Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 57
Sofi
Three Month Later
The backstage dressing room is aflutter.
Frenetic. Pure chaos. You can actually smell adrenaline in the air.
The first half of Roman’s fashion show—the debut of his colorful ready-to-wear line—is about to end, the last of the models, dressed in his flowy butterfly-print dresses, filing onto the runway. I glimpse Roman by the entrance, watching the show in progress. A tight smile on his face, he looks anxious but pleased. The exuberant applause of the audience tells me it’s a success.
The show is taking place at the Museum of Natural History’s Butterfly Conservatory. In the vivarium. I got the idea to stage it here when Mariposa begged me to take her to see the butterflies, and when we pitched it to Roman, he practically flew off this planet with excitement. Given that the show would raise a significant amount of money and publicity for the museum, the director readily agreed and didn’t charge a fee. To all our delight, since money’s so tight.
Part Two of the seamless show is coming up. The haute couture line. At least two dozen fashion models surround me, in various stages of runway readiness, some still in curlers. Vincent’s stunning girlfriend, Kimana, is among them and waves to me before she’s whisked off for hair and makeup. Under Madame DuBois’s stringent supervision, the Romanoffs are buzzing about like busy bees from model to model, steaming gowns . . . smoothing the rich layers of fabric . . . poufing them . . . adjusting them . . . making sure they’re perfect. No detail spared. There are also hairstylists, makeup artists, and countless others. To make Roman’s vision a reality, it takes a village.
While I saw all these magnificent creations in various stages of development, nothing could have prepared me for seeing them all together on these gorgeous, statuesque women. The collection consists of twenty-five haute couture gowns, each handmade. A dozen of them are heavenly representations of the most beautiful and exotic butterfly species in the world. Among them, the Zebra Longwing with my white sequin-covered stripes running through the shimmering black satin. Others, made from the silk taffeta I hand-painted, the myriad butterflies, now accented with glittering crystals and metallic thread. Some are sewn on to give the illusion of landing on the gown or about to take flight. Each model is wearing a fantastical headpiece—an assembly of cutout butterflies, feathers, tulle, and jewels that complements her gown. And to my great joy, some models are carrying small butterfly-shaped bags made from my mom’s needlepoint tapestries. I have to blink my eyes several times. The effect is dazzling.
A light tap on my shoulder jolts me and I spin around. It’s Madame DuBois. Abra.
“My chérie, please follow me. It’s time to get you into your gown.”
My eyes pop; my heart jumps. What is she talking about?
She smiles. “Roman wants you to model the final gown.”
“What!?”
Her smile widens. “Yes. The collection closes with the wedding gown. This is the first one Roman has ever included in a show and he’s insistent you wear it.”
“Seriously?”
She takes my hand. “Come, my dear. We don’t have much time.”
Twenty whirlwind minutes later, I’m all made up, my hair tied back in a tight chignon like the other models, and I’m wearing the most exquisite gown I’ve ever seen. Unlike the rest of Roman’s all-black collection, this gown is pure white. A multi-layer extravaganza of silk, lace, and tulle, with pearl-studded butterfly appliqués scattered all over it. Assisted by two Romanoffs, Madame DuBois poufs the gown and then zips it up as I gaze at myself in a floor-length mirror, in both awe and shock. My head is spinning with questions. How did Roman keep this extravagant gown secret from me? Why didn’t he tell me about it? And that I was going to parade it down the runway? Gah! I don’t even know how to walk down a runway! In six-inch heels no less! The spaz I am, I’m so not model material! I’m going to make a spectacle of myself. Embarrass him! Not in a good way! Butterflies swarm my stomach. I can hear them.
“Wow, Sofi! You look incredible!”
A familiar voice cuts into my trepidations. I see him in the mirror and pivot around. Almost twisting my ankle in my skyscraper heels.
It’s Vincent, the only photographer Roman’s allowed in the dressing room to shoot exclusive behind-the-scenes images. His first big gig!
“Smile,” he says, clicking his new Leica camera, courtesy of Roman. Click! Click! Click!
Blinking from the flash, I twitch a half-smile. “Vincent, I’m nervous as shit!”
“Chill, mí amor. You look gorgeous.”
“Oh my God, Sofe, you do!” The crooning voice of my bestie Harper, who’s here covering the show for Fashionista and holding an iPad. “Would you answer a question for me?”
