At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter Thirteen

A day after he leaves, I'm bored and frustrated. Bored because I miss him and hate knocking around this big apartment by myself. If it weren't for Ozzy, I'd return to my studio.

Frustrated, because I seemingly can't write as well without his presence.

Oh, sure, I'm getting some things down on paper, which is a huge accomplishment from the pre-Tristan days. But now each sentence is like pulling teeth with pliers, and I can tell that the old writer's block is knocking at the door.

And that scares the hell out of me.

After my second walk with Ozzy in Central Park today, I plop in my chair and vow to write at least a hundred words.

My phone rings, and I lunge for it. I've only heard from Tristan once, and he seemed so busy and preoccupied that his voice had taken on that arrogant, bossy tone again.

It's Mom's nursing home.

"Sienna?"

I immediately recognize the head nurse's voice. God knows we've talked enough over the years.

"Yes?" Some sixth sense makes my stomach curdle.

"I'm so sorry. It's your mother. She passed just now."

The phone slips from my grip and I crumple to the floor. Ozzy runs in from the other room and nudges me with his nose, trying in vain to console me.

* * *

I let out a strangled cry of frustration. I'm in the backseat of Tristan's hired Mercedes, and Ozzy's sitting next to me.

"Miss?" the driver asks, glancing up into the rear-view mirror. "May I help?"

"Unless you can get Tristan on the phone, no."

It's been fifteen hours of pure hell. First, I had to deal with the nursing home. Then it took time to authorize the transfer of Mom's body to a funeral home. After, I chose a funeral home.

Alone.

Because Tristan isn't picking up his damned phone. I'd called him, wild with grief. No answer. Then responsibility kicked in and I was in robot mode. I'd texted and emailed, too angry to want to hear his voice.

Still no response.

Figures. I'm just an employee to him. One that's doing a job. He doesn't give a crap about me. All those times he said he was enamored with me? All bullshit.

"Craig?" I lean forward in the seat.

The driver nods.

"Take me to my studio."

"Are you sure, miss? I think Mr. Black will be displeased."

Craig might be afraid of his boss, but I'm not. I glare out the window, allowing my anger to mask the swirling, messy grief inside me.

"I've never been more sure of anything. And I don't care what Mr. Black thinks."

* * *

I manage to creep into my studio after three weeks away without any of my neighbors noticing. It's a Sunday evening, so most of the shops on the block are closed. Ozzy looks around and sniffs, his black nose high in the air.

"I know, it's musty. We'll air it out," I mutter to the dog, who watches me as I throw open the old, rickety window near the bed.

Coming back — I can't call it home, because it doesn't feel like that anymore — after living in Tristan's opulent apartment adds to my grief.