Page 90 of The Darkness is Calling

The spotlights dim until only a weak glow remains, meant to guide my way to the piano in the center of the stage.

At the same time, it is the moment when I can see who is sitting in the first rows.

From one end to the other, I look quickly, while Anna urges me from behind to move forward.

I blink, confused, but an enormous hollow opens inside my heart.

I look again, more slowly, at the seat I reserved for Artem, then at the ones nearby.

“Ekaterina, it’s time,” the coordinator whispers impatiently.

But I am frozen, realizing something that hurts and frightens me at the same time.

Artem is not here. His seat is empty.

Is the same tragedy happening all over again as on the day my father was supposed to come? Did something happen?

Seized by panic, the next second, I turn back, sweeping past the woman staring at me, alarmed, standing beside my friend.

“What...?”

I don’t pay attention to her, because I go straight to Dimitri, who fixes me with a worried look.

“Did something happen to him?” My voice is a mixture of fear and coldness.

“Miss Borislova...”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know anything. Half an hour ago, he was at the club.”

I have heard something about this club, owned by the Koronov brothers, but Artem preferred not to give me too many details. His younger brother, however, could not resist telling me it was not a club worthy of a lady like me, adding that the nature of the place mainly attracts people fond of drugs and, of course, loose women.

My lips press into a thin line, unable to hide my worry.

“He was supposed to come.”

“Maybe he’s running late. Don’t worry. If something had happened, I would have been informed by now.”

Which, for one moment, I think is even worse.

I take my phone from my bag and open the messages app with hope, praying for some sign from him, an explanation, anything that might save my heart from being shattered into a thousand little pieces.

But what I find turns my soul to dust.

A message from an unknown number is waiting for me, but it contains only a photo and a short text. And in the photo is Artem, with a blonde beside him, dressed in a very short red dress, smiling at him seductively.

Even so, it is the attached message that crushes any illusion I might still have that the photo means nothing.

It means something.

Unknown number: Meet the woman he’s been keeping as his mistress for years

I can barely swallow past the knot in my throat, but my eyes sting as tears blur my vision. My naivety begs me to cry, but there is still a part of me that grits its teeth through the pain. With a dry, ironic smirk, I turn the phone toward Dima and show him the picture, which Oksana sees too before start cursing like a sailor in Russian.

“Yeah. He’s really busy,” I tell the man. He frowns, his gaze darkening.

“That can’t...” He murmurs, confused. “Who