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“Huh?” There on his face was that familiar expression like a parent looking down on a child.
“The auction,” he clarifies.
“Oh! You’re still hiring me?” I inquire, dumbfounded.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” he speaks. "You will be inside and able to work safely for me, plus I pay better than any client you would’ve had,” another grin.
My mind goes blank.
His grin fades, “Isabella?”
“N-no, I—thank you,” I finally get it out.
He grabs our plates and takes them to the kitchen. Sitting alone at the table in silence, a surge of energy flows through me. The sound of running water and faint movements captures my attention. Is this a typical behavior? At times, I worry that I might have acquired some unsavory tendencies from him. Evan returned as soon as I hoped he would.
“This charity was planned months ahead, so I don’t want you stressing over it, and I need you to rest,” he instructs. I'm definitely going to need to rest after what he told me, “Take your time; we have plenty of other things to auction, and I’d be satisfied with one painting; my publicist wanted five, but I don’t expect you to feel up for that now.”
Five? Done. Make it ten.
“This time, you’ll remain anonymous. We don’t need any more negative attention,” he sighs.
“Right,” I agree. I’ll start tomorrow. Evan has no idea how much I need the job and the distraction. I won't object to staying inside.
He's out there.
The desire to remain in this seemingly safe haven is strong. Then again, when will he not be out there? There's a likelihood that the answer to that is never. I mean, it's a penthouse. It's much bigger than any of my old living spaces; there’s a private roof and balcony. If not for boredom, I won’t die from vitamin D deficiency.
I grab my phone, place it a bit too far from me across the table, and start typing.
“What are you doing?” Evan questions. "Make sure you’re a ghost online after this. Turn off your online status, no likes or comments,”
“All right,” as I finish up my post. It was short, sweet, and straight to the point.
At this juncture, I'm abstaining from social media posts and commission work, prioritizing my safety above all. Those who've paid in advance will receive refunds. Your support has been invaluable, and I'm truly appreciative.
Perfect.
Seconds after it's up, the comment section is flooded with questions and replies. People link the news story that is worded dramatically—and a bit offending—for full effect.
EXES AND OHS!: EVAN BLACKBURN’S ARTIST OPENS DOOR FOR HER STALKER
“I didn’t know my name was Evan Blackburn’s artist,” I mumble the joke to myself. It doesn’t get rid of the growing pit in my stomach. I'm trying not to become upset about the headline; it's only a journalist doing their job, but if I met that person right now, I think we’d have to exchange quite a few words.
“You saw the article,” he asserts.
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s best if you don’t read it…it goes into a lot of,” he pauses, “detail.”
Turning off my phone, I echo, "Yeah." Truthfully, I had no desire to go through it anyway.“Thank you for dinner. Heading to—” I motion to the bedroom.
“Of course, try to get some sleep tonight,” he advises.
If my body allows it, I will.
“Goodnight,” I murmur, hurrying off to the room.
“Goodnight,” he utters sweetly.
