But what I derive the most joy from is watching Roman interact with this delightful child. He totally metamorphosizes, emerging from his oppressive dark cocoon.
He’s . . .
Instructive.
Inspirational.
Patient.
Loving.
He carries her piggyback on his shoulders, singing the Disney “Yo-Ho” pirate song, his hearty baritone voice pitch perfect. Mariposa squeals with delight and sings along as all the Romanoffs merrily join in. I’m shocked Roman knows the lyrics and once again think his black eye patch is a closed door to a different Roman, a past life where light and happiness reigned. Today, the door has cracked open, giving me a peek of the man he used to be. And can be.
We break for lunch. Chinese takeout. After consuming containers of lo mein, kung pao chicken, and fried rice, we crack open our fortune cookies. Mariposa asks me to read hers.
“You will find fame and fortune.”
She cocks her head at me. “What does that mean?”
“It means your dreams will come true.”
“Yay! That means I’m going to be a supermodel like Gigi Hadid when I grow up!”
Not following fashion, I have no idea who she’s talking about. Of course, Roman does. For all I know, she’s probably walked his shows.
While Madame DuBois cleans up, I watch as Roman effortlessly lifts the little girl and sets her down on top of a drafting table.
“It’s all about the walk, kiddo,” he tells her. “Watch.”
My eyes stay on him as he grabs a pair of stilettos from one of the built-in shelves. Kicking off his leather loafers, he rolls up his pants, revealing his manly and oh so sexy muscular calves. Holding on to the edge of the shelf for balance, he squeezes his massive feet into the spiky heels and vamps across the studio like a drag queen, his hips sashaying to the beat of “A Fifth of Beethoven,” the disco adaptation of the classic piece. I burst into laughter, but have to admit he knows how to do the walk. Even the flourish of a turn at the end. I marvel at how uninhibited he is. How upbeat he is. I adore this other Roman. This Roman who laughs and plays. The one who has fun.
He returns to our little ward and sets her back on her feet. “Mari, my girl, one foot over the other and don’t look down. Head up. Now stand on your tippy-toes and try it.”
Puckering her face, Mari folds her arms across her chest. “Can’t I wear high heels like you?”
Having returned from the kitchen, Madame DuBois chimes in. “I think, my petite chérie, we may have one small pair that will almost fit you.” She scurries to the shoe shelf while Mari wastes no time taking off her Sketchers and socks.
Roman’s chief of staff returns with a teensy pair of sparkly black heels and Mari’s eyes light up. “Ooh, they’re so pretty! Like princess shoes!” Gripping the side of the table, she slides her bare feet into them. They do almost fit her!
Eagerly, Mari does as Roman’s instructed. Strutting across the atelier, she’s got the walk down! With my phone, I film her, planning to send the video to her mother.
“Okay, now do your turn and put some attitude into it,” Roman calls out as she reaches the end. Splaying her little hands on her narrow hips, she juts them out, flings her head back, and purses her mouth to blow a kiss. Then strides back to Roman all excited amidst boisterous applause and cheers from all of us.
“How did I do?” she asks as Roman lifts her into his arms. She curls her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He meets her inquisitive gaze.
“My little butterfly, you’re a natural.”
A puzzled expression sweeps over her. “What does that mean?”
He affectionately tugs at one of her long braids. “It means you are meant to be a runway model . . . like Gigi.”
“Yay!” She shoots me a beaming smile and I give her a thumbs-up.
At a little past six, her mother, as promised, comes by to pick her up. Roman and I open the door, Mari beside us with her pink bag. I tell her mother she was a joy to have.
“Mamá, I had the bestest time. I did modeling! And look what Madame DuBois made Yasmin!” She holds up her Bratz doll in her new black gown—an exact replica of the one I wore last night.
“It’s beautiful, mí chiquita!”
The little girl looks up at us with her big chocolate-brown eyes. “Uncle Roman, Aunt Sofi, can I come again? Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Por favor?”
“Of course,” says Roman with a wistful smile. “Any time.”
Truthfully, I’m going to miss her. I think Roman will too.
