Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 15

Roman

While Sofi puts all her new clothes away in her room and sets up her easel and paints in the atelier below, I spend time in my darkened study at my desk, the blackout curtains drawn, working on her contract. It’s something my business partner, Kendra, should be putting together, but she’s been out of town courting investors for our company. It’s not the first time I’ve had a muse, but Sofi is different. She was seductive and submissive. Sofi is wild and rebellious. Yet, there is a kindred free spirit they share, a lightness of being that’s infectious. Almost addictive. And that’s why I’m so obsessed with her. My butterfly.

In Greek mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses who symbolized the arts and sciences. Today, a muse is a person, particularly a woman, who serves as a source of artistic inspiration. Throughout the history of fashion, many legendary fashion designers have had muses—among the most famous, Givenchy’s Audrey Hepburn. I spent some time online trying to find out what they were paid, but nothing of value came up. While I offered Sofi ten thousand smackers a month, I truly don’t know her true worth. Maybe I’m overpaying. It doesn’t matter. I had to have her.

And now I must control her. Make her completely mine. There can be no Blickdicks or distractions in her life while she’s working for me. Having no template, I wing her contract, scribbling down clause after clause in a sketchbook, my Montblanc bleeding ink with the speed of my words. I read them over, make a couple of revisions, and then input them into an official Word doc on my computer. My typing skills are for shit; pecking the keyboard with only my index fingers, it takes me forever, and to my frustration, I keep making mistakes. Finally, I get it all down. While the contract prints out, I text Madame DuBois and ask her to send Sofi upstairs to my study.

“You wanted to see me?” comes her chirpy voice a few minutes later as I do a final read-through of her contract. Setting the document down on my desk, I swerve my head in her direction. She’s already wearing the Goodwill butterfly-print romper, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, my butterfly scarf wrapped around it. A street-look only she could pull off. Such an antithesis to the stark black gowns I design, yet so much the same. Whimsical. Original. Beautiful.

“Have a seat.” I jut my chin at the two chairs facing my desk. With a bounce to her step, she settles into one of them.

“This is your employment contract.” I slide the single sheet of paper toward her. She picks it up and reads it. Crossing my arms, I watch as she scrolls down the page.

EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT BETWEEN ROMAN HURST AND SOFI LOCKHART

1.Sofi Lockhart (aka “Employee”) promises to work exclusively for Roman Hurst/the House of Hurst (aka “Employer”) for three consecutive months or until she finds another job.

2.Employee will be paid weekly by Employer in the amount of $2500 and will be reimbursed for any additional business-related expenses.

3.Employee promises to fulfill her role as Employer’s muse 24/7.

4.Employee agrees to do as she’s told by Employer with no questions asked.

5.Employee agrees to let Employer know of her whereabouts at all times.

6.Employee will never leave the premises of the House of Hurst unless pre-approved by Employer.

7.Employee agrees to accept all gifts given to her by Employer.

8.Employee will serve as Employer’s fitting model whenever required.

9.Employee agrees to have no sexual relationships with any men during her course of employment.

10.Employee agrees to never wear cotton undergarments.

At the bottom of the page, there is a line where she can sign and date it. With each passing second, her wiggly brows knit closer and closer together until she’s almost sporting a unibrow.

“Sign it,” I order. “And you can get to work.”

“Huh! Seriously?”

She grabs my expensive French pen and starts slashing the clauses, beginning with the third one. One nasty X after another. Tossing the Montblanc onto my desk, she gazes up at me, her bright green eyes on fire.

“I’m not signing this ridiculousness; all I will agree to are the first two clauses—the duration of my employment and my salary. In case you don’t know it, I’m not some butterfly you can capture and keep in a jar. I need my freedom.”

My blood bubbles. She’s so fucking stubborn and feisty. About to blow a fuse, I pick up the contract and tear it in half. What’s the point?

“Fine!” I stab at her. “But give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, she reluctantly hands it over to me. I open her apps. At least I’ve got iPhone skills.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m installing an app.”

“What kind?”

“A tracking one. A locator so I know where you are at all times.”

“Fine.” She fires the word back at me, folding her arms across her chest, half in defiance, half in defeat.

“But there is one thing I do need you to sign.” I slide my bottom desk drawer open and slip out the form from a folder. “An NDA. It’s not any different than the one you signed before when you pretended to be that bogus blogger. I need to know that my secrets and designs are safe with you. There’s a lot of theft in the fashion world. Copycat designers everywhere.”

“You don’t trust me?” She looks wounded.

“I don’t trust anyone.” Except Madame DuBois, whom I’d trust with my life.

I hand her the form and she reads it over. Silently, she signs it with my pen.

“Will that be it?” Her tone is insolent. Closer to indignant.

“Yes.” I take the NDA from her and file it. “Now, please feel free to get back to work.”

I watch as she rises, making a face at me before exiting. Damn! She’s so cute!

My cock flexes beneath my desk. She may think we’re done, but we’ve only just begun.