BUTTERFLY
Copyright © 2021 by Nelle L’Amour
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved worldwide
First Edition: July 2021
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is purely coincidental.
No part of this ebook may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this ebook at the authorized online outlets.
Nelle L’Amour thanks you for your understanding and support.
Join my mailing list and Facebook reader group for new releases, sales, and giveaways. Please sign up here:
NEWSLETTER
FB READER GROUP
Cover by Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs
Proofreading by Virginia Tesi Carey and Judy/Judy’s Proofreading
Formatting by BB eBooks
BOOKS BY NELLE L’AMOUR
Secrets and Lies
Sex, Lies & Lingerie
Sex, Lust & Lingerie
Sex, Love & Lingerie
Unforgettable
Unforgettable Book 1
Unforgettable Book 2
Unforgettable Book 3
THAT MAN Series
THAT MAN 1
THAT MAN 2
THAT MAN 3
THAT MAN 4
THAT MAN 5
THAT MAN 6
THAT MAN 7
THAT MAN 8
THAT MAN 9
Alpha Billionaire Duet
TRAINWRECK 1
TRAINWRECK 2
Love Duet
Undying Love
Endless Love
A Standalone Romantic Comedy
Baby Daddy
A Second Chance Romantic Suspense Standalone
Remember Me
An OTT Insta-love Standalone
The Big O
Romantic Suspense Standalone
Butterfly
For everyone who’s emerged from a dark cocoon
And made the world a brighter place.
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books by Nelle L’Amour
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
A Note from Nelle
Excerpt from Trainwreck
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Nelle L’Amour
Above my bed
another sky
with the wings you sent
within my sight
all pain dissolves
In another light.
Transported thru
time
by the butterfly.
—Patti Smith
CHAPTER 1
Sofi
I am a butterfly. Beautiful and delicate. My colorful gossamer wings flutter, soaring over a field of orange poppies. I swoop down to suck their nectar, moving from one to another, pollinating the flowers. My life has meaning. I am hope for the flowers. Their sustenance. Without me, they won’t grow. I’m free and I can fly. Rise above all the negativity in the world. All the horrors. With my beauty and powers, I can give hope to those who need it. Open new doors. Fulfill dreams and desires.
As I’m about to take flight again, a familiar chime cuts into my sweet reverie, hurling me out of it. My cell phone. It rings and rings. Cracking one eye half open, I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Eight a.m. I pull the duvet over my head and silently curse. Who would be calling me this early on a Monday morning—the one day I don’t have to work and can sleep in? Deny me the bliss of rising above my humdrum life.
I squeeze my eyes shut. The ringing stops, but before sleep can reclaim me, it starts up again. My eyes still closed, I lower the cover to just below my chin and extend an arm, fumbling for my phone that’s next to the clock. I swipe to answer and put the phone to my ear.
“Ms. Lockhart?”
My eyes snap open. The clipped female voice sounds ominous.
“Yes,” I say, alarm surging inside me. Oh God! Something’s happened to my parents! Grogginess going by the wayside, I bolt upright.
“I have a call for you from Mr. Fenton Albright. Please hold.”
Fenton Albright? The billionaire father of my best friend Harper. Has something happened to her?
A beat of silence and then a familiar upper-crust voice resonates in my ear.
“Hello, Sofi,” he drawls, sounding much like Thurston Howell III, that stuffy millionaire from the sixties show, Gilligan’s Island. “Forgive me for calling you so early in the morning, but I have a bit of a dire situation. An emergency.”
“Is Harper okay?” Worry trickles through my system.
“Yes, she’s fine. Absolutely fine.”
I let out a sigh of relief. While she’s a royal pain in the butt, I would be devastated if something happened to my bestie. She’d give the shirt off her back for me, though she could easily replace it with a better and more expensive one. Her father continues.
“You see, she was supposed to interview the fashion designer Roman Hurst . . . ”
Other than her upcoming wedding, that’s all she’s talked about for the past month. Roman Hurst is the reclusive couture designer, the eponymous genius behind the House of Hurst, whom no one has ever interviewed or seen. My fashion blogger friend managed to nab the first interview he’s ever granted. Ms. Persistence begged and she begged. Finally, she wore him down and he agreed. It’s the piece that will put her on the map. Catapult her to stardom. How on earth could she blow it?
“ . . . but unfortunately my daughter is rather indisposed.”
His cryptic speak is grating on me. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Well, if you honestly need to know, she spent the night with her fiancé, Derek, at his parents’ estate in Greenwich.”
And partied or screwed until the wee hours of the morning.
“And missed the morning train. The interview is scheduled for nine a.m. and the next train into the city is not until nine-thirty.”
I don’t have to do the math. No way in hell will she make it.
“So, she asked that you fill in for her.”
Me? Why me? Okay, I wrote plenty of her essays in college (which Harper paid me for), but I’m no journalist. Both of us went to Parsons, her a Fashion Journalism major, me a Fine Arts major. We were roommates.
“You need to pretend you’re my daughter.”
“But I look nothing like Harper!” Harper is tall, stylish, and perfectly groomed. She is rich and looks rich with her weekly blowouts, perfectly manicured nails, and extravagant designer wardrobe. I’m petite, disheveled, and more times than not, look like something the cat brought in. In college, when we were roommates, most of our classmates perceived us as “the odd couple.”
I need time to mull over this preposterous proposition. “Um, Mr. Albright, could you please hold on for a minute? Something’s burning in the kitchen.”
