Claim Me(139)

I go to the kitchen to brew a cup of green tea, since it’s supposed to be calming and I feel so antsy. I’m actually not freaking out about the press, but I can’t decide if that’s because I’m dealing so well with this new crisis in my life, or if it’s simply because Damien and I are locked up here in his castle in the sky, and the problems of mere mortals are really not our concern.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s the latter and that when I go out into the world or log on to the Internet, this smug sense of control is going to blow away like so much dandelion fluff. As evidence of my theory, I have only to look at my phone. My mother has called twice, and each time I’ve let it go to voice mail. I have not listened to the messages. I have not called her back. Honestly, I’m not sure I ever will. My mother has the ability to push me over the edge where even a Hummer full of paparazzi could not.

Despite a world filled with paparazzi and Elizabeth Fairchilds and other unpleasant beings, I am so antsy that I consider testing the waters of the outside world by taking a walk down to the Museum of Contemporary Art. It’s only a few blocks away, and I doubt that there are reporters waiting to ambush me there. It’s also close enough that Damien won’t worry. Or he won’t worry as much, because if I start to freak he is less than five minutes away by foot.

Besides, I really want some fresh air.

I take my tea and a fresh water for Damien and head back into the living room, arriving at the same time as Sylvia, who is coming in from the back entrance that connects to the office of Stark International.

“Ms. Fairchild,” she says. “How are you?”

“Good,” I say. “How’s life on the outside?”

Damien grins at me. “Going a little stir crazy?”

“Not that I don’t love this fairy palace, but—”

He makes a noncommittal noise, then turns to Sylvia, who appears to be hiding a smile. “What have you got for me?”

“Just a few signatures,” she says, handing him a clipboard and several documents. She glances at me. “And this came for you,” she adds, then holds out a plain white envelope. It’s addressed to me, care of Stark International. There’s no return address, but the postmark is from Los Angeles.

“That’s weird,” I say, as Damien tosses the clipboard onto a cushion and comes to my side.

“Open it,” he says.

I do. There’s a folded piece of paper inside. I pull it out, unfold it, and immediately feel sick.

Bitch. Slut. Whore.

“Motherf*cker,” Damien breathes, plucking the letter and the envelope from my hand. He takes a magazine from the coffee table and puts them both between the pages, then hands the magazine to Sylvia. “Get this to Charles. Don’t get fingerprints on it.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark. Ms. Fairchild, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” I say.

“It’s okay, Sylvia.” Damien’s words are a dismissal.

She nods. “I’ll just come back for those documents later.” She starts to leave, then pauses and turns back to me. “I apologize if this is out of line, Ms. Fairchild, but I just wanted to say that I saw the painting when I was at the Malibu house coordinating with the decorator before the party.”

I’ve been staring blankly at the magazine in which the vile note is hidden, but now I look up at her face with interest.

“It’s a beautiful portrait,” she says. “Stunning and engaging. Frankly, I think Mr. Stark got a bargain. As far as I’m concerned, it’s worth at least two million.”