“Roman, I don’t think I can do this.”
“My butterfly, you can and you will. Period.”
Oh God! Still the beautiful, bossy asshole I fell in love with. And fall for every second of my life.
“In five, four, three, two, one,” shouts the producer. “Go!” Roman gives me a loving pat on my butt and with a deep steeling breath, I make my way onto the runway. More petrified than excited.
Steadying myself on my heels, I walk slowly down the runway though my heart is galloping. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is playing and sets my pace. A gazillion cameras and iPhones are flashing, almost blinding me. I’m oblivious to the riot of butterflies surrounding me, but I manage to glimpse my parents—and my grandpa, Clarence—in the VIP front row. They’re beaming. My dad, who’s been in remission and regained most of the weight he lost, gives me a thumbs-up, and that’s all I need to persevere. My heart soars with happiness, and as my nerves dissipate, I feel as light as a butterfly. Like I’m walking on air, each step lifting me higher and higher, my thirty-foot veil trailing behind me like an entourage. Every eye is on me and I can’t help a smile.
I pause at the end of the runway. The other models join me in their final walk. Both those in ready-to-wear and haute couture. About fifty in total. The audience applauds wildly. Many giving the collection a standing ovation. They love Roman’s new Butterfly Collection! The one I’m so part of. I feel overwhelmed with emotion. Tears spring to my eyes, wetting my lashes. If only Roman would take a bow.
Sudden uproarious cheers erupt. I turn my head. Striding down the runway is Roman himself. Now dressed in a smashing black tuxedo and white tux shirt with a blue butterfly bowtie knotted around the collar. My Blue Morpho! By his side is his little muse, Mari, in a mini-version of his Blue Morpho gown, smiling brightly and holding his hand. At the tender age of six, our little fashionista has already achieved her dream of becoming a supermodel. Oh, my Roman!
My eyes stay locked on him as he marches with confidence toward me, waving to his adoring fans and admirers. Standing beside me, he bows and the audience grows wilder, everyone now on their feet, giving him a standing ovation. The respect he so deserves. My heart is bursting with happiness. And love. This is the first time he’s ever made a public appearance. Taken the customary bow on the runway. He takes my hand and lifts it up triumphantly. More fervent cheers and applause.
The music softens until it’s almost inaudible.
Roman raises his hands and then lowers them, palms down. A shushing gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention.”
The crowd quiets. Gently, he cups my bare shoulders and turns me to face him. His warm breath heats my cheeks.
“Look at me,” he says softly, clasping both my hands in his.
“What’s going on?” I ask silently with my eyes.
His blazing, flame-blue eye stays on me, and I swear I can feel the one behind his patch on me too. The heat of his gaze burns through me.
“My butterfly, you are a celestial being, a force of nature, who carries the sun on your wings. And has brought lightness to my darkness and challenged my existence. You are hope for the flowers. My sustenance. My love. You gave me wings and taught me how to fly again. Brought me to new heights of creativity and reawakened feelings I thought I could never experience again.”
Oohs and ahs ooze from the audience and saturate the air. I can even hear sniffling. The sound of footsteps behind me makes me turn my head. Heading our way are Abra and the Romanoffs. And the Romanettes. Followed by my parents and Grandpa Clarence. All beaming but teary-eyed. And last but not least, Vincent, all smiles, as he clicks his camera. Taking one photo after another.
Still standing beside him, Mari gives Roman a nudge. “Uncle Roman, what are you waiting for?” she squeals, sending everyone into an uproar of laughter. “Ask her!”
Ask me what? I watch, my eyes riveted on him, my heart thudding, as Roman gets down on one knee. With Vincent’s camera on him, he reaches one hand into his breast pocket.
I glance down and gasp. In his palm is a spectacular ring. Four brilliant marquise-cut diamonds that form the shape of a butterfly. Overwhelmed with emotion, tears spill from my eyes as I meet his gaze. That flame-blue eye that’s burning into me.
“My beautiful butterfly, will you marry me?”
My heart literally stops. And then the words jump out of my mouth. “Oh yes! A million times yes!”
