Me, Cinderella?

by Rose, Aubrey

  “Eliot?”

  Eliot shook his head and turned back to Brynn, who was looking at him curiously. He looked back at the woman, but it was not Clare, just a woman with a red rose pinned behind her ear.

  “Cheers,” Eliot said, raising his glass and focusing his attention entirely on Brynn. “What shall we toast?”

  “Good luck,” Brynn said. “Or fate. Or math. One of those.”

  “To good luck, then,” Eliot said. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to cheer math or fate.”

  “To good luck,” Brynn echoed, a darker look in her eye.

  Despite Eliot’s desire to avoid recognition, as they clinked their glasses a large, well-dressed man came up to their table. By his swagger, Eliot guessed that he had already had too many glasses of complimentary champagne. He spoke in a broken, heavily accented English.

  “The expatriate returns from America! Don’t tell me. Otto has sent his younger brother to get out of coming to the party tonight.” The man’s ruddy face grinned stupidly at Eliot, but Eliot couldn’t place him.

  “I’m sorry, you are?”

  “Damien, Damien. We meet at a party, oh—ten years ago, it must be.”

  “Yes, it must have been.”

  “Otto told me you just are now back into town, but I did not believe him. And who is this lovely, lovely young beauty?” He turned to Brynn, who had already downed half of her glass of champagne. She held out her hand and the man pressed her hand to his lips altogether too enthusiastically.

  “I’m Brynn.”

  “Brynn. You are American too, yes?”

  Brynn nodded.

  “I always know an American! It’s the pretty eyes. You are pretty enough to be a princess. A princess for a prince!” He slapped Eliot on the shoulder and laughed at his own words.

  “A prince?” Brynn looked quizzically up at Eliot. Eliot raised his hand to stop the man, but Damien went on talking.

  “The Hercegs, both princes.”

  “Not at all,” Eliot said to Brynn, but she was enraptured by Damien’s chatter.

  “Really?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “Well, if we still had our kings and queens around,” the large man said. “All democracy, now. But still, this one has it in his blood. And you too, now a princess!”

  “Damien, it was good to see you,” he said, shaking Damien’s hand firmly, so that there could be no question about his leaving.

  “Yes, very good,” Damien said. “I will leave you to your princess.” He winked at Eliot as he left, and Eliot put his head in one hand.

  “I didn’t know you were a prince,” Brynn said. A twinkle in her eye teased him, and he took a breath inwardly, trying to brush off the encounter.

  “Not anymore. They took back all of the regal titles years and years ago. Before I was born.”

  “Good thing they didn’t take back the castle.”

  “The castle is nice, isn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair, smiling tightly. Brynn looked tickled to death with the revelation that he was descended from royalty, but perhaps the champagne was simply having an effect on her.

  “Do you get to wear a crown?” Brynn asked. Eliot sighed, a half-smile on his lips.

  “Perhaps I haven’t made this clear.”

  Brynn laughed, her head tossed back, so that he could see her bared throat, the line of skin from her collarbone down to her cleavage. Eliot took a swallow of champagne and tried not to let himself stare.

  “The reclusive mathematician is actually Prince Charming in disguise. I like it.”

  “Minus the charm. I wonder if you should have any more of that,” he said, as Brynn finished her glass of champagne.

  “It’s delicious. Bubbly.” She smiled so becomingly that he did not even mind when the waitress returned to fill her glass.

  “I forget you have your college training behind you.”

  “Oh, I didn’t drink much at college.”

  “Not even at parties?”

  “I didn’t really go to many. It’s just, you know, the guys there…” Brynn puckered her face in a frown. “Not the best scene.”

  “And you’d rather hang out with the reclusive mathematicians.”

  “Only the most regal ones.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get you to forget about the whole prince thing.”

  “Not a chance!” Brynn’s eyes sparkled.

  The waiter came with the first course of the tasting menu, a rich fig and walnut salad, followed by a tomato bisque and a main course of butter-poached salmon. It pleased Eliot to see Brynn appreciate the meal so thoroughly, although he caught her at times picking apart the food, just as she had the bacon at his house. An endearing idiosyncrasy, he thought. Between the delicious food, the champagne, and the music, the evening was turning out to be a success. Laughter rose in the air and Brynn only cracked a few more jokes about Eliot’s noble heritage. Eliot breathed more lightly and clinked his glass against Brynn’s in a number of toasts before realizing that he was enjoying himself in society for the first time in a long time.

  After the waiters served dessert—a chocolate pomegranate ganache topped with fresh cream—a few of the guests began to dance on the terrace. Eliot felt a tug at his wrist and looked up to see Brynn, her eyebrow raised in invitation.

  “Dance?” she asked. Her enthusiasm was buoyed by the champagne, but Eliot could still hear a note of anxiousness behind the question. Dance? Of course he would dance. There was nothing else he would rather do. He held out his arm and Brynn rested her hand in the crook of his elbow. As they walked out onto the terrace by the band, Eliot thought he could sense people staring.

  Let them stare. He was having a good night, after all.

  Brynn tiptoed on her heels, and Eliot put his hand on her hip to steady her as she caught her balance. The soft music lilted through the air and around the dancers. Brynn’s hand was hot in his, her cheeks fairly flushed with pleasure.

