Chapter 2
The message was simple: [Ms. Kendall Daniel, congratulations on passing the review. Please report to Heimsbaum within seven days. Attached are your job offer and insurance documents.]
I stared at those words for a long time, until the screen finally went dark.
Three years ago, I put down my camera and gave up being a war correspondent to marry Damon, choosing the life of a homemaker instead.
Now, I was taking it back.
An engine rumbled downstairs.
Damon was back.
I placed my phone face down on the sink, twisted open the bottle, shook out two antidepressants, and swallowed them without water.
The door swung open.
Damon walked in, with a chill in the air and a subtle hint of perfume clinging to him.
It was Yolanda's usual perfume.
"Still up?" he asked, unbuttoning his cuffs and tossing his coat onto the bed.
"Just finished washing up," I replied, turning around with my usual practiced smile.
Damon came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist.
"About today... Mom was just thinking about the bigger picture," he muttered. "Yolanda just got back, and the Hill family is keeping a close eye on her. She needs to make a splash. That bracelet was just for her to borrow for a bit."
"I know," I said, giving his hand a gentle pat. "It's pretty."
"You're not mad?" he asked, turning me to face him, searching my eyes.
"Why would I be?" I looked at him, my voice calm. "You run the Clayton family, you always know what you're doing. As long as you're happy, I'm fine."
Damon frowned, his brows drawing together, clearly displeased with my answer.
"Kendall, you've changed. You never used to be like this," he said.
"People change," I said, pushing him away and heading to the bed. "It's been a long day. You should get some rest."
Damon stood there, frozen, just watching my back for a long moment.
"That camera..." he suddenly spoke up. "I'll get someone to buy you a new one tomorrow. Hasselblad or Leica? Any model you want?"
I slipped under the covers, turning away from him and closing my eyes.
"No," I replied quietly.
"Why?" Damon asked.
"I'm not taking pictures anymore."
Damon stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"It's nothing," I said, pulling the blanket over my ears. "I just don't think there's anything worth shooting anymore. Used to take pictures of landscapes, then people. Now, none of it really interests me."
The room went completely quiet.
After a long while, Damon let out a sigh, turned off the light, and settled down next to me.
He tried to reach for me, but I slipped away so smoothly he didn't even notice.
In the darkness, he said, "Kendall, when things settle down, let's go skiing in Swidland. Didn't you always say you wanted to go there?"
I didn't answer.
Swidland? By then, I'd probably be wandering the ruins of Scarhold, chewing on compressed biscuits, shooting the real stuff—life and death, raw and unfiltered.
*****
It was the sixth day of my countdown to leaving. I was packing my bags in the walk-in closet.
Honestly, there wasn't much worth taking. This villa was full of things that belonged to "Kendall," but almost nothing that felt like mine.
I dug out an old leather suitcase, the one I brought with me when I first moved in.
From the inside pocket, a yellowed piece of paper slipped out.
It was an ultrasound photo.
The date was exactly one year ago today.
I picked it up, running my thumb over the blurry image.
It was pouring that day, too.
I started bleeding out from an ectopic pregnancy and ended up in an ambulance, sirens blaring all the way to the hospital.
The doctor waved the surgery papers at me, asking where my family was. I just said, "He's busy."
He really was, always was.
In the hospital lobby, the TV was showing the live coverage of the film festival's red carpet.
Damon was dressed in a custom black suit, bent down like a true gentleman to help Yolanda with her intricate gown.
Yolanda had her arm linked with his, smiling like a star.
Flashbulbs went off like crazy, and reporters shouted, "Mr. Clayton! Over here. Is this the legendary 'love of the century' back together?"
Damon didn't deny it. He just looked at Yolanda dotingly, fixing her wind-blown hair.
I was lying on the operating table, the anesthesia hadn't kicked in yet, and the pain had me drenched in cold sweat.
The nurses nearby were whispering, "Isn't that Damon Clayton, the CEO of Clayton Group? He's so hot, and he's really good to his girlfriend."
"Yeah, and Yolanda is stunning. They look so good together."
In that moment, I stared up at the shadowless lights on the ceiling, tears slipping into my ears, icy and sharp.
I signed the critical condition notice.