Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 46
Sofi
Sex with Roman becomes part of our routine. He wants me as much as I want him. We can’t get enough of each other. Though I have no one to compare him to, he is the most generous and creative lover imaginable. As much a creative genius in the bedroom as he is in his studio. Always inventive, trying new positions, bringing me to new heights of ecstasy. And always telling me how beautiful I am though I’m always humbled by his words.
There is a marked change in his demeanor. The mercurial, brooding man is gone, replaced by someone with a joie de vivre. Smiling and laughing. Socializing. Spending considerably more time in his atelier, working with Madame DuBois and her team to finalize his collection. My job is more or less done, but to keep him inspired, I stay by his side, offering my opinions and often serving as a fitting model. The couture gowns, most still works in progress in various stages of completion, are dazzling. Every time I’m asked to put one on, I’m transported. Though not as much as by his stolen kisses, which send me soaring each time. Or by our secret excursions to his bedroom upstairs.
In my free time, I’ve gone back to painting canvases and have set up a small studio of my own in the corner of the atelier. Secretly, I’m working on painting a Blue Morpho, which I will surprise Roman with when it’s done.
Only one person knows I’m sleeping with Roman. Madame DuBois. She knew it immediately—that morning after I lost my virginity. I almost missed my breakfast with her and I was walking oddly from the soreness between my legs. Then, Roman confirmed it when he showed up a few minutes later, his good eye twinkling, and singing opera in Italian no less! Later that day, she confided in me and told me Roman hadn’t come down for an early breakfast since Ava’s death nor sung like that. “Sofi, my chérie,” she said, taking my hand, “you are so good for him.” And she left it at that.
My parents have no clue about my relationship with Roman. They know I’m still working for him and am happy at my job. So, so happy! I love my job! I love him! Eventually, I’m going to have to tell them, but I’m worried about how my dad will take it. He’s very protective of me, and I noticed how he didn’t warm to Roman when we went to their house for his birthday. Mom says he hasn’t been feeling well lately and I wonder if it has to do anything with his concern for me. Worried about him, I’ve been tempted to visit them again, but with the deadline to get the collection completed, there hasn’t been time. Everyone’s been working overtime, including on weekends.
To my great delight and surprise, right before the July 4th weekend, Roman invites Vincent to the atelier to get a feel for the collection. True to his word, he’s going to let my dear friend be the principal photographer of his upcoming couture show and upload the photos on his website and other social media.
“Man, these gowns are amazing,” he gushes while Roman pins a gown decorated with my hand-painted butterflies on me. “Where are you going to hold the show?”
“I don’t know yet,” Roman replies, nipping the waist. “I need to figure that out soon.”
“You should let Sofi be one of your models!”
Standing on a foot-high fitting platform, I blush with embarrassment and almost lose my balance. “I. Don’t. Think. So.”
Roman looks up at me adoringly, love and lust in his one eye. “Garcia, that’s a great idea. Sofi is perfect.” He pauses, the tone of his voice growing low and seductive. “So perfect in every way.”
He gives Vincent a conspiratorial wink, and at that moment, I know my good friend knows about us. He shoots me a told-you-so grin, and I feel myself redden further. Like Roman, Vincent, with his keen photographer’s vision, can see more than most people do. More than meets the eye.
“Hey, Sofe. The bet’s still on.”
Roman gives him a puzzled look. “What are you talking about, Garcia?”
Vincent gives him a wry smile. “You’ll see.”
Roman looks at me.
I simply shrug.
July sails by. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been working for Roman for over four months. Despite our so-called “contract,” I’m not going anywhere. I’ve never been so happy in my life. So fulfilled. So in love.