  “Thank you,” she said, leaning forward and resting her head on his shoulder. “For the internship, for all this. It’s wonderful.”

  Eliot’s hand came up to the small of her back. The dress draped in a deep plunge at the back, and his fingers touched her skin. He did not move them.

  “How do you like the frozen tundra of Budapest so far?” he asked.

  “It’s not terrible,” Brynn said. “A castle, a kitten, a secret prince…”

  “Everything you hoped for?”

  “What I hoped for?” Brynn stopped dancing and tilted her head up so that her face was only inches away. “This is what I hoped for.” Her lips parted, pink and lush, and when she reached up with one hand to pull him down into a kiss he willingly bent forward.

  The delicate, desirous pressure of her lips undid him, and he could not help but bend deeper, clasping her close to him in an embrace that yearned to erase years of isolation. He felt her under him, hot and wanting, her hands clutching his back. His hand came up to her cheek, caressing her skin. His fingers tangled themselves in her hair and he smelled the delicate scent of her jasmine perfume as the kiss broke apart and they stood with their foreheads still touching, breathless, silent. Brynn’s eyes were pools of soft violet reflecting the waters of the Danube, and he saw in them a hopefulness and innocence that tore at his heart.

  A sharp crack and flash of light just by his face made Eliot spin to the side. A photographer stood just by them. Eliot raised his hand as the flash went off again, and the world spun under him. He could hear blood rushing through his ears, and he saw himself turn, felt his fist pull back, unable to stop it. His first blow landed on the camera, shattering the lens and sending it flying to the floor with a loud crash.

  “Eliot!” Brynn’s voice sounded distant, and Eliot shoved the photographer hard, sending him over the edge and into the river with a loud splash. The music stopped, and someone pulled Eliot back from the river’s edge.

  Red. Somewhere in the crowd a woman was screaming, and cameras flashed from all sides, dozens of them. El
iot shook off the arms restraining him and covered his eyes, but still the lights flashed through the cracks in his fingers. So much red. A security guard pulled the photographer out of the river and out of Eliot’s sight. The roaring in Eliot’s ears stopped as soon as he looked up.

  Brynn stood speechless, staring at him as though he were a monster. He turned toward the exit and ran.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Eliot shoved well-dressed businessmen aside on his way out the door of the restaurant. A plate clattered to the floor as he bumped a waiter hard, but he did not even turn to see what had happened. He knew what had happened. It was the reason he didn’t want to be in Hungary.

  Clare.

  His feet took him down the street, away from watchful eyes, until he turned onto the bridge and stopped there, the icy floes of the Danube some thirty meters under his feet. He pressed his palms to his eyes, willing away the memory, but still it came over him as it always had, a furious, immutable wave of emotion that rolled him into its current and back into the past, a decade back, when Clare was still his wife and he thought fate was on his side.

  They had been driving back from one of Otto’s parties, and the roads glistened with the treacherous dark patches of ice. Clare looked beautiful, dressed in an ivory sheath with pearls wreathing her neck, her hair done up by the stylist Marta had recommended. Eliot couldn’t help but look over every once in a while to take glimpses of his angel, as he called her. A soft fall of snow was swept away quietly by the windshield wipers. Eliot had maneuvered his way around the dark curves of the mountain well enough until the paparazzi showed up. Two photographers on motorcycles shot up until they were just behind the car.

  “Get away from them, can you?” Clare said.

  “I’m trying,” Eliot said. One of the photographers rode his motorcycle up alongside their car, then in front, and began to shoot pictures from through the windshield. The light from the camera was blinding, and Eliot didn’t know how he could be taking any usable pictures anyway.

  “I don’t understand it,” Eliot said. “You would think they would be satisfied with the photos of us outside of the party. Wasn’t that enough?”

  “I can’t stand it. I can’t.” Clare’s voice strained.

  “Aren’t there usually more?” Eliot thought the paparazzi normally traveled in packs.

  “I hate these damned men,” Clare said, shielding her face with her hand as the camera flashed bright white. “Leave us alone!” She began to roll down the window.

  “Clare, don’t—”

  “Leave us alone!” she shouted through the half-opened window, both her hands. Cold wind howled through the car, and snowflakes flurried inside of the car. Eliot reached over to pull her back, and the camera flashed, and then the road slid underneath them sideways although Eliot had kept the wheel straight, or tried.

  From then on the world existed only in flashes of light and sound and terror. He heard the tires squeal, and the motorcycle slammed into the hood, the ear-splitting sound of metal on metal and shattering glass. Eliot slammed on the brakes and tried to pull the steering wheel straight, but the rear end of the car swung back and then they were flying off of the road and there was a tree in front and god, oh god. The crash of branches through the windows came only a second before the jarring shock of impact. The world stopped and Eliot saw the blackness rush over him as he hit the airbag, the force knocking him unconscious for a brief second. He felt something sharp tear across his chest and slice his face as he blacked out. Then his eyes opened. Fir branches covered the interior of the car.

  Clare. A soft whimper made him turn his head, although his neck hurt terribly. Clare.

