Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 35
Sofi
Ugh! I feel like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer. Stretching, I groan. Every muscle and bone in my body aches, and I have a throbbing headache. Peeling one eye open after the other, I rub my head, discovering a sizeable bump on the back of my scalp. As I wince, vague memories from last night whirl in my head. I don’t remember much. I was bringing Roman up some coffee, and the next thing I knew, I was tumbling down the stairs, unable to break my fall. I heard Roman and then darkness fell. The rest is a blur . . . the hospital . . . lots of tests . . . beeping machines . . . the cab . . . my Roman . . . and then darkness claimed me again.
Sunlight filters through the gap between my drapes and I squint, the action only making my head feel worse. It must be morning. I pull down the covers halfway and glance down. I’m in my pajamas and have no recollection of getting into them or getting into my bed for that matter. Slowly, I push myself to an upright position. It’s an effort and I groan again. My mouth is dry and I need to pee. Swinging my legs over the bed, I stand up and wince as my right foot hits the floor. I quickly reach for the edge of my night table so I don’t crumple from the pain. I glance down. My foot is wrapped in a thick Ace bandage and I can’t put pressure on it. I try to take another step, but it’s hopeless. Shit. I’m going to pee myself if I don’t get to the bathroom. Maybe I can hop there? Wishful thinking because I don’t have the stamina. Trying to figure out a strategy, my eyes circle the room and land on a pair of crutches leaning against the wall on the other side of my bed. Having no choice, I sit back down on the bed and scoot to the other side, holding up my bandaged foot. With my battered body, I’m in slow-mo and it takes me forever. I grab the crutches and hoist myself up. Never having used them before, I struggle to hop to the bathroom on one foot. I tune into the slow, rhythmic sound of my crutches clicking on the floor followed by my plodding footsteps.
Twenty long minutes later, I’ve completed my morning bathroom routine and hop into a shower, keeping my injured foot elevated. The steamy hot spray soothes my horribly bruised body and I stay under the showerhead for a good half hour before hopping out. I dry myself off, put on my robe, and grab my crutches. After downing a couple of Advil, I hobble back to the toilet, where I plop down on the seat and re-bandage my foot, attempting to wrap the elastic bandage around my swollen, black-and-blue ankle in figure eights like it was. The bandage feels good and so does my ankle. And thanks to the shower, I feel renewed. My crutches beside me, I decide to test my ankle. To my great relief and surprise, I can put some weight on it. Screw the crutches. To be honest, they’re ridiculously hard to use and they kill my armpits. I abandon them. Leaving them behind.
Ten minutes later, clad in a loose-fitting pink dress, my hair tied up in Roman’s butterfly scarf, I limp out of my room. Before I can take another agonizing step (I’ve overestimated how long I could last on my ankle), a gruff voice calls out to me.
“Sofi, what the fuck are you doing out of bed?”
I spin around and flinch. At both the pain shooting up my ankle and the sight of the gorgeous clad-in-all-black man facing me. His brows are furrowed so deeply there’s a crease between them, and his lips are pulled tight.
I flash a pained smile. “I’m going to work.”
He takes angry steps toward me. “The hell you are!”
“I’m perfectly fine. And I’ve got a gazillion butterflies that need to be painted.”
Stifling a grimace, I stir, taking some pressure off my injured ankle. He looks down and then his good eye holds mine fiercely.
“Where are your crutches?”
Another quick smile. “I don’t need them. I can walk perfectly fine.”
He looks at me sternly. “Go get them. Now.” Another one of his typical bossy orders.
Make me, I silently say to myself like a defiant child.
His expression grows sterner, more determined. “If you don’t get them, I’m going to be forced to carry you.”
“Seriously, Roman?” With a roll of my eyes, I pivot on my foot and walk away, trying to walk as normally as possible when each and every step’s killing me. I feel his good eye pointed on my ass as he trails me. About to tread down the stairs, my right foot gives. I groan in pain and lose my balance. My heart skips a beat and I let out a shriek. Oh God! I’m going to fall down the stairs again! Stupid smart aleck me!
Just as I feel myself lurching forward, two strong arms grasp my waist, and on my gasp, Roman sweeps me into his arms and cradles me against his chest. I have no choice but to wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and let him hold me. I gaze up at him, and his flame-blue eye burns a hole right through me. Though he looks exasperated, I’m convinced he’s holding back a coy smile. He lets out a resigned sigh.
“Sofi, you’re so fucking stubborn.”
I’m too caught up being so close to this man to admit I’m a pain in the ass. His woodsy lavender scent is making me dizzy.
“When are you going to learn to listen to me?”
I shrug. When are you going to ever kiss me?
“Well, now you’re going to pay. I’m a man of my word. I will be carrying you all day.”
