by Pippa Roscoe
Célia’s eyes caught the gesture, and Ella felt just a little bit of guilt. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay taking on the client-facing work while I’m...’
‘On maternity leave?’ Célia smiled. ‘I will be. I have to be,’ she concluded somewhat ruefully. Ella knew how much Célia disliked being the centre of attention, had witnessed more than once the panic that would descend over her shy friend.
‘Please know that you can call me at any time.’
‘Hmm, except when you’re breastfeeding, changing nappies or gazing adoringly at your husband and child,’ Célia joked then rolled her eyes again when Ella descended into another happy squeal. ‘You’re incorrigible! I still have to get the figures to the accountants by end of play today, and—’
‘And, and, and. I know. Off you go. I’m just going to sit here for a moment and admire all the amazing work you’ve done getting the offices in such beautiful shape before I head back to Puycalvel.’
Ella sank into the swivel chair and swept back around to face the desk that looked out onto the offices, her heart leaping at the sight of Roman striding across the parquet flooring as if nothing else existed other than her. He was so focused that he clearly hadn’t even seen Célia’s awkwardly raised hand in greeting, but any slight Ella might have felt on her friend’s behalf was buried under the happiness she felt at his unexpected visit.
She had risen and crossed the length of her new office by the time he had reached the doorway. She couldn’t help but reach for the lapels on his jacket to pull him closer to her, smiling at the sense of decorum he had in her office space, while she had none. She went to kiss her husband, but he held back.
Finally looking at him closely, she could see signs of strain at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the clench of his jaw.
‘Is everything okay?’
His reply was a slight inclination of his head—one that suggested, maybe not so much.
‘Come. I have something to discuss.’
Frowning and knowing better than to push Roman until he was ready, she picked up her large cream leather handbag and followed him from the office.
He led her out onto the Parisian street, where a limousine was waiting and whisked them a short distance before stopping.
‘Where are we—?’
As she exited the limousine, Roman holding the door to the vehicle open for her, she stepped out onto a street in front of Comte Croix, a three Michelin starred restaurant that reputedly took bookings half a year in advance. For a moment she was speechless—she had always wanted to come here—and Ella warned herself not to inform him of her recent lunch with Célia. Of course, now that she was eating for two, she determined to enjoy every single minute of the treat Roman had organised for her.
As they walked through the two majestic wrought-iron gates into the restaurant, Ella was distracted from her brooding husband for a moment by the incredible French-English classical style of the establishment. Louis XIV furniture greeted them as they passed large regency mirrors and the gold and grey colours of the room soothed nerves Ella didn’t realise she had. It was only as they reached the main seating area that she realised they were the only people in the whole restaurant.
She looked up, confused, at Roman.
‘We have the place to ourselves.’
She laid a hand on his arm as if to convey some sense of the awe that she was feeling in that moment, the sheer magnitude of his power and wealth on full display. If she thought it odd that he was the one who directed her to a table nestled within a sea of others, each covered in crisp white tablecloths and ready to serve no other customer, she didn’t think on it too much. At that moment, she was staring up at her husband with moon-eyed love and couldn’t help but laugh at the situation.
‘I can’t work out whether this is incredibly romantic or incredibly unnecessary,’ she said, her stomach turning slightly under the still firm set of Roman’s features.
‘I have a few things I want to discuss,’ he said, pulling two thick envelopes from the inside of his jacket and placing them before her on the table. He pushed one closer towards her with his forefinger. ‘I need your signature on some documentation.’
Ella, trying to shake off the feeling that something was terribly wrong, retrieved the envelope and slipped out the paperwork.
‘It is a trust fund for your child.’
As she scanned the documents, the sheer amount that Roman had secured in trust for their child shocked her enough not to realise the oddly chosen words from her husband.
‘It secures that amount in place until their twenty-fifth birthday—or their marriage, whichever comes first. Until then, you will be the sole trustee.’
She came to the last page, where a yellow plastic tab pointed to a line next to the one Roman had already signed. The tab was oddly horrible and practical against the smooth beauty of the table and their surroundings. She couldn’t quite tell why she was oddly resentful of its presence, but she was.
Roman produced a pen and passed it to her, the thick silver barrel weighty in her small hand, but still warm from where it had sat nestled next to Roman’s body inside his jacket.
As she signed the papers her hand shook just a little and Ella was unsure as to why.
Still, when she had finished, she placed the pen on the tablecloth. ‘Done,’ she said, struggling for a smile, struggling with a strange sense of something she couldn’t quite grasp.
‘And these,’ he said, pushing the other envelope towards her in a similar fashion as before, as if the contents were somehow disdainful to him, ‘are divorce papers.’
She had started to pull the papers from the envelope, started to scan the tight neat rows of printed words, with legal headings topping the pages, found the page with another horrible yellow tab pointing to where another signature from Roman had been scrawled, had almost put pen to paper, when his words finally registered and the thick sheaf dropped onto the table.