“Promise me, you will never fly away.”
“I promise.”
His face radiant, he slips the ring onto my finger. Click. Click. Click. I can’t stop staring at it. The crowd breaks into raucous applause and cheers as hundreds of white butterflies flit into the air. I can’t put the magic of this moment into words.
Grinning, Mari gives Roman—my almost husband!—another nudge. “Uncle Roman, you may now kiss the bride!”
Roman rises and dips me in his arms. His lips press on to mine. Owning them. Loving them.
Click. Vincent won the bet.
I’m Roman Hurst’s butterfly.
Now and forever.
CHAPTER 58
Harper
HURST SOARS INTO READY-TO-WEAR
By Harper Albright
Executive Editor for Fashionista
Exclusive Photographs by Vincent Garcia
Last night, inside the domed, glass-enclosed vivarium of New York’s American Museum of Natural History, the House of Hurst’s Roman Hurst not only showed his extraordinary new couture collection but also premiered his first ready-to-wear HOH line.
Inspired by the beauty of butterflies, the intricate couture gowns looked as if they could take flight in the air, with their vibrant colors and patterns, the dazzling, wing-like layers of silk fluttering as the models flew down the plant-lined runway amidst hundreds of exotic butterflies flitting around them. The gowns featured hand-painted butterflies created by artist Sofi Lockhart, whose striking acrylic paintings exhibited outside the venue, were auctioned off to benefit the museum’s Butterfly Conservatory. Models held jeweled butterfly-shaped minaudières, and wore whimsical headpieces that resembled antennae.
The ready-to-wear line, which preceded it, was equally dazzling. Models, clad in billowing chiffon skirts and dresses in eye-catching colors that were paired with assorted butterfly-patterned leggings, flitted down the runway with the carefree ease today’s modern woman is seeking. Some were cocooned in earth-tone puffer jackets that were left open to reveal the emerging beauty that lay beneath. Every woman this spring will want to be a butterfly, as free and expressive as Roman Hurst has willed them to be.
The show culminated with the customary bride taking her walk down the runway. The bride—artist Sofi Lockhart. The gown was a breathtaking cloud of white silk, tulle, and lace, accompanied by a spectacular thirty-foot cathedral veil that trailed down the runway with appliquéd clusters of pearl-accented butterflies grazing the floor.
In a rare, unprecedented appearance, reclusive designer Roman Hurst took a walk down the runway with his adorable little muse, Mariposa Suarez. Dressed in an elegant black tuxedo and a cobalt-blue butterfly bowtie, the dashing master of haute couture joined his bride, took his bow, and to the audience’s astonishment, got down on one knee and proposed to her. The audience oohed and aahed, then applauded with rapture, together with his fleet of models and seamstresses as he placed a spectacular butterfly-inspired diamond ring on her finger and she breathlessly agreed to marry him. Immediately after they embraced, attendees, many in tears, released white butterflies from the jars they were each given. Circling the couple like confetti, they were a sight to behold.
This wasn’t fashion as fantasy. It was fashion as an elegy to nature and to the exquisite delicate winged creatures, living testaments that different species can live together in peace and harmony regardless of color and origin.
And it was a testament to the power of love.
EPILOGUE
Roman
Five Years Later
&n
bsp; “Daddy, I’m gonna get lots of candy tonight!” shouts my excited four-year-old daughter, Stella Luna, named for my late mother Estelle and Sofi’s favorite winged creature.
She was conceived in the depths of the Amazon jungle on our honeymoon. We spent endless days in a rainforest searching for the rare green moth, but one never showed up. Then finally on our last night there, while we were making passionate love, one flew inside our thatched-roof cottage and touched down on me. On my pounding cock, no less! Sofi’s always said that when a butterfly lands on you, it brings you luck. This one did more than that. Nine months later, it brought us our precious baby girl. I love her more than life itself.
