Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 17
Roman
Where the hell is she?
Just because it’s Saturday, it doesn’t mean she has the right to leave the premises without asking my permission and telling me where she’s going. My phone in my hand, I’ve tried to reach her every which way, but she hasn’t responded to my texts, voice messages, or emails.
I’m beyond furious. Bouncing off the walls. Even Madame DuBois doesn’t know where she is. Then, suddenly, I remember I can trace her with the tracker app I added to her phone and mine. Never having needed to use it before, I jab the app and study the map that pops up on my screen. She’s on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street. Bergdorf’s! What the fuck is she doing there? I’m about to dash out of my atelier and head uptown when the app shows she’s left the store. She’s heading west on Central Park South. Then I lose her. I bet she went underground to the subway. The goddamn app doesn’t work in subterranean environments. I have no clue where she’s going. For all I know, she could be on her way to a rendezvous with that Blickdick dipshit. I feel my pulse spiking, my blood pressure rising. Why does this girl do this to me? Clutching my phone and checking it every five seconds for her whereabouts, I pace my studio. Finally, a half hour later, a signal. She’s on Broadway close to Canal and walking in the direction of my residence. She doesn’t have a key, so she’s going to have to buzz the intercom. Guess who’s going to be at the front door to answer it? That’s right, yours fucking truly.
Five minutes later, the intercom buzzes. I think I’m going to play some mind games with her. Make her wait until I come to the door. She buzzes and buzzes and buzzes, and finally, I lope to the door and yank it open.
Bubbling with rage, I study her. She’s wearing that hideous Goodwill romper, but at least her riotous hair is tied back with my butterfly scarf. A massive Bergdorf’s garment bag is draped over one arm.
“Where the hell did you go?” I bark, looming over her as she stands outside still as a statue. She doesn’t seem intimidated by me, which pisses me off further.
She holds up the garment bag. “Duh, Bergdorf’s. You have eyes.”
“One,” I remind her. She cringes a little at her faux pas. My voice rises with fury. “Why the hell didn’t you ask me if you could leave the premises?”
To my utter shock, she skirts past me, crossing the threshold. “Roman, I don’t have to ask for your permission to leave. Especially on my days off, none of which I’ve ever taken for your information.” She pauses. “Plus it’s a holiday weekend and I had something important to do.”
Shopping at Bergdorf’s is not important! I’m obviously paying her way too much money.
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”
“I left very early. The door to your room was closed. I thought you might be sleeping. I didn’t feel comfortable knocking or shouting out, ‘Oh, Roman, I’m going shopping!’”
“You could have left a note!”
She gives me an infuriating, coy smile. “Next time I will.”
There isn’t going to be a next time. I calm down a little.
“Why did you have to go to Bergdorf’s?”
“I had to buy a gown—”
I cut her off. “A gown of all things?”
“Yes, for my friend Harper’s wedding. She’s getting married tonight and I’m her maid of honor. The dress she bought me got destroyed in the fire.”
Anger seeps back into my blood. So she’s planning to escape again tonight. The nerve of her! “Why didn’t you tell me about the wedding?”
“It wasn’t on purpose. I honestly almost forgot about it myself. I’ve been so busy working on your new collection it was the last thing on my mind.”
Her voice sounds sincere. I believe her. “Show me what you bought.”
My eye stays on her as she carefully unzips the long black bag. A sliver of pale fabric peeks through the opening, and then she slips out the dress.
“Hold it up against you,” I order.
She does as I ask and holds up the dress. My good eye twitches. I want to vomit. It’s absolutely hideous. The color is a dingy yellow that looks terrible against her fair skin, and the simple A-line cut with its stiff peau de soie fabric is made for a middle-aged matronly dowager. Not a riveting, youthful beauty like my butterfly.
Impetuously, I yank the dress out of her hand.
“You’re not wearing that rag! You’re returning it.”
Sofi’s eyes grow wide with shock. “What!?”
“You have ears,” I mock mimic her. “You heard me!” Then, I call out to my chief of staff. On her lunch break, she scurries out of the kitchen and joins us.
“Madame DuBois, I’d like you to retrieve the Mirabella.”
Her eyes blink with surprise and her lips quiver. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Sofi is going to wear it to a wedding tonight.”
Almost instantly, second thoughts besiege me. I take a shuddering breath. In my heart of hearts, I’m not sure if I can stomach seeing her in that dress.
I eye Sofi, trying to imagine her in the extravagant gown. Though it may be a little big on her, the image of her in it both arouses and frightens me. My stomach knots into a spiky ball as my dormant cock stirs. “Madame, if it needs to be altered, please do that. I will be upstairs catching up on emails.”
Pivoting, I head to the elevator. I jab the button and the old bronze door creaks open. One of these days it’s going to give out. As it skitters closed, I can’t get the image of Sofi in the gown out of my head.
Instead of catching up on my emails, I jack off.