Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 49
Roman
The next three weeks of my life are the worst I’ve experienced since Ava’s tragic death. My nightmares have come back. These different . . . white butterflies swarming my eyes, attacking me, holding me captive in a dark vortex. Their white powder blinding me as their wings transform into sharp shards of glass. Slashing my skin. Slicing my hands as I frantically swat at them. The pain so great I scream and bolt awake in a cold, sickening sweat.
I can’t sleep. I can’t get out of bed, I can’t eat, I can’t create. The shocking discovery that Sofi is Ava’s daughter has totally devastated me. I’m a train wreck. But what is destroying me more is that Sofi has left me. She’s the air I breathe. The water I need to grow. My sustenance. Without her, I can’t exist.
God bless Madame DuBois. With all her maternal goodness, she takes care of me. Bringing meals to my room I barely touch. Making me take an occasional shower. Not questioning what happened between Sofi and me. Though she has the right to know. After all, Ava was her daughter. And that makes Sofi her granddaughter.
The only light in my life is the green crystal paperweight Sofi bought me, which sits on my nightstand. The Luna. My connection to her. My constant reminder that all beautiful things are fragile and breakable. As I lie cocooned in my sheets, shrouded in what remains of her scent, my body aches with yearning and sorrow. In the darkness that engulfs me, I think about the passage of time. How so much can happen in twenty-four hours . . . in one hour . . . in a single minute. That’s all it takes for your whole world to turn upside down. In the blink of an eye, everything can change and your life will never be the same. I’ve been there before and now I’m there again.
Finally breaking down, I make the decision to tell Madame DuBois what has happened and stagger down the stairs in my black silk pajamas, the DNA report and Sofi’s heart-wrenching letter in my hand. The one she mailed to Vincent and asked to hand-deliver to me. I’ve read it so many times I know it by heart.
I find my chief of staff alone in the atelier painstakingly hand-sewing sparkling scarlet rhinestones onto one of Sofi’s stunning butterflies. It’s six a.m. Her staff won’t be here for another two hours.
At the sound of my footsteps, she looks up and a faint smile curls her lips.
“Monsieur Hurst, it is good to see you. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“An espresso would be good.” Setting the butterfly down, she rises, and as she pads to the kitchen, I sit down at the head of the drafting table. I place the envelopes I’m holding next to me and carefully pick up the glittering winged appliqué. I recognize the species immediately. It’s a Nigerian Red-Spotted Monarch . . . the very butterfly that landed on my hand that day Sofi took me to the Butterfly Conservatory. The one she said would bring me good luck. The vivid memory dancing in my head, I pinch its wings together and perch it on the back of my hand. Hoping it’ll magically bring my butterfly back to me.
My head of staff returns quickly with my coffee and sets the demitasse in front of me. Placing the butterfly back down on the table, I take a fortifying sip of the strong, inky brew. And then another. The caffeine awakens me. Strengthens me.
I finish the espresso and set the dainty cup on its saucer while Madame DuBois takes a seat next to me. She cups her warm hands on mine. Something she’s not done since Ava’s death. I glance down and notice how veiny her hands are. Feel how calloused they’ve become through years of hard work. Stitching. Pinning. Cutting. Yet, her hands are exquisite. The shape of them just like Ava’s. And Sofi’s. Their long, slender fingers almost identical. Why didn’t I notice this before?
I look up and she meets my gaze. The caffeine may have awakened me, but it’s not lifted the blanket of sadness that’s suffocating me. Madame DuBois’s compassionate eyes stay on me, their moss-green color the same as Ava’s and Sofi’s. Passed on from generation to generation. I’m losing the courage to tell her the devastating truth, but she doesn’t let me.
“Roman,” she begins, uncharacteristically calling me by my first name, “why did Sofi leave?”
“She can never work here for reasons you will never understand.”
“You need her. For your heart and your soul. You love her and she loves you.”
“She can’t love me. Nor can I love her. It’s all wrong.”
“Roman, please tell me what you are talking about.”
The time has come. My chest aching, I hand her the envelope with the DNA report. “Read this.” She slips it out. Her brows knit together as she silently reads it, her expression growing more shocked, more incensed with each passing second. She scans the second page and slams the report on the metal table. Her eyes darken.
“This cannot be!”
Her reaction stuns me. “What do you mean? It’s official.”
Her eyes blaze with rage. “Ava never donated her eggs. She was way too young and I forbade it.” She pauses for a heated beat. “I did! It must be some kind of mistake!”
A dizzying cocktail of shock and confusion courses through me. It takes several long moments for her words to sink in.
“Are you saying you’re Sofi’s biological mother?”
“Oui!And I can prove it!”
“How?” I’m still in a state of disbelief and shock.
Without blinking, my one eye stays on her as she unpins her chignon, and her graying chestnut hair cascades over her shoulders. Hastily, she grabs the scissors that are on the table and snips off a lock.
She sets both the three-inch snippet and scissors on the table. “I still have a lock of Ava’s hair from her first haircut.” She slides her hand down under her smock and pulls out a gold pendant that’s suspended from a chain. “It’s in this locket.” She snaps it open to show me.
“Roman, please go upstairs and retrieve Sofi’s hairbrush. It’s still in her bathroom.”
My heart racing, I tear back upstairs and return quickly with the brush. Madame DuBois takes it from me and pulls out a clump of hair from the bristles. “I will FedEx all the hair samples to this genetics lab and have them tested. I will ask them to expedite the process.”
Five very long, anxiety-filled days later, a FedEx from Heritage arrives to the attention of Abra DuBois. My heart palpitating, every nerve buzzing with anticipation, I’m by her side when she rips open the cardboard envelope. My pulse thuds in my ears as she slips out a business envelope with the lab’s address in the upper left-hand corner. With a letter opener, she slashes it open and reads the report out loud. With each word, my heart beats louder, faster. The breath I’ve been holding crashes out of me like a gust of wind as she reads the conclusion. Abra is a hundred times more likely to be Sofi’s biological mother. The probability: 99.9999%!
With tears in her eyes, Madame DuBois clasps my hands, her voice unwavering.
“I love Sofi like a daughter.” She gives a squeeze. “Now, Roman, claim her and love her like a man.”
It only takes one eye to see the world clearly. To see what matters most.
A half hour later, I’m en route to New Jersey.