even allowed to do that?
I study Damien's face, but his expression gives me no clues. It's gone completely blank and totally unreadable. A boardroom expression designed to give nothing away to competitors--or to me.
After a moment, Damien stands, and though I reach for his hand, he doesn't reach back. Neither does he meet my eyes. He heads to the back of the plane and disappears into what I assume is the office.
I try to focus on my book, but it's impossible, and after I've read the same page over at least three dozen times, Damien finally returns. He nods at the attendant, who radios the cockpit, and by the time Damien has fastened his seat belt again we are once again readying for takeoff.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Nothing to worry about." He stills wears that bland, corporate mask and I feel my heart constrict, as if a giant fist is squeezing it tight.
"But I am worrying. Charles wouldn't radio the tower unless it was important."
He smiles, but it seems forced, and I see no corresponding humor in his eyes. "You're right. He wouldn't."
"Then what is it?"
"There've been some time-sensitive developments on a couple of matters that I've been chipping away at." His voice is level, his words perfectly reasonable. I, however, don't believe a word of it.
"Don't shut me out again, Damien."
"I'm not," he says firmly. "Not everything is about us."
I tense, the sting of his words as potent as a slap. "I see." I finger the book in my lap. "Well, never mind."
"Nikki . . . " His voice is no longer cold.
I tilt my head to look at him, my own mask firmly in place. "It's fine," I say.
His eyes search mine, the near-black one seeming to see so deep into me that it is almost dizzying. I hold his gaze for as long as I can before I have to look away or else risk him seeing too clearly that I'm certain his words are all bullshit. What I don't understand is why.
I turn my head, ostensibly to look out the window as the plane gathers speed, rushing fo
rward to its inevitable climb. And as the wheels lift off, I can't help but think that we have reached the point of no return, Damien and I. Like this plane, we will either continue to move forward, or we will crash.
There are no other options.
And as I glance sideways at Damien with his papers spread out and his face a mask of secrets and fears, I cannot help but be very, very afraid.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed in the stateroom, feeling hollow. I brought the empty champagne flute back with me, and now I hold it like a baton--one hand on the base, and one hand on the rim, the fragile stem stretched out between my hands.
It would be so simple, I think. Just a contraction of muscles. One quick movement and--snap.
One second, maybe less, and I'd have the stem in my hand, its top raw, the edge of broken glass as sharp as a knife.
My skirt is hitched up so that I can sit like this, and beneath the material that is stretched taut across my legs, I can see the marred flesh of my inner thighs. I can imagine tracing the stem along the edge of the most jagged one. The pain as I press the glass into soft flesh. The release as I tug it down, my skin yielding and the horrible pressure in my chest finally lessening as the valve is open and all this shit that has been building can finally explode out of me.
I want it--oh, God, I want it.
No.
I squeeze my eyes tight, desperate for Damien's hand. But he is not here, and it is just me, and I am not certain that I can do this alone.
Slowly, I run the rounded rim of the flute against my thigh. Just one snap--just a little pressure--
No, no, goddammit, no.
I will not do this, and I lift the glass, prepared to hurl it away from me, but a firm tap on the door startles me and I jump guiltily. I don't expect it to be Damien--he returned to the jet's office as soon as we reached altitude two hours ago, and I haven't seen him since. Instead, I assume it's Katie, the flight attendant, who promised to wake me when dinner was served.
"I'm not hungry," I call. "I'm going to sleep a little longer."
But then the door bursts open and he's right there. Damien.
And there I am holding the goddamn flute.
I shift my position so that I'm sitting with my legs out and my back against the polished wood siding. I casually put the flute on the nearby table, hoping that he doesn't realize the dark direction in which my thoughts were traveling.