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“Hello, ladies and gentlemen; may I have your attention?”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It's starting, and Evan is giving an introductory speech, my pieces being wheeled out behind him. Embarrassment washes over me as my name appears on the screen.
In this situation, I couldn’t care less about being credited. I can imagine everyone rushing to their phones, acting like they cracked the code, and this proves all of the rumors. They don’t know the half of it.
Relief washes over me when the bold, white lettering fades away and the auction seemingly truly begins. The starting price is almost unreal.
“The contemporary pop art portrait, ten thousand—”
“Goodness,” I mumble to myself in shock, “to start out?” That either proves how well of an artist I am or how snobbish these people are to pay so high for something that certainly couldn’t have had that sort of value. Or maybe Evan’s face merely makes it such high value. Either way, it's a charity, and it’ll create some good karma to share their ridiculous wealth with the needy.
There are other things on auction. Jewelry, furniture, and priceless antiques that are given a price were flying off the stage to their new lucky owner. I am getting too invested and satisfied at every sign that darts up in the challenge of another buyer. A little over two hours, and there are still many more items backstage. With the insane amounts of money that was raised, organizations are thanking Evan profusely online. It's news in minutes.
I check my own device, “Wow,” I whisper. It appears as though our reputation is up for debate now for the better. “Color me surprised,” I chuckle. It isn’t every day you could redeem yourself with money. There's an intermission.
I slowly push myself off the couch, feeling much sorer than I thought I should, and grab a few bottles of water from the fridge. Pastry bread is the only thing I crave, so I grab a sweet bun, stuff it in my mouth, and return to the couch.
Ding!
Evan had sent me a message.
Is everything okay?
Yeah, I’m fine; you’re doing great btw
Thank you, my love. I’ll be home soon
<3
I sink further into the pillows, sighing happily. If everything that happened to me was supposed to happen to lead me up to this point, then it was worth it. I am ready to snuggle under a blanket and enjoy another few hours of rich people passive-aggressively having drama.
“First, I have to pee,” I voice, getting off the couch more hastily this time. Waddling to the bathroom, my pants are hastily torn off as I seek relief. While I'm in the process of cleaning up, a faint sound catches my attention. A click? Shaking my head, I brush it off as paranoia. It's probably the TV or the bustling New York streets.
“Do not worry,” I sigh.
I stop and stare at myself in the mirror. Not today. Refusing to imprison myself within my own thoughts, I suddenly grow a furious ball of spastic anxiety in my stomach. “Pregnancy sickness,” I mumble. It has to be. After splashing cool water on my face, I exit into the hallway. The TV is clearer now…no other sounds can be heard.
“See? That’s all it was—”
“Carmen, I mean Isabella,” the voice sneers.
It'shim. Standing right there in front of me. It would be dishonest to claim I believed he'd never locate me. My gut always knew he would, but he didn’t appear how I imagined in any of the thousands of scenarios I thought of. He is wearing a janitorial outfit, and his brown hair is shaved into a buzzcut.
He runs a hand over his head. “Like it? You gave me the idea,” he smirks. Paralysis ensues me. Quiet. He takes a step closer, and I flinch, bumping into the wall. He has me cornered.
“Would you believe it if I told you I’ve been working as a janitor here for a few months now?” he asks. I can’t respond. He keeps coming closer. “I did it to visit you,” as he closes the gap between us and places his hands on my stomach. “...and our baby.”
I feel sick.
“What’s the gender?” he asks. My lip quivers, unable to form words. I expected his usual impatient glare, but he stared at me with his twisted, loving eyes. Waiting.
“Girl,” I sound like a wounded dog.
He softly gasps. “A little girl,” he coos.
Casting a look towards Evan's room, I ponder my next move. If I could give him one good push, I’d be able to run into the room and lock myself in. What if I don’t push him hard enough? Or if he catches me before I can lock the door? Evenif I did, certainly, he’d break it in.
Somehow,the police must be notified.
