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“I’m so glad you’re still here.”
One eveningwhen I was working late at my actual office, finishing up a few contracts for deals I’d closed, I was surprised to see a person knocking on my door.
“Damian, correct?” Catherine asked, standing in my doorway. She had her designer sunglasses on, along with her designer shoes. Her lips were pursed out in a pout as she slipped off her glasses.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, baffled. She was the last person I thought I’d see standing in my office. “How did you find out where I worked?”
“People are pretty easy to track down if a person is determined.” She walked into the room, uninvited, and took a seat across from my desk. “I think it’s beyond time that we hold a conversation with one another. By the will, we are supposed to have a night together.”
“I am aware and will contact you when I am ready.”
It was hard for me to look at her because all I could think about was the stories Stella told me about Catherine. How she was one of the reasons Stella ended up with so much anxiety. With self-esteem struggles. With doubt of her worth.
If hate was a person, it was Catherine Michaels. And Rosalina. And Denise, too. If Kevin was good at one thing, it was picking awful wives.
“Well, I have an event coming up that I think you should attend. I’ve overseen a huge charity event that happens at the end of the month. Each year, we donate a large sum. It’s the best of the best.”
“Okay?”
“You should come. It’s for a good cause. It’s for a foster charity program to help kids in dangerous environments. Surely, that tugs at your heartstrings.”
Screw her—it did.
I knew how rough it could be growing up in the system. It was why I was so passionate about giving back to a few programs back in New York.
“I grew up in the foster system, too, you know,” she told me.
That tugged at me, too, but I didn’t show it. “Are we done here? I have work to finish.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “This is the gala event. At least come and see what we do before tossing the idea under the bus.”
I took the card from her and didn’t reply.
She stood from her chair, seemingly pleased. “Do me one favor?” Catherine asked although it sounded more as if she were about to give me an order.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t bring Stella. There’s a certain level of prestige that comes with attending the gala, and Stella does not fit the standard.”
“Noted.”
She left my office with the same smug look she entered it with, feeling as if she had accomplished something. After work, I headed to Stella’s art studio. I knew she was in there working on a project when I heard old-school R&B blasting through the space.
The windows were open, allowing the breeze to move in and out of the space, and I knocked on the front door a few times without any answer.
I peeked through the window and understood why she couldn’t hear the knocking. She was busy dancing around in front of the canvas to Toni Braxton’s music. She wore her white overalls, and they were covered in paint. Her feet were bare, except for the splashes of color from the masterpiece she was creating. The left strap of her overalls hung low against her shoulder as she sang out loud, acting out each lyric in the most dramatic way. Her hips rocked back and forth, and man, did I watch them move. I watched her move the same way she watched the waves at night—utterly enamored.
When she turned and looked over her shoulder, she screamed when she saw me watching her. I stood straight, feeling like a creep, but before I could reply, she sighed and laughed. She hurried over to the music and shut it off. Within a few seconds, she was standing at the door, smiling my way.
“You scared me!” she remarked, brushing her thumb against her nose, not knowing she spread a bit of yellow paint across her face.
“Sorry, I knocked, but the music…”
“I get a bit lost in it.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
She brushed her thumb against her cheek. More paint. “What’s up?”