Carefully, I help her put on her delicate gossamer butterfly wings and sparkly antennae headband to complete her Halloween costume. My little one wanted to be a pink princess butterfly though Sofi and I told her that species doesn’t exist. Unable to find that costume in a store or online—and something I’d be proud to have my daughter wear, not some cheesy piece of shit—I designed it myself. I can’t help a silent chuckle. She’ll be the only kid trick-or-treating in haute couture.
“Daddy, what are you going as?” asks my inquisitive little butterfly, looking up at me with her long-lashed green eyes—the color the same as Sofi’s.
Standing before the floor-length mirror on her bedroom closet door, I adjust the belt of my tan safari jacket and put on my wide-brimmed safari hat, tightening the drawstring below my chin. Brown suede hiking boots and khaki cargo shorts complete my ensemble. I study myself, not sure if I look ruggedly handsome or like a dork. I’m still not used to seeing myself without my eye patch. Last year, I underwent a new experimental laser surgery to correct my impaired vision; the chances were fifty-fifty and there was a good chance it could leave me totally blind in my right eye, but it miraculously worked. While I need a corrective lens, I can now see almost 20/20 in both eyes. With my expanding family, there is so much in life to see and cherish.
Satisfied with my costume, I stride over to Stella’s dresser to retrieve my mesh net. My adorable little girl follows me. Picking the net up by its wooden handle, I flip around.
“I’m a butterfly catcher!” I tell my wide-eyed daughter, playfully swiping at her.
“But, Daddy, you can’t catch any butterflies outside. They’re all sleeping in their cocoons!”
I laugh. “I’m only going to catch one. You!” I swipe at her again. With an ear-splitting squeal, she bolts off.
“I’m going to get you, my little butterfly,” I singsong, chasing after her as she runs around the airy room with her adorable giggle that brings me joy time after time.
“You can’t get me, Daddy!”
I let her think she can escape me, but after a few minutes, I set the butterfly net on her bed, and go after her, swooping her high into the air. Circling the room as I fly her airplane-style, she flaps her little arms and roars with laughter. Her laughter is infectious and I laugh hard too.
“What’s going on in here?” It’s the voice of my other butterfly. My exquisite wife. Clad in a long pale green chiffon gown with batwing sleeves that give the illusion of a Luna moth. The luminescent gown, which I designed, fits her loosely, draping over the rise of her belly. In six months, our family will be expanding. Sofi is having triplets. Yup, I have to admit my seed was good at pollinating her. Three girls! We’re naming them after the three beloved butterflies we believe are fluttering in heaven—Avery for my Ava, Florrie for Sofi’s sister Flora, and lastly, Maya, the baby I never had. Sofi likes to joke with me and say I will be living with a harem of butterflies. To say I’m excited is an understatement. I’m the fucking luckiest man in the world.
Still giggling and fluttering her arms, Stella makes eye contact with Sofi. “Look, Mommy! I’m a butterfly!”
Sofi breaks into a radiant cheek-to-cheek grin. “Oh my goodness, you are! My beautiful butterfly princess!”
A reaffirming bark. I look down.
Accompanying Sofi is the other addition to our family.
“Buddy!” my daughter squeals as our goofy, eight-month-old black Lab rescue in his flame-blue leather collar, jumps onto her bed. I set her down and she skips over to hug him. He affectionately licks her face, giving her big wet slobbering kisses. My little girl adores Buddy, named after Sofi’s childhood pet butterfly, and doesn’t mind.
She looks up at us with those wide-set green eyes that always make it hard to say no. “Mommy, Daddy, can Buddy come trick-or-treating with us?”
Wagging his tail, the dog likewise looks up at us with his plaintive puppy brown eyes and a please-take-me whimper. It’s as though he’s understood every word. I want to say yes. I’m such a sucker.
“Honey, I’m afraid not,” jumps in Sofi, coming to my rescue. She runs her fingers through our daughter’s long golden curls that make her more angelic. More ethereal. “He’s just a puppy, and some of the really little kids may be afraid of him because he’s so big.”
Stella frowns. Sofi kisses her scalp.
“But what we can do is give him a treat before we leave.”
Stella brightens. “Yay!”
Phew! A happy kid makes a happy dad. I’m glad Sofi handled that.