‘What?’ she demanded, shaking her head as if she could deny his words, deny the dawning realisation spreading through her body as if to protect her heart for as long as possible.
Roman leaned back in his chair, as if already wanting to remove himself as much from her presence as possible.
‘Four hours ago the shareholders of Kolikov Holdings agreed to begin the liquidation process.’
‘But—’
‘You’re not a shareholder any more.’
A sharp inhale was about all Ella could manage.
‘Roman, is this some kind of joke? Because it’s not funny.’
‘It’s no joke. And you’re right, it’s not funny.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I could see that the moment you asked me not to destroy Vladimir’s company. And then later again, when you wanted to sell me your shares, even though I asked you to reconsider.’
* * *
Roman knew then that he was surely going to hell. Everything in him fought, raged, snarled against the words coming from his mouth, words that would eternally sever his connection to this incredible woman and his child. His child. But he had to. If not for Ella’s sake, then for the sake of that very same child.
Many months ago, Ella had voiced her desire, her need for freedom. And Roman had realised that it might just be the only thing he could give her. And in order to do that, in order to really ensure that she was in no doubt about the need to have that freedom, that distance, he would have to make her hate him more than she had ever done before.
‘You saw it when...when I asked you not to destroy the company? But that was... That was months ago, Roman. Have you planned this the whole time?’ she asked, her voice thick with the tears he could see about to fall from her cornflower-blue eyes.
‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘The whole time,’ he said, unable to bear the sight of his wife so distraught any more. Instead, he focused his ga
ze over her shoulder, but was unable to avoid the images of Ella dancing in Fiji, seeing her cry her pleasure the night they’d shared at the gazebo, seeing the way she had looked at him the night they had conceived their child, with wonder and awe and—even then—the beginnings of a foolish love.
‘I was the one who called Loukas,’ he said, knowing that this would lay bare the true darkness within him.
‘You...what? I don’t... I thought...’
‘You thought wrong. I have known Liordis for nearly four years. Knew that he’d been looking for something that would redeem him in the eyes of the world. He was perfect for what I needed of him, and what you wanted of him.’
‘And you got him to demand the money that I could only achieve by selling my shares.’
It was a statement. Not a question. And he was thankful for that, for it meant he didn’t have to lie about that, he could simply let her assume the worst. And somehow, even though that was his intention, it hurt. It hurt that she could so easily believe that of him—and he realised that painful bitter irony of his hurt. Because that was precisely why he was doing this. Because, for all her declaration of love, of trust, she couldn’t really love him or trust him. He had done far too much damage before they’d even had a chance at something more. He knew that. And far better for it to end now than later. Than after he had let down his guard, after he had allowed himself to fall...
He cut off that thought with a sharp slashing movement of his hand, which Ella seemed to interpret as confirmation of her supposition.
‘Once you sold me your shares I was finally able to destroy Kolikov Holdings. And if there is any justice in this world then Vladimir is turning in his grave, knowing that I, not he, got the last laugh.’
‘Laugh?’ she demanded. ‘Laugh? You dare reduce my life and the life of our child to a laugh?’
She was shivering now, but with anger, with fury. And it incited his own.
‘Nyet. No. No, I would not.’
‘I loved you.’
‘Then it can’t have been that great a love if it is already gone.’
* * *
Nausea swelled in her stomach, her hand sweeping to soothe, to calm the erratic kicks she could feel there as if even their child was reeling with horror at her husband’s...her... Roman’s actions.
She thought then that she might have seen him flinch, might have seen the tightening of his jaw and an echo of the pain that she felt rising within her, but knew she was wrong. Because this man...wasn’t capable of such a feeling. Gone was her fiancé, who had indulged her every whim, gone was the husband who had confessed his pain, his hopes for the future, his passion and, she had once thought, a bourgeoning love, in his touches and kisses. This man was new—he had neither the smooth charm of the former nor the hot anger and heated passion of the latter. This was someone cold to her. Someone almost dead to her.
Her soft heart cried foul, desperately torn by the hope that he was lying. That her husband had not utterly manipulated her once again. He had arranged the meeting with Loukas to make her hand over her shares? That was a blow too low. That all the while she had been hoping for the future and he had still been held in the past, where vengeance and the need for destruction were his only focus.
‘What kind of monster are you?’
‘The kind your grandmother warned you about. The kind that would steal more than your innocence. A monster made in my grandfather’s image. One who was only ever after the money I could get from Kolikov Holdings’ liquidation—a small compensation for the life of my mother. One who would do whatever it took to get what I wanted. And who is letting you go now that I have what I want.’
Unaccountably, images from their time together rose in her mind. The first time she’d felt as if he were stalking her in the woods, the weight of the red cloak around her shoulders, the glimpse of him smiling at her joy in Fiji, the way he had looked at her when she had asked him to buy her shares, almost with fear, as if he didn’t want her to do that. There was a fervour in him now that she had never seen before. An almost wild determination, as if he were trying to convince her of something too much. Too hard. Money? He’d said it was about money?
