Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 36
Roman
Another screw-up. I’m on the phone with my Japanese pearl supplier for almost an hour, straightening out my order. I specifically asked for natural ivory seed pearls not the cheaper, cultured pure-white variety. The fact that he can’t speak English well doesn’t help nor does the poor connection, and by the time we’ve resolved the issue, I’m bristling all over with pent-up frustration. There’s a truth to Murphy’s Law—whatever can go wrong will go wrong. And every time it does, the setback digs into my productivity and pushes back the completion of my collection. Dammit. Everyone is going to have to work longer hours to make the deadline. Madame DuBois and her team are already overworked and they can’t assemble the gowns any faster. With couture, you can’t cut corners.
“Monsieur Hurst, are you all right?” asks Madame DuBois, sensing my distress.
I shove my phone into a pocket. “Yeah. The pearls I ordered will be here in two weeks.” My eyes roam the studio in search of Sofi. I could really use that walk to chill out and get my creative juices flowing. She’s nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Sofi?” My voice is edgy.
“I haven’t seen her for quite a while,” replies my chief of staff. “She’s been working very hard. Maybe she went upstairs to take a nap.”
Without another word, I bound up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. My pulse in overdrive, I rip open the door to her room with such force I’m surprised it doesn’t fall off the hinge. My nerves sizzle. Her neatly made bed doesn’t look like it’s been slept in for hours. Maybe she’s in her bathroom. I hurry inside like a madman. Nope. Sofi’s not there either.
Where the hell is she? In my frazzled state, I suddenly remember I can track her whereabouts on my cell phone. Wasting no time, I pull it out from my pocket and click on the tracking app. I do a double take. What the fuck? According to the app, she’s right here in my atelier. I speed dial her number; it goes straight to her voicemail.
Not bothering to leave her a message, I send her a text. Not waiting for a response, I fly down the stairs and try calling her again. As I reach the landing, a familiar ring chimes in my ears. I put two and two together. The ring is coming from her backpack, which is hanging over the chair she usually sits in. I jog over to it and look inside. Jesus. She’s left the premises with neither her phone nor her wallet.
“I’ll be back,” I call out to Madame DuBois as I storm out the front door. And it better be with Sofi.
The chill in the air is nothing compared to the bone-chilling apprehension that courses through my blood. Panic floods me. Where the hell could she have gone? With her lame foot and no money, she couldn’t have gone far. Dark thoughts begin to swarm me. She’s so frail and vulnerable. Christ. Maybe she got into an accident. Hit by a cab. Kidnapped by human traffickers. My alarm growing exponentially, I start to gallop down the street, stopping inside any store I pass to see if she’s there. Breathlessly, I round the corner and come to the coffee shop she likes to frequent. Without slowing down, I dash inside, my good eye scouring every square inch of it. Every corner. A tall, brown-skinned beauty, who could easily be a runway model with her lanky build and exotic looks, approaches me.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for someone.” The rapid-fire words tumbling out of my mouth, I describe Sofi. “She’s wearing a headband with butterflies and she’s carrying a crutch.”
The waitress’s face lights up. “Ah, you mean Sofi. Yes, she was here about an hour ago.”
“Where did she go?” I bite out, showing no sign of relief.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but she seemed very upset.”
“What do you mean?”
“It looked like she was crying.”
This new information does little to calm me. It only makes me more agitated. What could upset her so much? And where would she go in such a distressed state? I’m about to call her friend Vincent when it comes to me. Her happy place.
The fastest way to get there—the subway. I bolt out of the café. Twenty angst-filled, fetid minutes later, I’m on the Upper West Side at the Museum of Natural History, madly storming through the Butterfly Conservatory. My eye oblivious to the riot of colorful winged creatures flitting around me. Looking desperately for only one.
And then I see her. With her crutch, staring at the pupa display, her back to me. I stop dead in my tracks. A torrent of emotions floods me. A turbulent mixture of white-hot rage and relief. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, my heart racing, my mind spinning with vitriol, I hasten off in her direction, taking reckless giant steps. Hot-blooded and unstoppable.
Why the hell didn’t you tell me where you were going?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Are you out of your fricking mind?
All these heated questions are raging inside me, but when my hands touch down on her thin, trembling shoulders, only one word spills from my lips. Spoken so softly I can hardly hear myself.
“Butterfly.”