Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 18

Sofi

I’m standing on a platform, facing myself in a three-way mirror as Madame DuBois, who’s on her knees, pins up the hem of the black gown I’m wearing. About an inch so it doesn’t drag. Except for taking it in a tad on the sides, the voluminous one-shoulder gown fits me as if I were born to wear it. I’ve never worn anything so magnificent, so extravagant before. The rich, black taffeta cocoons and caresses me. Not used to seeing myself in black, I stare at my reflection in semi-shock and wobble. Outfitted in a pair of stilettos that look brand new, I’m unsteady on my feet. I’ve never worn heels, let alone mile-high ones.

“Stand still, my chérie,” chides Madame DuBois. “We’re almost done.”

I steel myself while she finishes hemming the gown. She stands up, adjusting the shoulder bow, which reminds me of an oversized butterfly, and joins me facing the mirror. At the sight of me, her eyes blink several rapid times as if she’s just seen a mirage. A slow smile burns on her lips.

“Mon Dieu. It is beautiful on you.”

“What’s the history of this gown?” I ask, still in awe. Of both the gown and how I look in it. With my hair piled up on my head, I look like a princess. I nervously fiddle with my lucky butterfly pendant, which hangs from my neck.

Her face grows somber, her voice soft. “Roman designed it ten years ago. A very special woman was supposed to have worn it, but she never got the chance.”

I detect sadness in her voice.

“Her body type was a lot like yours, only a little taller and fuller. You remind me so much of her in many ways.”

Before I can probe, she asks me to step off the pedestal, offering me her hand so I don’t kill myself in the ridiculously high heels. Carefully, she helps me out of the gown, slipping it onto a padded hanger as I watch, clad only in skimpy black lace panties and a matching strapless bra, one of the many sets of sexy underwear Roman bought me, and the black satin stilettos. The gown is as exquisite off me as it is on me. A true work of art.

Her perennial yellow tape measure around her, Madame DuBois expertly puffs out the gown. “Before you leave for your event, I will steam it. You will be the belle of the ball.”

An unsettling thought enters my mind. I hope Harper will be cool with the dress. It’s definitely attention getting, and she will not be happy if I steal her thunder. And truthfully, neither will I. It is, after all, her wedding. Her special day that she’s spent the entire year preparing for. It’s not my nature to be show-offy or competitive. I’ll low-key it (if that’s possible) and fingers crossed she’ll be okay with it. And fingers crossed, I won’t trip, being the spaz I am, and make a different kind of spectacle of myself.

While Madame DuBois hangs the dress up, I glimpse myself in the mirror in the sinfully sexy undergarments and unpin my hair. As it falls over my shoulders, a familiar voice calls out.

“How are we doing?”

I see him in the mirror. Oh my God, it’s Roman and I’m almost naked. I spin around, my mouth agape. The chill of the air-conditioning hits my skin, yet at the same time, I feel my cheeks heat with pure embarrassment. Goose bumps pop along my bare arms as I flush.

“Good,” I splutter, nervously tugging at my butterfly pendant as his discerning eye travels down my body, scorching every ounce of my flesh and torching my underwear. Feeling totally naked and exposed, I fold my arms across my chest, as if that will hide anything. Certainly not my trembling body or unchecked emotions. Flames lick my core and gather between my thighs. As mortification races through me, Roman’s gaze returns to my face, and he breaks into a dazzling smile. I’m speechless.

Thankfully, Madame DuBois comes to my rescue. “Monsieur Hurst, the dress looks magnifique on her. She was born to wear it.”

Another voice, as forceful as a hurricane, enters the atelier. Madame Dubois’s face darkens. Roman looks surprised.

“Roman, what the hell is going on?”

“Kendra, what are you doing here?” he replies while Madame DuBois silently stays put. “I thought you were in Dallas.”

I study her. She’s a stunning statuesque blonde, likely about Roman’s age, dressed to the nines in a belted off-white coat and cigarette pants. A monstrous black handbag and matching six-inch-high pumps complement her put-together ensemble. She struts up to us as if she was born wearing stilettos. On more careful inspection of her face, she looks like she may have had work done. Her skin is taut and shiny, her lips glossed and bee-stung.

“I got back last night and happened to be in the neighborhood at an art gallery opening,” she responds, running her long, slender manicured fingers through her lustrous shoulder-length mane. “And thought I’d stop by and say hello.” Her icy blue eyes linger seductively on Roman before shooting me a scathing look.

“Who are you?” Her tone is belligerent.

Roman introduces us. I find out she’s Roman’s business partner, Kendra Clark, but her demeanor says something else. Are they romantically involved? Or have been?

Her predatory eyes stay riveted on me; she gives me the once-over, and under her hostile gaze, I so wish I was wearing more than just a skimpy bra and panties. A cold shiver skitters down my spine as she snarls. “So, you’re Roman’s latest muse. The one he’s wasting twenty-five hundred dollars a week on when we need to make budget cuts.”

While I mull over the word “latest,” Roman steps in to defend me. “Kendra, Sofi has been a tremendous help and inspiration. She’s gotten me over my creative block, and I’ve finally resumed working on my next collection. It’s going to be breakthrough. Out of this world.”

Kendra scoffs at me. “Well, maybe the three of us can have a little dinner later and I can hear all about it.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I have a wedding to go to tonight.” I turn to Roman. “Roman, excuse me, but I need to get ready. Vincent will be here to pick me up in less than an hour.”

Roman’s thick brows shoot straight to his forehead. “You mean Blickdick? That twerp from the art supply store?”

I take offense to his insult, but simply nod. “He’s shooting Harper’s wedding.”

While Roman seethes, Kendra’s pouty mouth eases into a lustful smile. “Well, darling, that means it’s just you and me.”

Roman ignores her, like he’s not heard a word she’s said. His gaze stays on me, his face getting more heated by the second.

“Kendra, I can’t have dinner with you. I have plans.”

“Plans?”

Plans?I mentally echo her. Roman has plans? My brows lift. Kendra’s brows attempt to lift, but she can’t move them a hair.

Roman breathes in and out of his nose, his jaw flexing and his expression tensing. His visible eye lasers into mine.

“Sofi, you’re not going to the wedding with Blickdick. You’re going with me.”

“What!?”

“You heard me. Call him and tell him you have a ride. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.”

Without asking him to elaborate, I snap, “Is that a threat?”

“No, Sofi, it’s a statement. It ends with a period.” He turns to Madame DuBois, who’s remained a silent observer throughout this unexpected, uncomfortable encounter. “Madame DuBois, please ready Sofi’s gown. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

I glimpse a serene smile on her usually solemn face. Collecting the gown, she skirts off.

Without another word, Kendra pivots on her heel. She gives me another scathing look and then drags her venomous eyes to Roman. “Be careful, Roman. You don’t want to be arrested for child molestation.” And with that, she stalks out of the studio, swinging her enormous bag without looking back.

My stomach twists. The night hasn’t yet begun, but I already want it to end.