Chapter 11
Emilia
Iwas not really an Archer. That much was clear to me.
The Archers met for Sunday lunch, and I was not invited. How did I know about the lunch? Because Bianca and my parents were regular guests.
Even though a statement had been released to the media and Archer Galleries' employees about the union of Damian and Emilia Archer; my last name at the company was still Winters. This wasn't an issue for me, I preferred it since who wanted to go through the hassle of changing their last name for a temporary marriage?
Since she hired me, Marcela hadn't acknowledged me. If she saw me in a corridor, she walked by like I didn't exist. Same with Damian's father Tate, though he wasn't in the office that much.
Duncan, who still scared the hell out of me, usually dropped a gruff hello but nothing more.
And then we came to Damian Archer, my husband.
He was never home.
He moved me into his place a week ago and since then I'd barely seen him once.
"Here." He handed me a jewelry box at breakfast.
Liza didn't make breakfast and he usually did the whole cereal or Muesli with milk or yogurt thing. I didn't eat breakfast, so it wasn't an issue for me.
Liza made sure there was dinner, which I ate alone when I came back late in the night. I worked in the department of restoration at Archer Galleries and then spent hours in the studio. The other artists were actual artists and had their work shown in galleries and museums. They looked at me with disdain. It was obvious that I had gained access to the sacred studio on my back—after I stole my sister's man.
I opened the jewelry box and found a slender gold chain with a diamond ring and wedding band hanging on it like lockets. The engagement ring was simple. One stone, nothing fancy. I liked it. I also knew it wasn't expensive and not that I wanted something that cost a lot of money—but it made me feel less.
"This way, you can wear the ring and still paint."
I smiled. Said thank you prettily. I was never going to put the damn thing on. He wouldn’t even notice cause he was never around.
I had no idea where he was sleeping—because I knew he wasn't sleeping in the apartment.
Was he with Bianca?
As your green-eyed monster to vamoose, Emilia. It's none of your business who Damian does whatever he wants with.
I really had thought that Damian and I were becoming friends after that lunch he'd taken me to—but since then, nothing.
The truth was I was lonely. I missed my loft apartment. I missed how safe I felt there. I missed Moana and our friends from upstairs.
I had been happy to get a studio at Archer Galleries but that was before I saw how the other artists had pushed me into a corner and basically ignored me, treated me like an upstart.
I was used to being Invisible Miss Winters—but now I was visible, and no one liked what they saw. It was starting to hurt my heart. It was too blatant. I survived by being in my own cocoon. Now, I didn't have a safe space.
After the third week of the same you don't exist treatment from Damian, I decided that I'd move back to my loft. I was still paying rent and it was mine. And I would look for another job. I wasn't sure why Marcela hired me and then gave me the cold shoulder. Maybe it was a control thing.
"Emilia, you can't just leave."
"Why not?" I asked Liza as I rolled my suitcase out to the front door.
I had brought very few things. My clothes and shoes. I'd left all the office wear that I'd had to put on when I worked as a buyer for my mother and sister in the tiny closet I had in the loft. I'd have to get rid of them now.
"This is your home."
"This is Damian's home, and he isn't ever here. And it's really not my home." I sniffled because I was feeling bereft, more unwanted than I ever had before. "Where is he today?"
Liza looked sad.
"At his parents' house for lunch…my sister is probably there. I'm not invited." I felt foolish voicing this, but it was how I felt. "I'm lonely, Liza. And sad. I want my own space. He won't even notice I'm not here."
"You call me and let me know when you're home safe, okay?" Liza requested.
"Don't tell him I'm not here."
Liza smiled weakly.
"Let's see how long it takes before he knows I don't live here anymore."
"But you're newlyweds and it hurts me to—"
"We're not married like that, Liza. You know that. How many newlyweds do you know who sleep in separate bedrooms and never spend any time together?"
Liza gave me a hug and helped me sneak out from the service entrance so the concierge wouldn't see me and report back to Damian that I'd been seen leaving the Four Seasons with my suitcase.
Moana was waiting to drive me home in her red Mini—her prized possession that she bought after she finished law school. Moana was half Greek, a quarter Hawaiian, and a quarter Latina—so, very San Franciscan. She was a beautiful woman with a body that she maintained through sheer hard work at the gym. She was my only close friend—and we both took care of each other. When she fell sick, I helped her out. When she used to work in a diner (before the escort stuff) I used to take her shifts so she wouldn't lose her job when she had exams. And she took care of me.
"Wanna bet how long it takes for him to notice I'm not living in his apartment?" I asked sullenly as she drove us home.
"A week," Moana offered.
"Two weeks."
"Deal. If I win, you're going to come to Dawn to Dusk with me."
Dawn to Dusk was a new retro night club fashioned after the movie by the same name. Moana raved about it and since I was, according to her, down in the dumps, I needed to get out and have some fun.
"And if I win?"
"Honey, you don't want to win." She patted my hand.
True! I wanted Damian to notice I was gone right away. It was so unfair. We were married and I was still invisible.
I was usually a content person. I found happiness in small things. I had to after being the unwanted child and growing up in Bianca's shadow. But right now, depression was eating away at my soul.
I had hoped that Damian and I would at least become friends. That we would spend time together and get to know one another.
Like Friedrich Nietzsche said, "Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man."
I had to get back to my real life where I didn't live at the Four Seasons and work at Archer Galleries. Where Marcela Archer hadn't said my work was magical and gave me a low-level job as an art restorer (which I was grateful for). I was glad that I hadn't shut down Dr. Joachim De Jong's offer for me to work on a project on a three-month contract basis. I was going to accept that. And then I was going to quit my job at Archer Galleries.
I was also going to bring my stuff back from the studio there. I hadn't taken much because the studio came with easels, paints, turpentine, and other things artists needed. I had only taken my brushes and the special paints and mediums I used.
That night I got settled into my place and felt enormously better. I put fresh sheets on my bed. Lit some candles to soothe me. And then I set up a blank canvas on the easel. My process wasn't very sophisticated. I sat on the floor and stared at the white space that I wanted to fill—and then let it come to me. Usually, how I felt translated onto the canvas.
But I couldn't see it very well right now because I was crying. I'd waited two weeks for my husband to notice me and now, I was done. I would never put myself out like that again. I didn't care what the gossip sites said or what PR nightmare Damian thought us staying apart would bring. I wasn't going to live in that soulless apartment ever again.
I lay down on the wooden floor of the loft and held myself tight, waiting for grief to translate into inspiration.