BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense

by Nelle L’Amour

  “Ha! There you are! You can run, but you can’t hide.”

  She points the gun at me and pulls the trigger back. Fuck her! At the sound of the click, I whip the flogger across her shin. Thwack! Kendra shrieks in pain. I strike her again and again. The snap of leather against flesh reverberates in my ears like a timber drum.

  “Stop it, you fucking bitch!” yelps Kendra, bending down to rub the scarlet welts on her legs. Catching her off guard, I leap to my feet and tackle her, knocking her to the floor on her face. Groaning, she struggles to get up, but she can’t. My eyes search for the gun. Not in sight, it must be under her.

  “I’m not done with you,” I thunder. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, rage ricocheting off my skin, I straddle her, my legs squeezing her haunches.

  I crack the flogger against her back. Whack! “This is for pushing me down the stairs.”

  She groans.

  Another whack. “This is for trying to take Roman away from me!”

  “Stop!” she cries.

  Nothing is going to stop me. Nothing! I’ve just gotten started. It’s payback time!

  “And this is for all the pain and sorrow you’ve caused Roman!”

  Gripping the flogger so tightly my knuckles turn white, I morph into a savage beast, ruthlessly swatting her back, each lash harder and faster. Each crack of the leather sharper than the one before.

  Faster. Harder. Louder. No mercy.

  “STOP!” she sobs out, but her pathetic wail only makes me more ferocious. More determined. More feral. Blood seeps through the ivory silk fabric of her blouse, and I flash back to that unforgettable night with Roman, watching him flog himself, the welts on his back bleeding like red tears of sorrow. For a moment, my madness succumbs to sadness, but then fury again soars inside me.

  Fuck her! An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. Yeah, I could easily knock her teeth out, but what I really want to do is rip out one of her eyes. Destroy it the way she destroyed Roman’s. Dangle it from its bloody tendons in front of her. Then, feed it to a pack of rats.

  An unexpected voice cuts into my maniacal fantasy.

  “Christ, Sofi! What are you doing?”

  Roman!

  As I’m about to strike Kendra with the flogger yet again, his strong hands grip both my arms and hold me back.

  “Let go of me!” I scream, struggling to wriggle myself free.

  But I’m no match for his strength. He lifts me to my feet as Kendra crawls away and staggers to hers. Blood pours from her nose and her skin glints with a combination of sweat and tears. Her eyes narrow, sharpening like razors, while a vicious snarl curls on her blood-crusted lips.

  “Roman, she tried to kill me!”

  “Roman, don’t believe her!” I cry out. “She’s lying! She tried to kill me!”

  Confused, Roman’s good eye bounces from me to her.

  “Just look at me! I’m a bloody mess!” Kendra swipes at her nose, the blood staining her white glove.

  Roman looks back at me. I meet his gaze.

  “Roman, don’t fall for her. I can prove it! She forged a suicide note from me.” I point to the envelope still on the floor. I watch as he retrieves it and slips out the letter.

  My eyes stay on Kendra while he reads it. My blood bubbles with nerves. The gun . . . where is it?

  Roman looks up, his eye narrowed with suspicion. “Kendra, that’s not how Sofi spells her name.”

  Kendra pounces. “Your stupid idiot assistant can’t even spell her own name correctly!”

  “She’s not my assistant!”

  Roman’s face hardens. He’s not falling for her bullshit. It’s time to break the devastating news to him. Drop the bomb.

  “Roman, she also forged that DNA report.” A quick breath. “And killed Ava and your baby!”

  “What!??” His jaw drops open; his face turns chalk white. The suicide note slips from his fingers and floats to the floor.

  “She paid someone to rig your car.”

  The vein in Roman’s temple is pulsating so hard it may break through his skin. Clenching his fists, his chest heaving, he inhales and exhales as if he’s breathing fire, and I swear flames may shoot out of his mouth. But not even words come out. The look on his face is one of sheer, inarticulate shock and horror. The look on Kendra’s is one of bold, uninhibited contempt and triumph.

  Panic grips me like a vise. I need to rouse Roman from his paralyzed state before he goes numb or explodes like an atom bomb. And above all, I need to warn him.