As the deadline to complete the collection nears, a new routine sets in. Fuck. Eat. Work. Repeat. As usual, my only distraction is Harper, now Mrs. Derek Plimpton III, and the proud occupant of a two-bedroom Sutton Place condominium, a wedding gift from their mega-wealthy parents. She’s in the process of decorating it, and I’ve been besieged by texts, showing me detailed pics of everything she’s picked out, from her raspberry velvet Hollywood Regency couch to the twenty-four-karat gold fringe she’s trimming the throw pillows with. She wants me to see the apartment and begs to have lunch with me. I finally give in and make a plan to see her while Roman is at his shrink appointment.
The last time I saw Harper was at her wedding over Memorial Day weekend, so it’ll be an opportunity to catch up. Plus, I can give her a long overdue wedding present—an oil painting of a South American Painted Beauty, a stunning butterfly whose rare pink-hued wings will go well with her new décor. Vincent was kind enough to get it framed at Blick, where he still works part-time. I hope she likes it.
Packing it in a shopping bag, I take the subway uptown. It takes me only fifteen minutes to get to the chi-chi restaurant she’s chosen and arrive there at exactly one. Glad to be rid of the oppressive August heat and humidity, I’m shown to the table she’s reserved. As I sit down, I get a text from her. She’s running twenty minutes late and tells me to order a drink. Some things never change, I think as I peruse a menu.
“Well, well, well. Fancy meeting you here.”
The tart, haughty voice sends an icy shiver down my spine. I look up.
It’s Kendra, dressed as usual in her designer duds and carrying an oversized leather bag. I haven’t seen her since the Bernard Altman meeting.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Meeting with another potential investor. In case you don’t know, Roman’s going to be out of business shortly if I don’t find someone . . . all thanks to you.”
Her accusatory words rattle me. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes grow venomous. “You’ve been nothing but a distraction to Roman. You cost him the Bernard Altman deal. It could have changed our lives.”
“He made that decision. I had nothing to do with it. Except I encouraged him to follow his heart.”
“His heart!” snorts Kendra. “As if he has one.”
“Roman has one of the biggest hearts in the world!”
“Ha! The only thing he has that’s big is his cock.” She smirks. “And you of all people should know that.”
Inwardly, I fume. I want to lash out at her, but why waste words on this insidious woman?
Her gaze stays fixed on me. “Maybe it’s meant to be I ran into you here. I have something that belongs to you. I found it in Roman’s PO Box where he gets all his mail.” She reaches into her bag and whips out a manila envelope. “It was addressed to the House of Hurst, and with all the mail we get and my jet lag, I honestly didn’t see it was sent to your attention. It’s from Heritage.”
She hands me the envelope. The seal is broken.
“Thinking it was an inquiry from the world-renowned auction house, I read the letter inside.”
I’m familiar with Heritage. The auction house was a major donor to Parsons where I studied. I’m unsure why they’re contacting me.
“Take a look-see,” says Kendra, her orbs glinting with amusement. “It’s a good thing you’re sitting. I hope you don’t need reading glasses.”
Ignoring her barb, I slip out the contents. Two stapled sheets of paper. My eyes travel down the top page.
Dear Ms. Lockhart:
Based on the detailed analysis of STR loci in the table attached, the alleged mother cannot be excluded as the biological mother of the tested child. The probability of maternity is 99.8888%.
Sincerely,
Albert Yang
Laboratory Director
What!!?? This must be a different Heritage. A mistake! My pulse quickening, I flip to the second page. A meaningless table of symbols and numbers stares at me, but what makes by eyes pop are the two names heading the columns: Child: Sophie Lockhart and next to that: Alleged Mother: Ava DuBois
Despite my name being spelled wrong, the test results shake in my trembling hands. A whirlpool of confusion, disbelief, and shock spins in my head, making me dizzy. And daunted. I read the letter again.
“I don’t understand,” I stammer, looking up at my nemesis.
“It’s plain and simple,” says Kendra, with a snicker. “You’re the slut’s daughter.”
“Ava’s daughter? How could that be?”
“Why don’t you find out?” She snickers again. “Just call your mother.”
In a frenzy, I reach for my phone. It’s dead!