“Sure,” I stammer as Vincent saunters over to his girlfriend, Kimana, now clad in the Blue Morpho gown. My jaw drops. The voluminous gown is spectacular with its overlay of cobalt-blue tulle and jet-black bead trim. And the over six-foot-tall Native American beauty looks amazing in it! Like it was made for her!
“Did you ever think you’d be here walking down the runway of Roman Hurst’s most anticipated fashion show?” asks Harper, recapturing my attention.
The question evokes a thousand memories. If it weren’t for Harper having me cover her interview with Roman, I’d never be here. A year ago, I was a no one, painting fungused toenails and wearing flea market finds, and tonight I’m a princess, everyone treating me like royalty. Roman’s butterfly bride. About to walk down the runway in the most breathtaking creation ever.
With a teary-eyed smile, I answer Harper’s question. “No. It’s been such an unexpected whirlwing . . . I mean whirlwind.” Butterflies are obviously messing with my brain.
“Ooh!! Look there’s Gigi!! Gotta go!” Wearing the caped Black Swallowtail gown and a crown of glittering butterflies in her hair, the stunning Gigi Hadid is the top model in the world. I can’t help but laugh. My now separated BFF hasn’t changed a bit. Once the star chaser, always the star chaser.
While she and Vincent dash around the room capturing photos and snippets from other models, Abra and two of her Romanoffs put the final touches on my heavenly gown, smoothing the layers and layers of tulle. They also carefully inspect the strapless lace bodice to make sure every hand-sewn pearl is secure while I stand in place like a statue, still gawking at myself. And battling my nerves.
In the sparkling glass, I see a tall striking figure striding my way, dressed in all black. His uniform. Belted, perfectly tailored trousers and a fine cashmere crewneck that hugs his larger-than-life taut body. It’s Roman. My Roman.
Coming up behind me, he cups his large, warm hands on my bare shoulders and stares at the two of us in the mirror. His visible blue eye is twinkling and there’s a dazzling smile on his handsome face. Despite how many times he’s touched me or looked at me like this, my heart pitter-patters and goose bumps erupt along my arms. He has this effect on me. Always.
He tenderly kisses the nape of my neck, just below my knotted bun.
I can feel a delicious shiver skitter down my spine and my shoulders lifting beneath his palms.
“You look beautiful, my butterfly,” he purrs into a diamond-studded ear.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice so soft I can barely hear myself.
“Abra, it’s time for the final touch. The pièce de résistance.”
“Tout à fait.”She skirts off with her two assistants, leaving me alone with Roman. He can’t get his eye off me.
“I’m scared,” I tell him.
Why didn’t you tell me about this, you beautiful asshole?
“Don’t be.” He trails butterfly kisses across my shoulders and upper back. “The show has been going fabulously. And you’re going to knock the socks off everyone.”
“But I’ve never walked a runway,” I counter. “What if I fall flat on my butt?”
Roman wraps his arms around my waist and kisses the top of my head. “There’s no need to worry, my love. You’re a butterfly. You will fly down the catwalk with your wings of grace.” One hand moves to my neck. He toys with my lucky butterfly pendant. “Plus, luck is on your side.”
Luck can run out, but before I can protest further, Madame DuBois returns. In her hand is a spectacular tiara, composed of white feathers, sparkling crystals, and pearl-studded butterflies. Behind her, the two Romanoffs are transporting a mile-long tulle veil, not letting it touch the floor.
Moving to the side, Roman watches as Abra plants the tiara on my scalp and then attaches the veil while her assistants continue to hold it up. My heart in a flurry, I don’t bat an eyelash as it falls into place. Once in place, the two women carefully take steps backward and let the veil drape across the floor. I look over my shoulder. The tulle covers the length of the entire dressing room. Oh my God! It’s a sight to behold with its hundreds—maybe thousands—of pearl-studded butterflies—dramatically clustered along the bottom. It’s so beyond words I’m speechless.
Abra: “Magnifique!”
Roman: “Perfection!”
On my next rapid heartbeat, the couture show begins. The regal models of all colors, clad in Roman’s breathtaking gowns line up, and one by one, vanish from the dressing room to strut down the runway. A head shorter than most of them even in my stilettos, I’m the last one in line. Soon, it’ll be my turn. My heart flutters in my chest. My nerves buzz. My body feels like a butterfly refuge.
“Roman, I don’t think I can do this.”
“My butterfly, you can and you will. Period.”
Oh God! Still the beautiful, bossy asshole I fell in love with. And fall for every second of my life.