  “Roman, my love, be careful! She’s got a—”

  Before I can complete my sentence, Kendra grabs me, squeezing my waist so tightly I can barely breathe. A cold hard barrel digs into the back of my head. Oh my God! It’s the gun! She must have hidden it behind her back.

  “Kendra, are you out of your fucking mind?” thunders Roman, finding his voice and coming to his senses. “Put down the fucking gun.”

  “Stand back, or I’ll shoot the bitch first!”

  Roman doesn’t budge. I can’t imagine what’s going through his head. One of us is going to end up dead. More likely, we both will.

  Still holding the loaded weapon to my head, Kendra lets out a theatrical sigh. “You gave me no choice, Roman, but to eliminate Ava. No matter what I did, you snubbed me. I must say it’s a real shame about the baby.” She smirks. “Oh, and so sorry about your eye.”

  Roman looks as though his entire world is caving in. His pain is my pain. His life, my life. If he dies, I want to die too. Kendra jabs the gun harder into my skull.

  “And then she came along. Your precious little butterfly.”

  “Don’t hurt her.” Roman’s voice is a rough cross between a threat and a prayer. “It’s me you want. Let her go and I’ll give you everything you want.”

  She cackles. “It’s a little too late for that. Wouldn’t you agree, Roman? And honestly, do you really think I’m stupid?”

  “Kendra, please—”

  “Shut up!”

  Deadly silence.

  “I never planned to hurt you, Roman. I loved you! But now I have no choice.”

  “You’ll never get away with this, Kendra!”

  “You won’t be here to find out. Nor will she!”

  Tears stay frozen in my eyes. A reservoir of ice as Kendra pulls back the trigger. Click.

  An icy shiver skates down my spine. Likely the last one I’ll ever feel.

  “Fuck you, Kendra!” Roman hurls the words at her like grenades and then, on what I believe is my last breath, he lunges at us.

  “Roman!” I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut.

  A shot is fired, the explosive sound blasting through the air, shattering my heart. I scream. Oh my God, she’s shot my beloved Roman. Bawling, I blink my eyes open and I’m freed. To my shock, Kendra is sprawled on the floor. Her glazed eyes stare at the ceiling, and a fountain of blood spurts from a hole in her forehead. Roman is next to her, face down, surrounded by a bloodbath. He doesn’t move.

  He’s dead too.

  “NOOOOOO!” I cry, my wail echoing off the walls. There’s a knife in my heart that I can’t pull out. I feel like I’ve died too. The crimson pool expands around Kendra’s limp body.

  Tears blur my vision. I blink once. I blink twice. My blood pounds in my ears, my heart stutters. Is it possible?

  Roman stirs.

  Holding my breath, I watch as he staggers to his feet and stumbles my way. My eyelids flutter. Is this my love in the flesh or is this an apparition?

  “Butterfly,” he murmurs, taking me into his arms.

  I hear him. I feel him. His heart beats against mine.

  “Roman.” His name is soft on my lips like a prayer.

  We hold each other tightly, my tears subsiding, until a familiar voice rips us apart.

  “C’est fini.”

  We spin around. Standing at the top of the stairs as stoic as a soldier is Madame DuBois, a gun in her hand.

  “Mes enfants, enjoy your evening. Bonne nuit.” Without
another word, she about-faces and vanishes like a vapor. The dam behind my eyes breaks again, but this time my river of tears is a release of pent-up emotions. I almost lost my life; I almost lost Roman.

  Roman lifts me up. Still crying, I curl my limbs around him and he smooths my damp hair.

  “Shh, my sweet butterfly, it’s over.” Tenderly, he kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, my nose, my lips. All the tears away. Each touch of his warm lips calming me and infusing me with love.

  “I love you so much,” I whisper, breathing into his slightly parted mouth.

  “I know, my darling. Until I met you, I never knew how much I loved butterflies. They’re the most beautiful creatures on earth.”

  He tips up my chin. Our mouths meld. Our souls connect.

  Just like the wings of a butterfly, we’re two hearts united by body and mind.

  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.
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br />   “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.