“You can use mine.” Kendra whips out her phone from her bag. “What’s the number?” My voice unsteady, I tell her the ten-digit number and she puts the call on speaker. After the third ring, someone picks up.
“Hello?” My mother. Her voice falters as she surely doesn’t recognize the number I’m calling from.
“Mom, it’s me. Sofi.”
Recognizing my voice, her tone brightens. “Oh, hi, darling. Did you get a new phone number?”
“No, Mom. My phone’s dead. I’m calling from another phone.” My voice quivers, causing her concern.
“Honey, is everything okay?”
“Y-yes,” I stutter. God, no!
“Thank goodness.” Relief colors her voice. “Your father and I have been worried about you. We haven’t heard from you in a while.”
“Mom . . . ” My heart in my throat, I pause as Kendra’s expectant gaze stays trained on me. “I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“Mom . . . ” Another pregnant pause. My mouth dry as cotton, I inhale a steeling breath, and on my exhale, the words fly out, bleeding together. “Was I conceived with a donor egg?”
Hushed silence on the other end.
Dead silence on mine.
Finally, “Yes, honey, you were.” Her voice wavers. “I planned on telling you one day.”
The reality that Roman’s almost wife, the mother of his unborn child, could be—is?—my biological mother hits me like a sledgehammer. I grip my stomach, hoping I won’t vomit as my mother continues.
“After your sister Flora died, your father and I desperately wanted another child. But since I carried the Gaucher gene, the risk of getting pregnant and losing another child to the horrible disease was too high. Neither of us could bear it. We considered adopting, but then I learned about IVF and egg donors . . . and sought out a fertility clinic that had a donor bank. The woman, whose eggs I chose, had all the qualities we were seeking in a child.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“She donated anonymously, but I saw a photo of her.”
My heart gallops. “What did she look like?”
She describes the donor in detail. Everything she says sounds just like the svelte beauty in those photographs hanging in Roman’s quarters. Ava! Roman’s first love!
“Do you by chance have a photo of her?”
“Darling, I don’t. We didn’t have iPhones back then and any form of photography was prohibited. Just know, honey, she was a great beauty. Like you. Once a high-fashion model with the most exquisite green eyes. And so smart and creative. And she spoke fluent French.”
There’s no longer any doubt in my mind. From the corner of my eye, I see Kendra shoot me a ho-hum look.
Silence again. My mother’s watery voice rises above it.
“Sofi, darling, are you still there? Can you forgive me?”
I say nothing. I feel her remorse. Her guilt.
“Your father and I love you so, so much. You need to know that. To the moon and back.”
I swallow hard, gulping back all my bumper car emotions. One colliding into another. Tears sting my eyes and clog my throat. I finally find my voice, woeful as it is.
“Mom, there’s nothing to forgive. I love you both so much too.”
I hear a sigh of relief. She changes the subject, her voice stronger. “How’s your job going?”
For the first time, the significance of this shocking discovery hits me like a wrecking ball. It knocks all the air out of my lungs, all rationality out of my brain. I grow light-headed, almost faint. The walls of this room are closing in on me. Consuming me. I can never see Roman again!
“Darling, are you there?”
A strangled breath in my throat catches my voice. It takes all my wherewithal to respond.
“M-Mom, actually things aren’t going well.”
“What do you mean?”
“R-Roman and I had a falling out.”
“Oh dear!”
“Would it be okay if I came home?” In the corner of my watering eye, I see Kendra smirk.
“Of course, my poor darling.” I hear the compassion in her voice. “Your favorite meal will be waiting for you.”
“M-Mom, I’ll be there in a little bit. On the next train.”
No appetite in me, I stumble to my feet and stagger to the entrance of the restaurant as fast as my leaden legs will carry me. Leaving the letter and my phone behind on the table.
“Have a good trip,” I hear Kendra snip.
Wrought with shock and sorrow, I’m out the door. Leaving my heart and the man I love behind.
Forever.