Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 7

Roman

With a container of hot wonton soup next to me, I spend the next couple hours in my study hunched over my desktop computer, researching butterflies on the Internet. There are over 250,000 species, each of them distinct and many of them indigenous to certain regions of the world. For many people and cultures, they are symbolic and powerful representations of life. Many associate the butterfly with our souls, and the Christian religion sees the butterfly as a symbol of resurrection. Others view the butterfly as representing endurance, change, hope, and life. A symbol of renewal. And for some, it’s magical—like for Sofi. Between sips of the soup, I go on to read heartfelt stories of people whose lives have been touched and magically transformed by their encounters with the beautiful creatures.

Today, I met a butterfly, and for the first time in years, I feel alive. Renewed. Inspired. Finishing the now cold soup, I reach into a drawer of my desk and pull out a brand-new sketchbook. Taking it along with my pen, I move back to the adjacent great room and sink into the couch. I stretch out my legs on the coffee table. And start sketching frantically. One design after another. Pages and pages of gorgeous gowns layered like the wings of a butterfly. The models I draw look nothing like my usual elongated, chignoned women, but rather like the butterfly of my dreams. The one etched on my brain. Sofi.

I begin imagining other patterns and designs—voluminous ballroom skirts with hand-painted butterflies strewn all over them, matching shoes with butterflies flying off the heels, and satin minaudières shaped like the winged insects. For the first time since the accident that robbed me of my vision in one eye and shattered my heart, I begin to see things in color. Vibrant pinks, violets, oranges, greens, yellows, indigoes, and blues. The coruscating colors intermingling.

So engrossed in my sketching, I lose track of time and don’t hear the elevator door slide open. The sharp clickety-clack of heels across the wood floor startles me. I drop my pen and look up. A tart, familiar voice assaults me.

“Roman, where the hell were you?”

It’s my longtime business partner, Kendra Clark. Chic as ever in all black—leather leggings, a cashmere sweater, and a belted trench coat that grazes her shapely calves. Large diamond studs dot her earlobes and a huge Birken bag dangles from her arm. When she goes to black-tie events in my place, she only wears my couture gowns, but on a day-to-day basis, she wears every top designer known to mankind. The more expensive the better.

Facing me, she loosens her coat belt and throws her manicured hands on her jutting hips. While now almost forty, she still has the body of a high-fashion model, which she was. Mile-high legs, which look even longer in her Louboutins, a cinched waist, broad shoulders, and a swan-like neck that contributes several inches to her five-ten frame. Her chiseled face, preserved by the magic of Botox and other fillers, doesn’t betray her age nor do the platinum hair extensions that cascade down her back in a loose braid. She is in a word: stunning.

Her steely blue eyes narrow at me like razors. “You missed our lunch with Bernard Altman.”

“Shit,” I mumble.

The nostrils of her slender nose flare. “Do you know how long I worked on getting him to meet you? Doesn’t that frumpy housekeeper of yours keep your schedule?”

My blood bubbles. She’s referring to Madame DuBois, whom she makes no secret of despising. The feeling is mutual.

“Madame DuBois is not my housekeeper,” I remind her for the umpteenth time. “And she’s not my secretary.”

“You should fire her sorry ass. She makes way more than she should, and our finances are tight.”

Madame DuBois has been with me forever. We’re connected for life, tethered by an unbreakable bond. She knows all of me. All of my secrets. All of my sorrows. There’s no way I’ll ever fire her. Even if I was on my last dollar.

“Maybe I can meet him tomorrow.”

Kendra scoffs at me. “There is no tomorrow. He’s flying back to Paris on his private jet tonight.” She saunters to the bar and pours herself a drink. A vodka straight up. Her usual. Then flips around.

Taking a sip of the clear, viscous liquid, she heads back to me and settles into one of the leather armchairs. Another sip.

“Roman, you’re damn lucky I was able to keep him entertained at my apartment. The fat fuck wasn’t worth a rim job, but he’s still interested in investing in the House of Hurst.”

“That’s good.” My voice is lackluster.

“It’s more than good.” Another gulp of the vodka. “If you don’t already know, we’re operating in the red. Big-time. If we don’t get some fucking money, we’re going to go under. The couture market is shrinking at an exponential rate. We will not survive.” She pauses to take another swig of her drink. “Let me rephrase: I will, you won’t.”

She drains the vodka. “And one more thing . . . our current backers are concerned about your next collection. As is Bernard. They haven’t heard a peep about it. What the hell is going on?”

De-stressing, I smile. “I had a breakthrough today. I’m working on it. It’s going to be breakout.” I don’t tell her that I’m going to scrap all the gowns in progress and start over from scratch. And that I may go mainstream. Create my first ready-to-wear line.

“I look forward to hearing about it.” She gathers her bag and rises. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”

Most likely, another round of Botox. One day her forehead will be so tight it will snap like a rubber band.

She struts toward the elevator and looks over her shoulder. “I’ll work on getting another meeting with Bernard.” Her lips purse. “And just for the record, you owe me.”

I don’t respond.

I’m not going to fuck her.

Not now. Not ever.

My relationship with her is strictly business.

She has other ideas.