At the end of this fun-filled day—a much needed break from the daily grind of readying Roman’s collection—I lie in bed, smiling, thinking about the new side of Roman I’ve witnessed. What a wonderful father he’ll be!
My own fortune cookie prediction slips into mind: You will be blessed with many children. Pushing it out of my head, I let sleep claim me. I dream of two white butterflies, the kind you see everywhere, dancing together in the air, fluttering their wings in perfect harmony. They both have faces. One is mine, the other Roman’s.
It’s the dance of procreation.
They’re mating.
Roman’s fortune: You will marry the girl of your dreams.
CHAPTER 29
Sofi
“What the hell is this?” barks Roman, grabbing an intricate butterfly-inspired headpiece from one of the Romanoffs. “It belongs on a Martian!”
The poor woman shakes in silence as he hurls it to the floor. I keep my head bowed, focusing on my painting while he prowls the studio in search of his next victim.
It’s like yesterday never happened. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Roman was filled with light. Playful, all laughter and joy.
Today, he’s an entirely different person. All darkness. Any trace of light has faded from his being. It’s as if some dark storm cloud has descended upon him, robbing him of humanity. Turning him into a tyrant. A ruthless monster.
He paces the atelier in a frenzy.
His hair unruly.
His lips pressed tight in a thin angry line.
His good eye dark and piercing.
His expression brooding, borderline menacing.
His fists clenched by his sides, he lashes out at everyone. One vicious attack after another.
Brutally berating everything they’re doing. Nothing is good enough.
He scowls and snarls. Curses under his breath.
His negative energy saturates the air, so thick a fighter jet couldn’t cut through it.
Minus Madame DuBois, who is mysteriously MIA, the hard-working Romanoffs seem to take his mercurial behavior in stride. Either they’re wearing masks that hide their emotions or have taken meds to numb them. Whatever they have, I want. I need. Every cruel word Roman fires at me stings. Each one more scathing than the one before. I think if he bit me, I’d get rabies.
Painting the wings of a Malaysian Blue Clipper, I try to ward off his noxious behavior and concentrate on what I’m doing. It’s hard, virtually impossible with all his ranting. Every harsh barb makes me quake. What’s gotten into him? What’s wrong with him?
Mid afternoon, after a deli lunch that hardly anyone touches, his behavior takes a turn for the worse. He goes on a rampage, storming through the studio like a Category 4 hurricane.
Destroying everything in his path. Pulling apart gowns in progress. Ripping up patterns. Knocking over bolts and bolts of fabric. Hurling vats of sequins, feathers, and beads along with spools of thread. The atelier has become a disaster area. He’s become a madman. And I’ve become an exposed nerve, anxiously waiting to be his next unwitting victim. My muscles tighten, my heartbeat quickens.
Adding some aqua paint to my butterfly’s complex wings, I feel Roman’s presence behind me. Surrounded by his heat and his scent.
“What’s that?” he bites out.
“Duh,” I fire back. “A butterfly.”
“Sofi, please don’t insult my intelligence. Or vision. Wha
t kind of butterfly is it?”
The acid tone of his voice scares me. I wonder if he’s drunk, but I don’t smell the stench of alcohol anywhere close to me.
Steeling myself, I say, “It’s a—”
Like a judge banging his gavel, he cuts me off. “I don’t give a flying fuck what kind it is. I hate it!”
My heart aches. How could anyone hate butterflies? Can he possibly be on drugs?
His working eye stays on it as he moves beside me. “It’s ugly as shit!”
He’s out of his mind! There’s no such thing as an ugly butterfly. The two words don’t belong in the same sentence, let alone next to each other. My eyes burn with tears. To my horror, he snatches my jar of paint and pours it all over my creation, obliterating all the hours of detailed work I’ve put into it.
“Roman, what are you doing?” I cry out as he madly empties one jar after another on the bolt of fabric I’m decorating, creating an apocalyptic canvas that shares nothing with the beauty of butterflies.