“In five, four, three, two, one,” shouts the producer. “Go!” Roman gives me a loving pat on my butt and with a deep steeling breath, I make my way onto the runway. More petrified than excited.
Steadying myself on my heels, I walk slowly down the runway though my heart is galloping. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is playing and sets my pace. A gazillion cameras and iPhones are flashing, almost blinding me. I’m oblivious to the riot of butterflies surrounding me, but I manage to glimpse my parents—and my grandpa, Clarence—in the VIP front row. They’re beaming. My dad, who’s been in remission and regained most of the weight he lost, gives me a thumbs-up, and that’s all I need to persevere. My heart soars with happiness, and as my nerves dissipate, I feel as light as a butterfly. Like I’m walking on air, each step lifting me higher and higher, my thirty-foot veil trailing behind me like an entourage. Every eye is on me and I can’t help a smile.
I pause at the end of the runway. The other models join me in their final walk. Both those in ready-to-wear and haute couture. About fifty in total. The audience applauds wildly. Many giving the collection a standing ovation. They love Roman’s new Butterfly Collection! The one I’m so part of. I feel overwhelmed with emotion. Tears spring to my eyes, wetting my lashes. If only Roman would take a bow.
Sudden uproarious cheers erupt. I turn my head. Striding down the runway is Roman himself. Now dressed in a smashing black tuxedo and white tux shirt with a blue butterfly bowtie knotted around the collar. My Blue Morpho! By his side is his little muse, Mari, in a mini-version of his Blue Morpho gown, smiling brightly and holding his hand. At the tender age of six, our little fashionista has already achieved her dream of becoming a supermodel. Oh, my Roman!
My eyes stay locked on him as he marches with confidence toward me, waving to his adoring fans and admirers. Standing beside me, he bows and the audience grows wilder, everyone now on their feet, giving him a standing ovation. The respect he so deserves. My heart is bursting with happiness. And love. This is the first time he’s ever made a public appearance. Taken the customary bow on the runway. He takes my hand and lifts it up triumphantly. More fervent cheers and applause.
The music softens until it’s almost inaudible.
Roman raises his hands and then lowers them, palms down. A shushing gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention.”
The crowd quiets. Gently, he cups my bare shoulders and turns me to face him. His warm breath heats my cheeks.
“Look at me,” he says softly, clasping both my hands in his.
“What’s going on?” I ask silently with my eyes.
His blazing, flame-blue eye stays on me, and I swear I can feel the one behind his patch on me too. The heat of his gaze burns through me.
“My butterfly, you are a celestial being, a force of nature, who carries the sun on your wings. And has brought lightness to my darkness and challenged my existence. You are hope for the flowers. My sustenance. My love. You gave me wings and taught me how to fly again. Brought me to new heights of creativity and reawakened feelings I thought I could never experience again.”
Oohs and ahs ooze from the audience and saturate the air. I can even hear sniffling. The sound of footsteps behind me makes me turn my head. Heading our way are Abra and the Romanoffs. And the Romanettes. Followed by my parents and Grandpa Clarence. All beaming but teary-eyed. And last but not least, Vincent, all smiles, as he clicks his camera. Taking one photo after another.
Still standing beside him, Mari gives Roman a nudge. “Uncle Roman, what are you waiting for?” she squeals, sending everyone into an uproar of laughter. “Ask her!”
Ask me what?I watch, my eyes riveted on him, my heart thudding, as Roman gets down on one knee. With Vincent’s camera on him, he reaches one hand into his breast pocket.
I glance down and gasp. In his palm is a spectacular ring. Four brilliant marquise-cut diamonds that form the shape of a butterfly. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears spill from my eyes as I meet his gaze. That flame-blue eye that’s burning into me.
“My beautiful butterfly, will you marry me?”
My heart literally stops. And then the words jump out of my mouth. “Oh yes! A million times yes!”
“Promise me, you will never fly away.”
“I promise.”
His face radiant, he slips the ring onto my finger. Click. Click. Click. I can’t stop staring at it. The crowd breaks into raucous applause and cheers as hundreds of white butterflies flit into the air. I can’t put the magic of this moment into words.
Grinning, Mari gives Roman—my almost husband!—another nudge. “Uncle Roman, you may now kiss the bride!”
Roman rises and dips me in his arms. His lips press on to mine. Owning them. Loving them.
Click.Vincent won the bet.
I’m Roman Hurst’s butterfly.
Now and forever.