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“Y-yes,” I stammer again before clearing my throat and straightening my back. I’m determined not to allow him to intimidate me any further.
“Yes, and you are?” I say with more confidence, my chin held high.
“Who I am is of no concern to you. However, whatisa concern to you is what will happen to you if your fiancé threatens my boss again. Make sure Christopher gets the message.” He turns to walk away.
“Who is your boss? Who has he threatened?” I ask.
He stops and turns back to me, pinning me with his dark eyes, but I refuse to back down!
With hands on my hips, I say, “Threatening a United States Senator or his future wife probably isn’t in your best interest. And if you think…” I stop speaking as he charges towards me.
I quickly back away, trying to put distance between us, but he continues to advance until he backs me into a corner.
He leans down, barely an inch from my face, and says, “It’s in your best interest to get as far away from Senator Christopher Gates as you can. I would hate for you to pay the price for his dirty secrets. He isn’t who you think he is Ms. Shaw.”
And with that parting blow, the mysterious man strides out of the studio without a backwards glance.
My hands are shaking, and I can’t quite catch my breath.
Did that just happen?
Some strange man came into my place of employment, my sanctuary, and threatened my fiancé and me. Suddenly, what I overheard last night starts to make some sense, even though I don’t know who either man is speaking of.
Do I confront Christopher, demand answers from him, and hope like hell there is an easy way to explain all of this?
What if there isn’t?
What if he brushes me off, tells me it’s nothing to worry over?
What Idoknow is I don’t feel safe right now, and the one man I’m supposed to trust above all else seems to be hiding things from me. I need answers, one way or another. I just need to decide how much I’m willing to risk by getting them.
The studio picks up later in the morning and into the afternoon, giving me a brief reprieve from my turbulent thoughts. I sent my assistant Tiffany home early after the afternoon rush, telling her I will lock up.
I need time in my little corner of the storage space to work on my paintings. I need to lose myself in creation. Hopefully, I can try to work out a way to bring this up with Christopher without it blowing up in my face.
As soon as the lock clicks into place, I rush to the back where the storage room is located. A corner carved out just for me.
After changing out of my jumpsuit and into comfy jeans and a t-shirt that I leave here just for this purpose, I dive right in. I love doing landscapes using the water and coast as my inspiration for most of them. There is beauty in the ebb and flow of water. It signals rebirths, tranquility, and peace, but I love all kinds of landscapes.
I spend hours working on my piece, lost in the waves, the endless blues. When I finish, I sign the lower left corner with my pseudonym. Stephanie, the owner, knows I like to use the studio to dabble in my hobby, but I haven’t done anything with them. I have a crippling fear of what my family and Christopher would think, and that holds me back from speaking my truth.
Maybe one day I will be brave enough to let her out of the dark. Deciding I can’t linger any longer, I change back into my jumpsuit and send a text to the driver, telling him I’m ready to go home.
Letting myself in the front door of our brownstone, I’m greeted by a quiet, impeccably decorated foyer. The vase of fresh-cut flowers, delivered daily, sits on the entry table. Their sweet scent greets me. The flowers are always chosen to complement the artwork on the walls. Many of them are my pieces, but Christopher doesn’t seem to notice or pay any attention to them.
Kicking off my shoes, I scoop them up to head upstairs. Halfway up, I turn back, deciding a glass of wine sounds perfect with my bath. Back down the stairs, past the foyer and into the kitchen, I grab a bottle of Napa Valley red and a glass from the wet bar. I pad back up the stairs, thankful to be home and readying myself for my talk with Christopher.
Upstairs, I toss my shoes in the closet and head into the huge en-suite. Setting the wine and glass on the marble countertop. I lean over the tub, turning the knob on as hot as I can stand it. Undressing, I let the jumpsuit puddle beneath me on the floor. I look at my reflection in the mirror, seeing the happenings of the day on my face. My red lipstick faded and tiredness in my eyes. I pour myself a glass of wine and slip into the water.
I lay back, resting my head against the back of the tub. What the hell is happening to my life? Two days ago, I was happy and content—well, mostly—to marry Christopher. To marry, be his beautiful wife, and continue to paint in secret.
Now I’m fairly convinced I overheard Christopher order a hit on someone, and I was threatened at my job, of all places. I take a couple sips—okaygulps—of my wine as the realization sets it.
That man knew where I worked.
Had he followed me?
Does he know where we live?
