by Shayne Ford
“I have a lot of work to do,” I say as I push to my feet and slide my bare feet into my sleepers.
My eyes swing to my desk.
A fresh bouquet of camellias sits next to my books.
Golden, pink, red.
“Were the flowers on my desk when you got in?” I blurt.
She glances at me over her shoulder.
I point to the flowers.
“The camellias?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Did you find them outside?”
She slowly shakes her head.
“A man brought them.”
“A messenger?”
Her eyes search mine briefly.
“No. It was that gentleman.”
My heart flips.
“What gentleman?”
My question begs for a confirmation.
I already know the answer.
“The same man who handed me that envelope for you a while back.”
“Was he here?”
She tips her chin down, her eyes not leaving mine.
“Did he ring the bell?”
“No, ma’am. He was waiting for me outside.”
My blood gets cold.
I look at her baffled.
“How did he know that you were coming in today?” I mutter, the question mainly for myself.
“I don’t know...” she says, puzzled as well. “He stepped out of the car the moment I got here.”
“Was it a limo?”
“No ma’am. It was a black sports car, and it was parked in front of your house.”
“Did he give you anything else?”
“Yes, he actually did,” she says as if she just remembered something.
She takes a few steps toward my desk and picks up something from behind a stack of books. She hands me a beautiful red velvet, jewelry pouch bag. I take it from her, with a shaky hand.
“I’ll get your coffee ready, ma’am,” she says, and smoothly retreats into the kitchen.
I stay behind, my feet pinned to the floor as I stare at the bag.
Slowly, I lower myself on the edge of the sofa. I flip the pouch bag and empty it on the coffee table.
The first object that hits the surface is small and dark. A memory stick.
The second one that rolls on the glass tabletop produces a crystalline clink.
My mouth drops open. A narrow band of platinum, similar to mine sits on the table.
I slowly pick it up and hold it at my eye level, reading the word engraved on it.
Tess.
And then a date.
A gasp rolls off my lips as my back crashes against the sofa.
It’s Allan’s wedding band.
15
TESS
It’s late afternoon when the sun stars sweeping the rooftops with a golden-red glaze, and I finally take a break from work.
I push out of my chair and stretch my legs before I walk into the kitchen and start looking for something to eat. Luna is at my mom’s place again, and without her the house feels emptier than ever.
Perhaps, I should go out tonight, although it won’t make a difference.
I would feel the same.
The good thing is that I was able to work. I’m almost done with the current project, and I’m one week ahead of the deadline. It’s not bad at all.
I need to book more clients. I may need the extra income in the future.
My mind shifts away from that topic, bringing front and center the question that’s been burning through my conscience.
How did Sebastien get my husband’s ring?
And why hasn’t Allan mentioned anything to me? The fact that he was missing it?
But was he?
I try to remember if I noticed it lately. Normally, I would be able to recall something, but not now. We spent most of our weekend in different rooms, in different silences, in different universes.
He used to take the ring off when he showered, or we had dinner. I routinely did the same until I slip it in a drawer and I forgot about it. I haven’t worn it in a while. And that’s probably a bad sign.
Still, the question remains.
How did Sebastien get my husband’s wedding band?
Was he in our house?
No. I don’t think so. That would be the craziest thing of all. He wouldn’t do that if Allan was here.
What would be the point really?
What is his point?
Is this another message, or he simply wants to make my life implode.
How am I supposed to return this to my husband? What am I supposed to tell him?
Should I say that I found it in the bathroom?
What if he knows exactly where he lost it, and then, I have some explaining to do.
I guess I’ll have to wait and see if he mentions something about it.
I move the chatter to the back of my mind and focus on my food. Lettuce, tomato and a few slices of cheese and ham go on my sandwich before I cover everything with a slice of rye bread.
I eat in the kitchen, the room almost dark, the silence, my longtime friend sitting with me at the table.
Absently, I run my eyes over the phone, a pestering thought nagging me.
Aside from the flowers he left for me, I haven’t heard from Sebastien since last Friday.
With him, I can never tell.
Every little thing has a meaning, whether it’s words, messages, pictures, or silence. He never does something without a purpose. Sometimes the meaning is obvious, and other times is not.
His silence can be as hurtful as his messages, and I ached a lot lately, more than I care to admit.
I take another bite of food, and then I remember the memory stick.
I instantly react, my stomach clenching at the thought. I put the half-eaten sandwich down, my appetite suddenly lost.
A few moments pass by before I realize that I sit in complete darkness.
I pick up the plate with the rest of the food and walk back to my room. A faint light glows over the walls the moment I turn the lamp on.
I insert the memory stick into my computer and slide onto the sofa, my laptop set on my knees. It takes a moment before I muster the courage to go further.