“Stop!” I shout at the top of my lungs, trying to grab the jar of paint he’s clutching out of his hand. My force is no match for his strength. He continues to desecrate the fabric as I watch. Helpless and sickened.
To my relief, he flings the last jar onto the drafting table. Clink and then it skitters. Is he done? Oh God, please. I hope so.
He’s not. On my next breath, he snatches the paintbrush I’m holding and snaps it in half. My heart cracks with it. Then, in a fit of rage, he snaps one brush after another apart, hurling the wood fragments to the floor.
“What’s wrong with you, Roman? How could you do this?” I sob out. Is he having some kind of psychotic breakdown?
Suddenly, he stops. Glumly, he looks down at the damage he’s caused, his one eye hooded, his jaw slack.
“I’m sorry, Butterfly,” he mumbles, the rasp of his voice barely audible.
I join his somber gaze, tentacles of tears fanning from my eyes. I’m a very forgiving person, but this time in my splintered heart, there’s no room for forgiveness.
“Fuck you, Roman!” My blaring, enraged voice counters his soft, repentant one.
That’s right. Fuck him! The bastard’s torn me apart. Shredded my heart. Devastated my work. But there’s one thing he hasn’t destroyed and that’s my dignity. Letting it propel me to my feet, I leap up from my chair and flee the atelier, drowning in hot tears. Leaving him frozen in shock.
I’ve had enough of his emotional and physical abuse. His treating people like shit. How much can one person take? My blood bubbling with a bitter mixture of rage and hurt, I blindly run up the backstairs to my room.
About to turn the doorknob, I notice through my scalding tears that the door to the room between mine and Roman’s is slightly ajar. Always locked, I’ve never been inside it. Once at breakfast, I asked Madame DuBois about it and she blanched, telling me in an unusually stern voice to stay away—to never go inside. The first thing that came to mind was that Roman used it as a refuge and kept kinky sex toys inside it. In my imagination, I pictured a darkened room filled with all sorts of bondage things like whips, handcuffs, and other body restraints. With a shudder, I immediately changed the subject, not wanting to know more.
Stay away. DO. NOT. ENTER. Madame DuBois’s warning lights up in my mind like a neon sign. Should I or shouldn’t I? Curiosity wins. Hesitantly, I make my way to the unlocked room like someone who’s about to dive into an icy cold ocean. A sliver of light peeks through the crack as apprehension clings to me.
Looking over my shoulder to see if anyone has followed me, I push the door open. My eyes grow wide and I audibly gasp.
It’s a nursery!
CHAPTER 30
Sofi
The spacious, light-filled room is a vision of springtime. Floral wallpaper lines the walls with matching curtains around the windows. On the whitewashed floor, there’s a pink shag rug, and dangling from the ceiling, a chandelier sculpted like a flower. A gardenia.
Still wide-eyed with surprise, I take in the charming furniture—a vintage wicker rocker . . . freestanding bookshelf full of children’s books and stuffed animals . . . a hand-painted dresser . . . and canopied crib. My tears subsiding, I amble over to the crib and look inside. The scalloped white bedding is joined by a pink cashmere blanket and a dainty pillow embroidered with the letter “M.” As I run my fingertips across the soft blanket, a sharp but familiar voice startles me.
“What are you doing here?”
My heart jumping, I spin around. It’s Madame DuBois at the doorway, her stern expression a blend of shock and reprehension. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s holding a glass candle.
“The door was open,” I stammer, my heart not quieting as the words burning my lips fly out. “Roman has a baby?”
Madame DuBois enters the room and sets the candle down on the dresser, her face softening. Tears form in her eyes.
“Had. She would have been my granddaughter.”
A few minutes later, I’m seated with Madame DuBois at a small table for two at a nearby café. Café Brioche. Across from me, she pours me some chamomile tea, her hand unsteady.
“Are you okay?” I ask, still in semi-shock from her revelation but thirsting for more information.
She nods, setting the teapot on the table. “Drink slowly, my chérie. I have much to tell you.”
