CHAPTER 8: Strange Painting

DAMON'S POV

I clenched my fists as I watched Miss Clark run off after her conversation with whoever it was on the phone. 

My family was confused by her sudden exit, which left them in shock. My mother’s voice cut through the awkward silence.

“Who was on the phone? Why would she leave like that without saying anything?”

I could feel their eyes on me, expecting answers. But I had none.

“I don’t know,” I muttered through clenched teeth, frustrated. 

“Damon, you have to call her!” Linda, one of my cousin sisters, insisted. “Something might be wrong with her.”

“She’ll be fine,” I replied, my voice was colder than I intended.  

How was I supposed to do that when I didn't even have her number. 

“You all should get going, it's getting late. I’ll let you know when she’s back.” I needed them out of my house. I couldn’t deal with their worries and questions.

“Are you sure, Damon? This is your wife we're talking about here. Shouldn't you be concerned?” My mom asked, worrisome written all over her face.

“Of course, I'm concerned, mom!” I lied. “But she’s a grown woman, she’ll handle whatever it is.”

“Okay, then” she kissed the top of my head.

As soon as they left, I called Leo. My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice calm. “Send me Miss Clark's number.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Sir? Her number? Why?"

“Don’t ask questions, Leo. Just send it.”

A few minutes later, a message popped up on my phone. It was her number. I never went through her employment files nor had I ever called her on phone, reasons I didn't have her number.

As I sat in my big living room, I waited for an hour before calling her. 

She picked it on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell are you? Get back to the mansion this minute, or the deal is off.” I hung up before she could utter a word. 

A few minutes later, I heard the main entrance door open creakily. I stood up, moving toward the sound. I saw her wander around, oblivious of where to go. I followed her, my footsteps quiet behind her.

She stumbled into one of the rooms in the mansion. The room with the paintings. My paintings. 

I stood by the door and watched as she touched and appreciated my paintings.

“Didn’t you see the ‘no entry’ sign before coming in?” I snapped, my irritation flared up.

“I'm sorry, sir,” she trembled. “I didn’t know my way around, and…well…it was dark. I didn’t see the sign.” 

I stepped closer. “And is that why you’re touching my paintings without my permission?” I fired at her.

“I didn’t mean to, sir. But…this one…” She touched a particular one “It looks familiar to me.” Her face was now pale.

“Familiar?” I scoffed. 

“I feel it’s connected to my past” Her fingers grazed the canvas lightly.

“That's not possible, Miss Clark. My paintings have never left this room. And there's no way one of it is connected to you whom I just met a few days ago.” I snapped.

“I'm sorry for the confusion, sir”

“Was it your Hayden again?”

“Uhn?” She looked confused.

“Was he in trouble, that made you rush to him, in the presence of my family? 

“N…n…no, sir. I…was…”

“Enough! Do you know how worried they were?” 

“I'm...sorry, sir. It was an emergency I had to attend to” 

“And you deemed it fit that you could just run out without informing me, because our relationship is fake?” I raged.

“Not at all, sir” Tears were now forming in her eyes.

“Want them to suspect our fake relationship? You know what, I will cut off this deal, divorce you and then tell lies to my family that you're a cheat. 

A cheat who hurriedly left her husband and his family to go attend to her boyfriend. And you know the consequence of me cutting off the deal, right? You refund me!”

“Ah! No, please sir. I'm sorry. I can't afford that huge amount of money for now. I'll never leave without your permission again, sir.” She pleaded with folded hands, tears gushing out of her eyes.

Was she born to cry?

“You’ll go to your designated room now. The maids are in the living room awaiting your arrival. They will help you change.” Her tears moved me, that I had no choice but to change the topic.

“But sir, I didn’t bring any clothes,” she replied, wiping her tears with the back of her palm. “How am I supposed to…”

“The maids will handle it.”

“Alright, sir. Thank you, sir.” She hurried off.

As she left, I turned my attention to the painting she made mention of. It had been a while since I thought of coming to my painting room. I hate coming here because of this particular painting. 

A painting that almost made me run mad. A painting I made without thinking twice. It just popped up in my head and mind to paint. 

I moved closer to it, my eyes and hands traced the lines and colors,

The moment my fingers brushed the surface, a rush of images hit me. It was like a floodgate had opened in my mind.

I could see flashes of blurry memories overwhelming me. 

~Indistinct memories of a woman in front of a man in a dimly lit bar, her hand on his cheek, then her lips against his.

~Memories of unclad bodies of a man and a woman on a bed, engaging in passionate sexual intercourse. 

~A car, screeching down a road, the brakes failing, a man's hands gripping the steering wheel in panic. The sound of metal crunching, the car tumbling off the road, crashing into a large tree. I could see flames filling the air. I heard the screams of people.

I stumbled back, clutching my head as the pain seared through my skull. My breath ragged as I gasped for air.

“What…what is this?” My voice cracked under the weight of the memories. “When did this happen?”

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to force the memories to stay, to make sense of them. But they slipped away like water through my fingers, leaving only fragments, shadows of a past I couldn’t fully grasp.

“Why…why can’t I remember?”

I dropped to my knees, my body trembling with the effort to hold onto the memories, as I cried out in frustration and pain.

“These…these memories…they’re from my past, aren’t they?” I talked to the empty room, with my broken voice. 

“Was...I in that… car? Was I…?”

“Am… I connected… to the man and… woman on the bed?”

“Why the bar….? Why did I make a painting of it?”

“Why… am I having these… blurry memories…?”

Before I could grasp another thought, darkness swallowed me whole, and I lost consciousness.