The video recording I run looks innocently enough. A large room with guests fill my view. Snapshots of the stairs and hallways, a conference room and cubicles follow.
The party.
The image breaks, another feed rolling in.
The image is hardly lit and blurry at first, but as everything starts getting in focus, the brightness increases and the quality gets better.
Oh. My. God.
My palm slides over my mouth as I take a glimpse of myself, naked and propped against the glass wall of the elevator.
How I got there, I know quite well, but why he made a digital record of it scares me to no end. I feel the fingers of panic all over me.
I don’t understand. Why would he do such a thing?
Nefarious scenarios spin in my head. I can easily see the maze, but I can’t spot the way out.
Where is all of this going? What am l to him? Am I a bait? A player? Or a peon?
The more I let my mind drowning in this story, the more confused I get. And then it dawns on me...
I know nothing about this man.
I pause the video and lean back, closing my eyes for a moment. A strange sensation barrels through me, dark, and meshed with panic, heart-wrenching and terrifying.
What is this man holding back?
Why me?
Why does he need me?
Has he purposely picked some random woman he spotted on the street with the clear intention to destroy her? Or do I mean something to him? What is it about my life that made him mess with me?
My fingers slowly brush my lips.
Who else has seen this recording?
I take a long breath, my chest heavy with tension.
I wish I knew how Allan’s ring got into his hands and why did he send it to me?
&nb
sp; He is telling me something.
But what exactly is his message?
My pulse is nowhere near normal, my blood racing through my veins. Terror washes over me.
He has a record of us. He can destroy me at any given moment, but why would he do that? What does he gain from it?
My mind shifts back to Alan.
Sebastien wants him gone.
That much I know. And now I learn that nothing will stop him.
The week passes by quickly.
My days are lonely, filled with work, and brief phone conversations with Anna, Viola and my mom.
Springs makes an unexpected appearance, the trees hastily popping new leaves, flowers blooming on the branches.
From dusk to dawn I work with minimal interruption. Allan calls me once. Sebastien is a no-show. The phone number he used a few times in the past to call me, is no longer in service.
No surprise there.
As the week draws to an end, I wrestle with a wide rage of emotions, from fear to boiling anger, to peace of mind, and sheer annoyance.
The flowers stopped coming as well.
As time goes by, my fury subsides, and I no longer fear his intentions. All I want is a sign from him.
Perhaps, a lot of it happens in my head. Maybe there is no hidden meaning after all. Maybe there is an explanation for the fact that he had Allan’s ring in his possession.
But where is he? And why doesn’t he want to talk to me? That’s all I want to know.
I check the business news around the clock hoping to see him on TV. I have no luck.
On Friday evening, I pull on a soft knit dress, match it with a pair of heels and a leather jacket, call a cab and head downtown.
Methodically, I check the places where I saw him before. The restaurant and art gallery.
I walk into the venue, barreled by mixed feelings. The woman’s nudes are no longer gracing the walls, and Stephan Leon’s collection is no longer on display.
Disappointed by my findings, I leave the venue and linger on the sidewalk for a few more moments. People walk briskly up and down the street, eager to spend the next hours in a club, a restaurant or a gallery. Perhaps a movie theater.
The wind sweeps the sidewalks carrying the smell of grilled food and blooming flowers.
I almost spin around to go home, when a sports car pulls to a stop in front of that restaurant where we ran into each other once.
A part of me collapses when I train my eyes on the dark car. The door swings open, and Sebastien climbs out. My gaze goes up and down on him, registering every detail. His hair is slightly longer, his face clean shaven and glowing. Clad in a dark suit and black shirt open at the neckline, he smiles and rounds the car, striding to the other side where from his ride steps out none other than Jacqueline Monroe.
Her red dress stops short of her knees, revealing her alluring silhouette. The color compliments her hair and beautiful complexion. The red lipstick and the piece of jewelry around her neck giving her a glamorous look.
I clutch the railing in front of me, trying to stop myself from doing something stupid.
I’m one dumb decision away from dashing across the street and confronting him. Or at least, pulling him to the side and asking for an explanation.
I’m dying to know more about the ring and the recording of us at that party last Friday.
Has he planned all that?
The more I think about it, the more agitated I become and the more eager to see him. I want to look him in the eye, and give him pain, the same way he did to me.
A voice inside my head screams at me to go home and just forget about him. I wish it were that easy.
Perhaps he has forgotten about me, and maybe it’s all for the better.
But there’s another voice, that wants revenge. Dark, raw, bloody revenge.
Because I wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for him.
I wouldn’t be standing, looking silly on the sidewalk, with people zooming up and down by me if it wasn’t for him.
I wouldn’t find myself stalking my stalker.
So I shut down the meek voice and cross the street.
The restaurant is packed and I practically have to beg for a seat at a table.