Reality sets in. I quirk a questioning brow. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”
He smirks. “We’ll figure it out.”
And with that, he carries me down the stairs. With ease. All confident. All smug.
All man.
I love every minute of it.
Who am I kidding?
I love every minute of him.
I soon find out that Roman is indeed a man of his word. For the next three days, he transports me everywhere—morning, noon, and night. From the minute I rise to the minute I close my eyes. He carries me effortlessly, his arms so strong and his steps so sure. No ifs or buts about it. It feels so delicious, so safe and cozy to be cradled against his cashmere-shrouded torso I could almost fall asleep in his arms by the end of the day. He seems to love holding me as much as I love being held by him. With his heart beating against me, his breath mingling with mine, I feel like I’m an extension of him. And him, a part of me. Every night, I go to sleep blanketed in his intoxicating scent, his molecules imprinted on me. Dreaming of him until the beautiful reality of him materializes upon wakening.
Every morning, he also expertly and lovingly re-bandages my ankle. Wrapping the elastic around it as if he’s draping couture fabric, making it feel so cocooned and secure. I’m almost sorry my ankle starts to heal. By the end of the week, I can walk on it with the aid of a single crutch. Fortunately, the sprain hasn’t stopped me from working. Not even a day. In fact, my immobility has kept me grounded and I paint more butterflies than usual, each one different, more exquisite than the one before. Each one awing Roman, Madame DuBois, and the Romanoffs. Patterns cut and the pieces pinned, Roman’s new collection is taking shape and it’s dazzling.
By Sunday, I’ve developed cabin fever. Plus, all the detailed painting has made me bleary-eyed. Having been stuck inside Roman’s atelier since my accident, I persuade him to let me take a short walk outside. Mr. Overprotective insists on coming along. Fine. But as we’re about to leave, he gets a phone call from one of his overseas suppliers. This time a problem with the shipment of pearls he wants to use to adorn his new collection. Irritated, he paces the atelier. The second he doesn’t have his trained eye on me, I escape.
God, it feels great to be outside. Invigorating! Free! Though the early June weather is way cooler than I anticipated. Wearing only a lightweight cardigan sweater, I shiver, and my ankle hurts sooner than expected. I’ve overestimated my recovery and physical ability. Clutching my crutch, I hobble around the corner to La Brioche. The café where Madame DuBois told me about Roman’s past. It’ll be a place to sit down and warm up. People-watch and chill. Though I’ve left my backpack with my credit card and phone at the atelier, I can still order something and put it on the House of Hurst account. Roman won’t mind, though I’m sure Kendra will question every penny spent.
The small, charming café, as usual, is bustling, with chatty downtown shoppers seated among others silently working on their laptops. It never ceases to amaze me how many people no longer work in an office or from their homes in this social media–connected world. Scanning the interior, I find a vacant table for two in the corner and make my way to it. Perching my crutch against the wall behind me, I take a seat and my regular server, a tall exotic girl about my age, immediately comes up to me. With her waist-length ebony hair, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped toffee eyes, she’s as beautiful as her name: Kimana. She’s happy to see me. After inquiring about my injury, she takes my order. A café crème along with a plate of assorted macarons.
She returns quickly with the coffee and colorful almond pastries. Mmm. They smell yummy. Eagerly, I lift the foamy cup of coffee to my lips and take a sip. The rich aromatic hot liquid trickles down my throat and instantly warms me. As I’m about to dip one of my macarons into the French brewed coffee, a too-familiar snarky voice drifts into my ears.
“Boo-hoo. Well, if it isn’t the poor little wounded butterfly.”
My eyes dart up, my nerve endings sizzle, and I clench my teeth. It’s Kendra . . . dressed to the nines in a creamy leather jacket, miniskirt, and ankle boots . . . and dangling one of her enormous designer bags.
“Mind if I have a seat?”
Without waiting for a response—Yes! Get your own table!—she lowers herself onto the bistro chair opposite mine. Not bothering to take off her jacket.
Her steely blue eyes roam the café from corner to corner. Studying the chalkboard wall menu, she makes a face.
“Don’t they serve alcohol here?”
“Nope.”
Kendra huffs. “How ridiculous!”
“What are you doing here?” I ask after taking another fortifying sip of my coffee.
She glowers at me. “Honestly, it’s more a question of what are you doing here.”
Her contemptuous voice is a trigger. The memory of falling down the stairs sprints into my head. I jolt and almost spill my coffee. She was there. Her blouse open; her boobs hanging loose. She brushed right past me. Almost knocking me down. Or maybe she did. I can’t remember. She disappeared. Why didn’t she stop and help me? Was she drunk out of her mind? And yet another question taunts me: Why was she half-undressed and so disheveled?