With our growing family, we’ve moved to an old manor house in Bloomfield, Connecticut. There are five acres with a guest cottage where Sofi’s parents and Abra often stay when they visit. As well as Aunt Harper, who’s now happily divorced . . . Uncle Vinny, who’s now happily married to my top runway model Kimana (aka Aunt Kimmy) . . . and lastly, Consuela and Mari, who’s now eleven and much like a big sister to Stella. There’s also a barn, which we’ve converted into a studio for Sofi, who’s now an in-demand painter with an upcoming exhibition around the corner; her butterfly paintings have become highly collectible and coveted. But the highlight of the vast property is a glass butterfly pavilion, which we constructed, filled with all kinds of plants that hungry caterpillars can munch on. Now, most of them are in their chrysalis stage, but in the late spring they will hatch, and what an extraordinary sight it will be. After a few days of letting them flutter around the glass structure, we always set them free and spend lazy summer days watching them dance around our flower-filled yard. They make our already charmed life even better and more beautiful.
I still have my atelier in the city, which I commute to most days. I’ve overcome my car-phobia and drive in myself! With the help of Consuela, who’s now my chief operating officer, the House of Hurst has flourished. The demand for my haute couture gowns has never been greater, and my HOH ready-to-wear collections fly out of stores the minute they land. We’ve expanded into footwear and children’s wear, and licensing deals for House of Hurst fragrances, handbags, and other accessories are underway. I’ve also designed the costumes for a highly anticipated New York City Ballet called Butterfly. Ballerinas will leap across the stage and fly into their partners’ arms in my designs. While I’ve gone beyond butterfly-themed garments, the Blue Morpho butterfly has become our insignia, and in every haute couture gown I create, a butterfly hand-painted by Sofi, is hidden in the seams.
Buddy jumps off the bed; Stella follows him. “Let’s go, Daddy! Before there’s no more candy!”
“Why don’t you head downstairs, sweetheart, with Buddy, and Mommy and Daddy will meet you in just a minute?”
My sweet, free-spirited little girl smiles brightly. “Okie dokie!” With our rambunctious Lab trailing her, she skips out of the room, leaving me alone with Sofi. My stunning wife steps in front of the floor-length mirror and studies herself, toying with the lucky butterfly necklace she never takes off. The good luck it’s brought the two of us is immeasurable.
“How do I look?” she asks, her voice laced with a frisson of self-doubt. Carrying the triplets, she’s gained substantially more weight than she did with Stella. I love every ounce of her more than she’ll ever know.
I pad up behind her and wrap my arms around her, drawing her into me and splaying my hands on her swollen belly. I inhale that eve
r-intoxicating scent of her hair, then kiss the nape of her neck. Pressed against her, I feel the beginnings of an erection under my khakis. My impassioned gaze meets hers in the mirror.
I’ll always remember what Sofi’s dad once told me—that the extraordinary thing about butterflies is they can’t see their wings and therefore don’t know how beautiful they are. No matter how many times I’ve told my beloved butterfly how beautiful she is, she still doesn’t know it. And that’s what makes me love her more, if that’s possible, every day. I’m forever grateful this extraordinary being flew into my life, bringing me lightness, beauty, and newfound purpose. Giving me someone to love with all my heart, body, and soul, and a beautiful family to cherish. I am still her big Blue Morpho, but when I spread my wings, it’s not to fly away. It’s to protect her and my family. To keep them near and dear to me.
“You look beautiful, my butterfly,” I whisper against her soft skin, my arousal pulsing. “We should go.”
Tonight after we go trick-or-treating, when Stella is fast asleep, I’m going to give her my own special treat. One she can get from none other. I’m going to reach into my heart and give her all the love I have.
I’m going to fly her to the moon. Ride her glorious wings.
A famous author once wrote: “Love is like a butterfly, which when pursued is beyond your grasp, but if you sit down quietly, may alight upon you.”
May one alight upon you.
And if she doesn’t, she’s worth the chase.
There’s magic to butterflies.
A NOTE FROM NELLE
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 25