Over the next hour, I learn that Madame DuBois, like Roman’s mother, was born and raised in Paris, and like her, was a couturier for the House of Dior. They, in fact, knew each other well. When her beloved husband died suddenly, she needed to leave the memories of him behind and left for America with their sixteen-year-old daughter, ultimately landing in New York City. After working at several odd jobs, the grieving thirty-five-year-old widow ended up finding one with Roman, a young, up-and-coming haute couture designer, who immediately hired her because of her experience at Dior and friendship with his mother. Estelle.
“He was smitten with me,” she says after taking a sip of her piping hot beverage. “But he was even more smitten with my beautiful daughter. Ava.”
Ava. I say the name in my head, as my companion continues, her voice melancholy.
“Ava was a head-turner . . . even as a baby. No one could resist her. Personne! But it was more than just her physical beauty. She had a certain je ne sais quoi that could never be put into words. A joie de vivre that flowed through her veins and illuminated her persona. Gave her a lightness of being. An indefinable allure.” She pauses, tears again flooding her moss-green eyes. “Roman called her his petit oiseau—his little bird. So fitting because that’s the meaning of her name.”
Ava like in aviary, I think to myself. A winged creature like a butterfly.
“My beautiful Ava gave flight to Roman. Brought him to new heights. His career began to soar. She was his muse and lover. They gave each other light.”
The gold bracelet Roman wears on his wrist flashes in my mind. You are the light inside me.
“Sometimes, he called her his firebird.”
“Is she the woman in the photographs in his quarters?”
Madame DuBois nods, smiling faintly. “Yes. That is her. In one of them, she was three months pregnant, though you’d never know.”
I can’t help noticing her use of the past tense. The sadness in her voice. The tears brimming in her eyes. Steeling myself, I work up the courage to ask her the obvious: “What happened to Ava and the baby?”
Roman’s chief of staff takes several sips of her hot tea, then inhales a deep, fortifying breath. “Six months into her pregnancy, my daughter and Roman went on a road trip. On Memorial Day.”
Today’s Memorial Day, I think to myself, not interrupting her.
“To the countryside in Roman’s new car—a vintage Jaguar—to spend the night at a charming inn in Connecticut. Roman was going to propose to her. A mile from their destination, the brakes failed and . . . ”
Her voice trails off, the tears falling freely. I cup my hands on hers and encourage her
to continue.
“They went through a red light. A truck slammed into them and then Roman slammed into a tree. Ava, who wasn’t wearing her seat belt because it was broken, went through the windshield, the glass shattering . . . the shards flying into Roman’s face.”
In anticipation of what I expect to hear next, I clasp a hand to my mouth.
“It was death on impact for my Ava. And the baby.”
I have no words. Anguish flows through my veins. I now understand why Roman was so anxious throughout our trip to Connecticut for Harper’s wedding. It’s nothing short of a miracle that we didn’t get into an accident. And that he made it home alive. I swallow past the lump of sadness in my throat as Madame DuBois goes on.
“Roman suffered grave injuries, the worst being the loss of vision in his right eye. Darkness replaced lightness. Roman became a recluse, blaming himself for the accident. He’s been in therapy for years, but is still plagued by screaming nightmares. I’ve stayed by his side, never leaving him.”
In sadness there is beauty. Roman’s haunting words from our first encounter circle my head as grief fills every molecule of my being. I hold back tears. My poor, darling Roman! How much he’s suffered! It’s as if a monster of regret lives in his soul.
Words linger in my constricted throat. My companion places one thin, veined hand on mine while the other swipes at her tears. “You, my chérie, remind me so much of her. You have brought light back into Roman’s life.”
I quirk the smallest of smiles while she pours herself more tea. “Today is the tenth anniversary of my daughter and grandchild’s deaths. They were going to name her Maya.”
Suddenly, I understand why Roman has been acting out of sorts. So out of control. He’s consumed with so much guilt and sorrow. Overwhelmed by the monster he thinks he is. Guilt and remorse of my own gnaw at me. Claw at my heart. I feel terrible I fled from him when I should have been there for him. Held him in my arms like he’s done for me. I bow my head in shame. And bite down on my lower lip.
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 13