The hostess gives me a scrutinizing look, and arches an eyebrow before she directs me to an adjacent room with tables for two.
As soon as I get settled, I look around, but I can’t find them. They’re probably on the other side of the establishment at one of the large tables. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were meeting other people and be part of a group around the table.
I order a salad and a glass of wine, and while waiting for my food, I grab my purse and head to the bathroom.
I take the longest route to do a reconnaissance mission.
I spot their table just when I lose hope.
As I suspected, guests sit around their table.
Sebastien occupies the head seat, his wife not far from him. Across from her sits Stephan Leon, on his left the woman I have seen him with before.
I pull to an abrupt stop and take a better look, unaware that someone else was trailing me. The woman bumps into me, the little commotion, bringing a few pairs of eyes to us.
It’s hard to ignore the stare on my back. The moment the woman pulls away from me, I swing my gaze in his direction.
His eyes lock mine in a split second, his mind entering me, as we carve out of our surroundings–– the restaurant and the guests, their dialogue, and the clamor.
Nothing in his eyes tells me that I don’t matter, but nothing says that I matter in the way I should. Anger slaps my face and wakes me.
Sober, I have the chance to look at things differently.
It was my dumb luck to catch the eye of his man. He might’ve been bored and looked for some wicked entertainment.
He picked me, because... Oh, well. The answer is obvious. I’m no match for someone like him. I’m clueless, inexperienced and in the habit of trusting people who haven’t been thoroughly vetted.
It took him a little while to pull me to him, but once he did, I was fair game to him.
What have I expected?
Really.
I rip my gaze away from his eye lock and send him a glare. Flicking my head to the side, I pivot and dart to the restrooms.
I take my time to inspect my makeup and brush my hair before I walk out the door. No longer in the mood to eat, I leave cash on the table. My food remains untouched as I shrug my jacket on.
Cloaked in dark thoughts, I slither out.
A quiet evening lounges on the streets. A cab seems like a good idea, yet I take a turn and start walking. I’m close to the next block when an arm loops around me and pulls me into a small space between two building.
It’s a small terrace with a fountain attached to a store now closed. The patio is deserted, a sound of rippling water coming from nearby.
My back rolls against a wall as the man who snatched me, pulls in front of me, an inch or so away.
“What were you doing back there?” he asks with a cold, venomous voice.
It’s the last thing I thought I’d hear from him.
“What was I doing?? What were you doing there with her?” I bark.
I freeze and so does he, but only for a moment before a smile curves his beautiful lips.
I hit him smack in his chest, but quickly I regret it as my fists sink into a wall of muscles and my knuckles hurt.
My gesture doesn’t wipe away his grin.
As if I’m not aggravated enough, he takes a step back and slides his hands into his pockets, giving me a derisive look.
“She’s my wife. The same way Allan is your husband,” he says, the undertone glaring.
“What’s your fucking problem, Sebastien?” I toss at him defiantly.
His words come back to me as quickly as his hands.
“What’s my problem?” he barks through clenched teeth.
The space between us is gone, his hands wrapped around my nec
k.
“I don’t want him in that house. I don’t want him near you.”
I look at him, sincerely baffled.
“I don’t understand. Why would you––?”
His hand goes over my mouth, cutting me off.
“You don’t need to understand, Tess. One day you will, but not now.”
He peels his hand away from me, allowing me to draw a proper breath.
I slowly rub my neck.
“How did you get his wedding ring?”
“That’s an answer you need to find on your own.”
“Are you following him too?”
A small huff precedes a cold grin that stretches across his lips.
“I don’t need too.”
I look at him, intrigued.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He shoots me another glance before he pivots and takes a step away from me.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?” I bark again, clutching his arm.
He stops and turns to me, his gaze frosted.
My heart flaps in my chest like a wounded bird.
“Are you going back to her?” I squeak, washed with desperation.
His eyes weigh me for a moment.
“You know what you need to do, Tess.”
With that, he breaks away from me and leaves me staring at his back until he vanishes around the corner.
16
TESS
I find Allan at home when I get back.
He doesn’t seem to be surprised to see me all dressed up and coming from downtown.
“Have you had dinner?”
“Um, no... I’m not that hungry, anyway.”
“I ordered takeout.”
“Okay,” I say, peeling my jacket off. “I’ll have a bite with you.”
I set my purse and my keys on the wall table in the hallway and follow him into the kitchen.
No emotions flow between us. We might as well be the perfect couple. We live separately while together, accepting each other presence without much fuss.
It doesn’t surprise me that he doesn’t ask me where I was and he doesn’t seem to be fazed by the fact that I don’t inquire about his week-long trip.
I wash my hands and take a seat at the table while he unpacks the food.
My eyes fly to his left hand looking for his wedding ring.
