Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 39

Sofi

The next jam-packed week is interrupted by an unexpected meeting. Kendra has arranged for Roman to meet with fashion industry mogul, Bernard Altman, who’s back in New York and staying at the Plaza Hotel. Despite my protests, Roman insists I come along with him. There are no ifs or buts. Mr. Bossy gets his way.

“I’m nervous,” I whisper to Roman as a uniformed butler shows us into Bernard’s penthouse suite.

“Don’t be, Butterfly.” His voice exudes confidence and power. “I don’t think we’ll be here long.” He squeezes my hand. “Just listen and observe. Be my antennae.”

“Mr. Altman would like to meet with you in the dining room,” drawls the butler, his lockjaw voice as uptight as his stance. “Please come this way.”

With Roman’s hand splayed on my lower back, we follow the stiff, ramrod-straight man.

As we pass through the penthouse suite, my jaw drops. It’s bigger than my parents’ house. In fact, bigger than most houses I’ve ever stepped into, except for Harper’s and Derek’s parents’ estates and Roman’s downtown abode. Aptly named the Royal Suite, the palatial accommodation is fit for a king with its sumptuous French furnishings, lavish rugs, crystal chandeliers, and damask curtains. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer spectacular views of both verdant Central Park and the breathtaking Manhattan skyline. I’m in awe.

Upon entering the massive dining room, I get a shock. Seated at a table that can accommodate twenty, Bernard leaps to his feet. But it’s not Bernard my eyes are drawn to. Rather, it’s Kendra, seated next to him. I thought she was still out of town. And so did Roman, who’s equally surprised.

Daggers shoot out of her acid blue eyes. Aimed straight at me.

“What the hell is she doing here?” she bites out, directing the question at Roman.

“What are you doing here?” he retorts. “I thought you were out of town for another week.”

“I decided to fly back with Bernard. This meeting was far too important to miss.”

Roman’s attention shifts to our host, who totters over to us. “Bernard, at last we meet.” The tone of his voice is aloof and cold, his demeanor standoffish.

“Enfin!Better late than never.” The Frenchman, in contrast, sounds jovial and eager. As they shake hands, I study him.

The squat, balding, fifty-something man is a dead ringer for Danny DeVito and they seriously could have been separated at birth. Not much taller than five feet, he barely comes up to Roman’s chest. Wearing a bottle-green turtleneck under his jacket, I swear he looks like a tortoise.

He eyes me lasciviously, his gaze roaming up and down my body. My skin bristles.

“And who eez your beautiful companion?” he asks Roman.

Kendra turns livid. “She’s his personal cock—”

Roman cuts her off. “This is Sofi. My muse. My butterfly.”

While Kendra cringes, all of Bernard’s attention converges on me.

“Enchanté, mon petit papillon.” Clasping my right hand with both of his, he lifts it to his slimy lips and kisses the back of it. His middle fingers are webbed, making him even more turtle-like. And repulsive. I inwardly shudder when his lips linger on my flesh longer than necessary.

“Let’s get down to business,” grits out Roman, the sharp tone of his voice making it loud and clear he’s not happy with Bernard’s actions. “I don’t have all day.”

“Bien sûr.”Turtleman drops my hand. “I’ve ordered a light buffet,” he says in his gravelly nasal voice, pointing to the gleaming rosewood credenza. Scattered atop it are platters of hors d’oeuvres as well as a self-serve bar. “Help yourself. Je vous en prie.”

Roman grabs a Perrier. I do the same. Kendra pours herself a shot of vodka while Bernard fills his tumbler with some bronze liquor and makes himself a plate of assorted meats, cheeses, and pastry puffs.

“What? No one eez hungry?”

“We didn’t come here to eat,” replies Roman, impatience rising in his voice.

“As you Americans say, whatever!” Bernard shrugs a shoulder before leading us back to the table. “So, let’s talk,” Bernard begins, taking a seat at the head, with Kendra next to him and Roman and me across from her.

Roman takes a swig of his sparkling water while Bernard shoves a crabmeat-stuffed mushroom into his mouth and washes it down with a gulp of his drink.

“So, Roman, as you know, BALE—Bernard Altman Luxury Enterprises—eez very interested in acquiring your company. We think the House of Hurst eez a good fit with our other brands.”

“I see,” says Roman, stone-faced. “What are you offering?”

“Fifty million dollars.”

Yikes! My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. Kendra’s reaction shocks me.