She shook her head, hating the way her thoughts, even now, seemed to want to find the good in him. Wanted to find the truth in the lie. Only there were so many lies and so many versions of the truth, she simply didn’t know any more.
So, instead of trying to find a way through, she tried for a way out. A way out of the only conclusion Roman was forcing them towards.
‘Look me in the eye and tell me this was just about the shares. That all this time,’ she demanded, ‘it was about destroying the company. When you told me I would have to return to your side. When you told me our child needed its father. When you told me about the loss of your mother. When you lost yourself in my body, when you slept beside me all night long for the first time in years.’
‘Puycalvel is still yours,’ he said, as if completely ignoring her. ‘Everything you came to this marriage with is still yours and yours alone—’
‘Apart from the damn shares—’
Apart from my heart.
‘For which you were paid generously.’
And for a moment she almost thought he’d been talking about her heart too.
‘Have your lawyer look over the paperwork. If you would like to negotiate anything further, I will consider it—’
‘How gracious of you,’ she hissed, the ire taking over her heart and mind now flowing fully in her veins.
‘And you will have full custody—’
‘I would never let my child near you,’ she spat.
‘Da. It is probably for the best.’
She rose jerkily to her feet and stared in confusion at the arm Roman had offered to steady her. Confusion and disdain. She flinched away from it, knocking back the chair, and blindly wound through the tables that now seemed like obstacles to her. Her eyes brimming with tears, some escaping, falling to the floor from her cheeks, felt sore and her heart ached in a way she had never felt before.
It was so much worse than before. So much. Because she had really loved him. She’d been sure of it. Of him. He had asked her to trust him and she had. She had given herself to him and now felt oddly disconnected from everything. Her feelings, her confidence, herself.
His betrayal slashed through her a thousand times as she passed through the iron gates of the restaurant and out onto the bright sunlit Parisian street, as if emerging from some dark horror. She caught the frown of the waiting driver, the stares of passers-by as they took in the sight of what must look like a hysterical woman on the verge of...on the verge of...
‘Ella...’
She refused to turn to look at the man who had hurt her more than anyone else had ever done, she refused to see the stranger staring back at her with nothing more than cold dead eyes, uncaring and unfeeling. She didn’t want to, couldn’t, let that be the last thing she saw of him.
‘Ella,’ he said again, and she felt his hand on her arm, turning her back to him. She closed her eyes, hoping that the next words from his mouth would somehow contradict everything that had just happened. Would somehow explain what had just happened, and take it away. Beg for forgiveness, plead with her.
But when she opened her eyes, all she could see were the two envelopes in his other hand. He pressed them towards her as he looked over her head and told the driver to take her wherever she needed to go.
He finally turned his gaze on her, that cold, painful look in his eyes doing more to damage the fragile threads of any kind of hope in her heart, and said, ‘It was all about the shares, the company, the money. All this time. From the very beginning to the very end, you were only a means to give me what I wanted.’
And as Ella fled from his grasp, into the back of the limousine, Roman realised that he had been wrong. He’d thought he’d known pain. He though
t he’d survived the worst that life could throw at him. But he hadn’t and he sure as hell didn’t deserve to this time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Red Riding Hood had always thought her grandmother’s tales were to teach her the difference between a hero and a villain or good and evil. But, she wondered, what if the only difference came down to who it was that told the story?
The Truth About Little Red Riding Hood
—Roz Fayrer
LOOKING OUT FROM the patio, down the sloping green garden towards the silvery thread of the lake winding across the border of her land, Ella saw the copper dome of the gazebo glinting in the morning sun. Since returning from Paris five days ago, she hadn’t been back there.
And she hated Roman for that. It had been her favourite place in the grounds of her home. He’d promised that it would always be hers. But it didn’t feel that way. Everywhere she turned, she saw him. She smelled him on the sheets that she had washed twice now, but it hadn’t worked. It was as if his scent clung to the very air she breathed, and she had been driven outside by the memories that crashed through her relentlessly.
Ella hated the way her mind seemed incapable of creating walls around her heart and mind, instead opening her to everything she had experienced over the last few months, and before. All the different variations of the man she had married competing and contradicting everything she thought she knew.
Dorcas lifted her head as a flock of swallows soared above them on their long migration towards South Africa before the winter months, but didn’t move from where she had taken up her almost constant guardianship. One eye on Ella at all times, and the other on the door as if waiting for her master to return.
She was glad Roman had left Dorcas with her. She didn’t think she could have been here alone. Célia had offered to come and stay, but Ella had said no. There was too much going on with the company and too much breaking in her heart. She didn’t want her friend to see her like this. It was something she needed to bear alone. Because she had done this to herself. She had been so stupid.