  The tree branch had come through the windshield and pierced her through the chest at a sharp angle. Her hands touched the bark of the branch over and over again, as though she was unsure how it had gotten there. Blood seeped through her dress, soaking into the ivory fabric and turning it dark red.

  “Clare. Don’t move. Clare.” He coughed and wiped at his eyes, hoping that the scene before him would change, turn into something else. The woman he loved sat next to him, dying, he was sure. So much blood. How could there be so much blood? He touched his face and brought his hand away covered in it.

  Clare looked up at him, but her eyes were glazed over. Her mouth opened as if to say something, but she could not speak.

  “It’s okay, Clare.” Eliot reached over to take her hand. Her fingers slipped against his skin, slick with blood.

  “Eliot…”

  “It’s alright. You’re going to be okay.” He reassured her even as part of his mind rebelled, going into a crazed state. He saw himself in the seat as if from a distance, watching both of them sit next to each other. Watching Clare die. Would he die too? He looked down. His shirt had been torn by a tree limb, his skin opened up across his chest. His stomach turned at the sight of so much carnage.

  A roar of noise from engines made his gaze turn from her to the half-opened window, still intact. In the rearview mirror he saw a half-dozen silhouettes of men on motorbikes. The rest of the photographers. He cleared his throat and cried out.

  “Help!” he shouted weakly. “My wife needs help!”

  A man came to the side door, his helmet still on, and took a step back when he saw Clare. Another man joined him, then another.

  “Jesus,” the first man swore.

  “Please,” Eliot said. “Please help.” His hand shook as he caressed Clare’s face. Her eyes stayed fastened onto his.

  Then the cameras began to flash.

  Clare closed her eyes, and Eliot tried to shield her face from the cameras. His hands dripped with blood.

  “Stop!” he cried. “Help! We need help!”

  Clare moaned, her eyes still closed. Her hand relaxed its grip on Eliot’s hand.

  “Clare?”

  She coughed weakly, and a spray of blood misted the deflated airbag in front of her. One hand at her chest, she drew a shallow, ragged breath. The harsh glare of the camera flashes, one after another, illuminated her face, and Eliot saw in bursts of light her head lolling back on the headrest.

  “Clare? Clare, look at me. Clare!” Eliot squeezed her hand, but there was no response. He panicked, his voice rising to a scream. “Clare!”

  A drop of blood slowly trickled over her lower lip and dripped down onto her chest, which had ceased to rise and fall.

  The cameras kept flashing.

  Dizzy with champagne, I was completely unprepared for Eliot’s breakdown, for his attack on the photographer.

  My head had been swimming nicely in bubbles as Eliot danced with me, and then he kissed me, or I kissed him, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it felt right to be held by him, to press my lips to his, and I could feel the need inside of him as he pulled me tightly into his arms. Everything was perfect and right and good, and then he exploded and security guards swarmed around us and Eliot turned and left me alone. I remember the photographer coughing as he helped the man out of the river, his teeth chattering with cold.

  I held out my hand to stop Eliot, but he was already gone. Tipsy though I was, I remembered to get my purse and coat before following him out the door. People around me stared and talked in Hungarian, and I had no idea what was going on.

  I stumbled down the street, my heels slipping on the icy sidewalk, and almost passed by the bridge where Eliot sat crouched fifty feet away, huddled against the cold granite. Shaking his head, he clutched his arms around his knees.

  “Eliot?” I called out to him from across the street, but he did not hear me. I waited until the cars had gone, then made my way across to him.

  “Eliot?”

  Eyes tightly closed, he muttered something under his breath, his head still shaking from side to side. I leaned down, but the words were Hungarian, and I could not understand. I touched him on the shoulder and he started backwards, hitting his head against the side of the bridge.

  “Nem!”

  I knew enough Hungarian to know what that
meant—no.

  “Eliot, it’s me.” Eliot’s eyes were wild, terror still written on his face.

  “Clare.”

  “It’s me. It’s Brynn.”

  The light in his eyes dimmed to a frown. He refocused his gaze on me.

  “Brynn.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Brynn, I—” He went to stand up and tottered, his arm shaking under my grasp.

  “Easy, there.” I helped him stand up and looked around. A crowd had gathered at the end of the bridge, waiting. Watching us. I saw a cab turn onto the street and darted to the curb to hold my hand out. The cab pulled over.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Eliot looked back over the side of the bridge, to the icy river below. I came over and took his hand, and he swallowed hard. When he turned back to me, his face was glassy with sorrow, his jaw set in a hard line.

  “Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  The cab driver was silent the entire way back, although when he drove up to the estate entrance he let out a low whistle between his teeth. I gave him a big tip and thanked him as best as I could in Hungarian. Eliot didn’t say a word as we entered the house, but when we reached the top of the stairs where we were to part ways, he paused.

  “Brynn,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, not knowing what he was apologizing for. Running away? Freaking out over the photographers?

  “I don’t—I can’t explain…”

  “It’s okay,” I repeated. “Really. You don’t have to.”

  “This is my fault,” Eliot said. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “All my fault. To bring you here, to take you out to this party. Brynn, it was a mistake.”