“Bernard, darling. That’s a little low.”

Low? Is she kidding? It’s like winning the lottery!

Kendra’s eyes dart from Roman to Bernard. Her gaze stays fixed on the pudgy Frenchman.

“Seriously, Bernard, Roman’s talent is unparalleled. He’s not another one of your ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ designers. He’s already a legend.”

Bernard stuffs another mushroom into his mouth. He chews it slowly and takes another glug of the alcohol. Then, slams the tumbler on the table.

“Sixty.”

Kendra rolls her eyes. “Come on, Bernard.”

“Seventy-five.”

Kendra: “Bernard, darling, I’m worth more than that. Should we say au revoir?”

Every nerve on edge, I hold my breath. Roman, in contrast, sits back and folds his arms across his chest as if he’s watching a boring tennis match. Another long stretch of silence; tension vibrates in the air. Then finally, his nostrils flaring, Bernard counters.

“One hundred million! That’s eet! My final offer!”

Holy cow! For a second, I think I’m watching my mother’s favorite game show, Deal or No Deal. While Kendra’s face lights up like a Christmas tree, Roman’s face doesn’t move a muscle. Not even the blink of an eye. Silence again. Kendra is practically salivating, already tasting the outrageous sum of money, as Roman contemplates the offer. My heart thuds with anticipation, unable to read his impassive face. The tension in the air is so thick a chainsaw couldn’t cut through it. Finally, Roman’s had enough of it.

“What does the deal include?” He folds his beautiful hands on the table, remaining as cool as a cucumber.

Bernard enumerates a list of perks that include covering all manufacturing costs and full marketing support to make the House of Hurst a global brand. “Additionally, I will get you admitted to the Fédération de la Haute Couture as well as secure an atelier in Paris which will allow you to put on your show in the fashion capital of the world with all the other greats. Chanel . . . Givenchy . . . Dior . . . to name a few.”

Roman seems unimpressed. Poker-faced, he takes another long sip of his Perrier. “What else?”

“I will offer you a base salary of ten million dollars a year and a hefty bonus should sales exceed our expectations.”

Kendra jumps in. “What about my salary?”

“Shut up!” barks Roman before turning to me. “My butterfly, do you have any questions?”

Kendra’s eyes pop. “Are you serious, Roman? She’s barely out of diapers!”

Despite her insult, I’m as shocked as Kendra that he’s asked me to participate in this insane negotiation. She shoots another round of eye daggers my way as I anxiously fiddle with my butterfly pendant and ponder what to ask. Think, Sofi, think! Only one question comes to mind.

“Mr. Altman—”

“Papillon, please call me Bernard.” Swallowing a breath, I don’t let his salacious tone unnerve me. The words tumble out: “Bernard, will Roman have creative control?”

Bernard’s gaze shifts to Roman. “It’s simple. You can do what you want, but I will have zee final approval over each collection.”

Roman flashes a wry smile. “Thank you very much.”

Bernard’s eyes light up like fireworks. Kendra’s toothy smile is so bright it’s blinding. The French mogul claps his hands together like a gleeful child who’s gotten his way.

“Fantastique! We have a deal!”

Roman depletes his water, then rises from his seat.

“No deal!” He turns to me. “Sofi, let’s get the hell out of here.”

He pulls out my chair as Kendra leaps to her feet. She’s fuming, her face turning beet red with rage.

“Roman, are you out of your fucking mind? You’re going to walk away from a hundred million dollars?”

A smug smile curls on his lush lips. “Yup. Just watch me.”

With that, Roman grabs my hand and leads me out of the room, leaving behind a stunned Kendra and Bernard.

“Roman, get back here!” we hear Kendra screech.

“Je ne comprend pas,”mutters Bernard. “C’est tout à fait fou!”

“Fucking French frog,” Roman mumbles under his breath as we head to the elevator.

“I thought he looked more like Tooter Turtle.”

Wrapping his arm around me, Roman lets out a rumble of laughter that vibrates against me. His laughter is contagious, and as the elevator doors ping open, we’re both laughing so hard it hurts. Tears are rolling down my cheeks.

“Roman, no regrets?” I manage.

“As my mother’s favorite songstress, the late great Edith Piaf once sang, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’” He breaks into the famous song. His perfect-pitch baritone voice bounces off the walls. I laugh harder.

We step into the elevator and, still clutching me, Roman hits the lobby button. The doors close.

“C’mon, Butterfly, let’s get a drink. And celebrate.”