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My stomach was in knots as I sat, tapping my fingers against my thigh. I needed Damian. Where was he?
I walked over to the receptionist’s desk. “Hi, I have a question. I was wondering if you could search a name in your system to see if they have been admitted to the hospital.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m not really allowed to do that.”
“Yeah, okay, but see”—I placed my hands around my stomach, feeling out of breath— “my grandmother is in the ICU, and I am supposed to be on strict bed rest, but I cannot get ahold of my husband, and my husband isn’t one to ever go missing, so my head is spinning, and I am panicked and scared and—”
Tears streamed down my cheeks as the receptionist reached across to me and placed her hand on top of mine. Her eyes were filled with care. “What’s his name, sweetheart?”
“Damian.” I swallowed, wiping at my eyes. “Damian Blackstone.”
She began typing on her computer and frowned. “He’s not here.”
Then where are you, Damian?
“Thank you.”
I went back to the waiting room and sat down with shaky legs and swollen ankles.
Hours passed, and Grams was still unconscious. They wouldn’t tell me anything because she wasn’t my grandmother by blood, and sometimes, family by heart wasn’t enough to pass. The next day during a break from waiting at the hospital, I headed to Damian’s work office to see if he was in. I’d never been there and didn’t know the receptionist, but when I walked in, he smiled largely.
“Hi there. You’re Stella, right?” he asked, looking up toward me.
“Yes. I’m sorry. How did you know…?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m Peter. We haven’t met, but Damian has talked a lot about you. Your artwork is amazing.”
“My artwork? You’ve seen it?”
“Yeah, every day. It’s all over Damian’s office.”
“What? Can I see it?”
“Of course. I doubt he’d mind. Follow me.” Peter stood from his desk and led me to Damian’s office. When I walked inside, I gasped, seeing five pieces of my artwork hanging on Damian’s walls from my gallery night months before. On his desk sat business cards for me, too, that he had made up to give out to clients who came into his office.
I was starting to think I knew exactly where all of my commission projects came from.
“You’re outstanding. You’re working on a piece for me currently. I’m Peter Simmons. We’ve been emailing back and forth for a while,” he said. “That was Damian’s Christmas gift to all of his employees—custom pieces from you.”
“How many people work for Damian?”
“Just five of us.”
Five. As in the five commission pieces I’d received in one day months ago.
Damian, where are you?
“Oh, my goodness, yes. I’m sorry about the delay—things have become a bit tricky in my life.”
“It’s okay. I’m patient. Besides, great art takes time, right?”
I smiled, still feeling overwhelmingly uneasy. “I’m sorry, is Damian not here? Has he been in yet? I haven’t been able to get in touch with him for a while now.”
Peter’s brows knitted. “That’s so strange. Normally, he’s here before me, but I haven’t seen him yet. I can ask around and let you know when he makes it in.”
If he makes it in.
My mind was going to the worst places, and I couldn’t stop it from happening.