Cutting my ruminations short, my attentive server returns to our table and asks Kendra if she wants to order something. My unwanted companion dismissively shoos her away and refocuses her attention on me.
“So, Sofi.” She laughs at the alliteration before continuing. “We should have a little tête-à-tête while I’m here. You know, a girl-to-girl talk.”
My muscles tense. This vile woman is the last person on earth I want to chat with. Her disdain for me is palpable. Despite my urge to bolt from the table, I stay. Maybe, she can shed more light on what happened the night of my fall. Explain what she was doing there, though I’m not sure I want to find out. Reflecting on how little I know about her, I take another sip of my café crème.
My decision to hear her out is a big mistake. Her next statement hits me like a brick to my chest.
“So,how does it feel to be Roman’s latest whore?”
I choke on my coffee and gulp down the hot mouthful before it shoots out. “Excuse me?”
Kendra snickers. “Your kind is a dime a dozen. He has a pattern. Hump them and dump them.”
Setting my coffee cup down, I chew my bottom lip so as not to tell her I’ve never slept with Roman. Though I’ve fantasized about it countless times. It would just arm her with more information she could use against me.
“You’ve only lasted this long because he’s paid you a ridiculous amount of money he had no right doing without my approval. You think you’re his muse? Ha! Concubine is more like it! His personal cocksucker!”
My blood bubbling, I can feel my cheeks flaming with mortification. I ball my fists before I fling the remains of my coffee at her and leap out of my seat.
Her poisonous eyes stay on me. “He’s already told me you’ll be gone way before his new collection is done. Haven’t you noticed how short his attention span is?”
Breathing in and out of my nose, my blood still simmering, I say nothing.
“Do you want to see a copy of your termination notice?”
Termination notice?What!? My chest tightens as I struggle to swallow past the painful lump in my throat. Then, my initial shock gives way to boldness. I feel a fire light behind my eyes.
“I don’t believe you! Roman needs me!” My father always told me actions speak louder than words, and I know deep inside my heart that Roman is grateful for all I’ve done for him. He even let me be there for him at his darkest time.
Kendra smirks. “Then believe this.”
I watch as she reaches into her enormous bag and slips out an official House of Hurst envelope addressed to me, my name misspelled S-O-P-H-I-E. “Here. Read this.”
She slides the envelope across the table. Hesitantly, I pick it up and open it. Tears sting the back of my eyes as I read the contents. The letter shakes in my trembling hands. I’m being terminated at the end of this week. The reason: “Employee has failed to do her job in a timely manner and has presented herself to be a liability to the company and its owners.” At the bottom, the notice is signed by both Kendra and Roman. I recognize his simple but bold signature: RH.
My hands still shaking, I fold up the letter and slip it back into the envelope. A traitorous tear escapes from the corner of my eye. A tidal wave of sadness crashes over me. How could Roman not tell me?
Kendra flashes me a smug smile as I hand her back the envelope. She tosses it back on the table at me. “Keep it. It’ll save me a stamp. I can’t afford to be wasting pennies when the company is operating in the red . . . with a special thanks to you.”
Not having my backpack with me, I leave the envelope on the table. A fat tear falls onto it, blurring my name. I reach for my coffee, but in my shaken state, I accidentally knock over the cup. Clank! The coffee spills all over the table, soaking the letter. My lovely nearby server quickly comes to my rescue. Cleaning up the mess, she asks if I want another café crème. I decline, telling her to put my order on Roman’s account. With a generous tip.
As Kimana saunters off, Kendra lets out an exasperated tsk. “You are a liability! And wasting company money! We should have fired your scrawny ass a long time ago.” Scowling, she looks down at the soaked envelope. “Jesus. Now I have to redo your pink slip.”
I can no longer contain myself. I begin to cry full on, the tears falling freely.
Kendra rolls her eyes. “Oh, please! You’re such a pathetic crybaby. Grow up!”
The tears fall harder, faster. I’m an emotional wreck.
“I-I’ve got to go,” I stammer, reaching for my crutch. Her cruel eyes stay on me as I hoist myself out of my chair, my heavy heart weighing me down and causing me to put more pressure on my bad foot than it can withstand. I groan through my tears. Though the throb in my ankle is nothing compared to the throb in my chest.
Still seated, Kendra shoots me a broad smile as if she’s enjoying every second of my physical and emotional anguish. Flicking her manicured fingers at me much the way someone shoos away an annoying insect, she singsongs, “Bye-bye.”
With all the strength I can muster, I hobble off as a complacent Kendra gets her last words in.
“You know what they say . . . ”
Tears streaming down my face, I force myself to keep moving, but not fast enough. Her sinister voice only pains me more.
“ . . . Fly like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.”
I feel like I’ve stepped into a hornet’s nest.