I have my own card key now, and I use it to call Damien’s private elevator. I ride up with no plan other than crawling into Damien’s bed and going to sleep until he returns from Chicago. I want to feel close to him for just a little longer. To breathe in the scent of him.
I want to make a memory of him, because I am about to sacrifice him in order to save him.
I have spent the last few hours thinking this through, and I see no other way. I can’t tell him about Sofia’s threat. If I do, he might let her go through with it. Might actually let her release those photos thinking somehow that he is protecting me. But I was in Germany with him, and I watched him break. And now that I’ve seen the photos myself, I am even more certain that those pictures plastered across the tabloids would destroy him. And every time he looked at me, he would see the reason for that intrusion into his life. Even if he could dig himself out of the inevitable hole, it would become a wedge between us. And I would rather walk away now than see our relationship shatter under the weight of something as vile as those photos.
I could go to the police, but how would that help? Then there would be more people aware of the photos and more risk that they are made public.
Even if I could tell him, so what? Could he convince Sofia not to release the photos? Maybe. But then he would live with that threat hanging over him for the rest of his life, and I do not want that for him or for us.
And would he even try to convince her? Or would he simply take control, doing whatever he had to in order to eliminate a threat? If what Sofia says is true, he killed Richter to protect her. Would he eliminate Sofia in order to protect himself? Me? Our relationship?
I honestly don’t know. And, frankly, that scares me, too.
So I will do what I must. I will end it. And then, somehow, I will try to survive.
The elevator glides to a stop and I quickly wipe away the tears that have spilled, just in case one of the staff is in the apartment. The doors open and I enter. I drop my purse on the bench that surrounds the floral arrangement, then move on through to the living room.
I stop short the moment I enter the room. Damien is sitting on the floor carefully lifting a frame from a reinforced shipping box. “Well, hello,” he says with a wide, welcoming grin. “Apparently I’m getting two presents today.”
I suck in air, recognizing the image from just the tiniest corner that is peeking out. It is the black-and-white photograph of the mountains at sunset, and I watch, frozen, as he pulls it out, gazes approvingly at it, and then reads the inscription on the back, neatly printed above the artist’s signature: To Damien, the sun will never set on our love. Yours always, Nikki.
I have to fight not to burst into tears.
“It’s beautiful,” he says to me. He rests it against the back of the couch and comes to me, his forehead creased. “Is something wrong?”
“How was Chicago?” I ask, postponing the inevitable.
“Productive.” He takes my hand and leads me around to the couch. “I was able to convince David to talk to me—he agrees that Sofia doesn’t need to be out on her own. She has too many issues, and without her meds . . . ” He trails off. I don’t bother telling him that I know. And that I agree one hundred percent.
“David let her crash at his apartment here in LA. She’s not there now—I checked—but I know what name she’s using, so it’s just a matter of time.”
“What’s the name?” I ask.
“Monica Karts. The last name is an anagram,” he says.
“I know. It took me a moment, but I figured that out.”
“A moment? I just told you.”
“No,” I say. “She told me. I’ve known her for a while now. Just casually. Someone to chat with at the Starbucks near my office.”
He bursts to his feet, but I take his hand and tug him back down. “Wait. I need to say something, and I need to do it fast. It’s why I came by, so please—please just let me get this out, okay?”