My shoe box-sized Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment doesn’t even have a real kitchen. A kitchenette if you want to call it that, that’s barely big enough for one person. Despite the ridiculously high rent, I chose to live by myself after Harper and I graduated instead of taking her up on her offer to share her luxury two-bedroom Upper East Side apartment for free. “Free” meant being her maid and cleaning up after her. No, thank you. I had enough of that in college.
“Please don’t keep me waiting long,” says Harper’s father, irritation creeping into his voice. “I have a business to run.”
Please don’t keep me waiting. How many times have I heard Harper say this to me when she’s always the one who’s late? Rich people are so entitled. Bristling, I set my phone down on the bed.
Harper’s pulled a lot of shit on me, but this one takes the cake. I’m tired of covering her ass and being at her beck and call. Last month, during my half-hour lunch break, I had to run to Bergdorf’s to buy her mother a last-minute birthday present because she was in the middle of a massage. And just before she went up to Connecticut, the Drama Queen called me with her latest emergency—a chipped fingernail—so I had to schlep up to her apartment—to fix it. Oh, and I had to stop off at an ATM to get her some cash since her gazillion dollar checking account was overdrawn. She promised to pay me back . . . like all the other times she’s promised . . .
I’ve got to wriggle my way out of this one. Myriad excuses swirl around in my head. Mr. Albright, I have a root canal scheduled at nine (I’ve never had a cavity in my life!) . . . . I’ve got to take my sick canary to the vet (I don’t have a bird!) . . . . I have to stay home because they’re delivering my big-screen TV sometime today (I don’t even have cable!). Finally, I decide on the truth. And pick up the phone.
“Mr. Albright, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can pull it off.”
“That is not what I want to hear.” I sense belligerence in his voice. “This interview is a matter of life or death so to speak. Our magazine, Fashionista, is on the verge of folding. This exclusive interview with Roman Hurst is our one saving grace. It will sell millions of copies.”
Harper’s father is the head of Albright Media. His Fortune 500 company publishes numerous magazines and owns television stations around the world. I can’t believe my bestie would blow this interview after she spent so much time trying to snag it.
And I can’t believe she got her father to call me. Why didn’t she call me herself? It’s not like my in-your-face friend to be chickenshit. It’s probably more like she’s shitfaced. Drank herself to oblivion. Lucky for her, she has Daddy wrapped around her little finger.
His voice softens. “And, of course, I will pay you . . . ”
Part of his negotiation tactic. Money buys everything.
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
Five hundred dollars. For someone like Harper’s father, that’s a drop in the bucket. But for someone like me, who can barely make ends meet and is facing eviction, it’s a small fortune.
“What about a thousand?” That would cover most of my rent.
“Six hundred dollars. And I’ll throw in an all-expense-paid dinner with my daughter. That’s as high as I’m going.”
Cheapskate! That’s how the rich get richer. I have no choice. I accept the deal. I need the money to pay my rent, and I haven’t had a good meal in ages.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.”
“What do I have to ask him?”
“I will have my secretary email you the questions shortly.”
Can’t Harper send them herself? Or is she too embarrassed? Or more likely, too smashed? Or too “busy” with Derek?
Thanking me, he hastily ends the call and moments later an email comes through with the interview questions, which I skim over, and Roman Hurst’s address. He lives on The Bowery. That’s three subway stops from my apartment. About ten minutes away on the express train. I glance at the time again on my phone. It’s already 8:20.
Despite having second thoughts, I jump out of bed and scurry to the bathroom where I pee, brush my teeth, and wash my face. There’s no time for a shower, not even a quick one. Which I suppose is okay since I took one last night. On a whim, I sniff my armpits. So far, so good. I roll on some deodorant.
Scuttering back to the one room I call my bedroom, living room, and home, I ponder what to wear. I don’t own any expensive designer clothing like Harper. Most of my limited wardrobe is vintage, the majority flea market and thrift store finds. Opening my armoire, I slide out a creaky drawer and grab one of my many butterfly-patterned tights, yank off a flouncy pink skirt from a hanger, and find my favorite hoodie, a J. Crew Monarch-orange one I scored for five dollars on Poshmark. I quickly put the ensemble together and complete it with my red Doc Martens, which I found at Goodwill. Shutting the mirrored door, I gather my pink-streaked honey-brown hair into a messy bun and secure it with a butterfly clip. Lucky for me, I have perfectly clear skin and don’t need makeup. I study my reflection and adjust the chain around my neck so that my lucky butterfly pendant is visible. I’m definitely going to need luck to pull this off. A lot of it.
I grab my phone and glance down at the time again. Eight thirty. I’m okay for time. While it can take hours for high-maintenance Harper to get ready, I pride myself on my speed and efficiency. I can even have a quick breakfast. Traipsing to the kitchen area, I snag a day-old donut from the counter and make myself some peppermint tea in the microwave to save time. The steaming hot beverage instills me with warmth and alertness. Taking my final sip, I grab my backpack that’s hanging on the doorknob, slip it over my shoulders, and jog down the three flights of stairs to my apartment after making sure to double lock the door.
One can never be too safe being a single woman in Manhattan.
CHAPTER 2
Sofi
I take the subway downtown and walk briskly to Roman Hurst’s headquarters. Located on the southwest corner of Broadway and Canal, the imposing three-story limestone building looks more like an old bank or a library. An elaborate pediment sits above the entrance, which is flanked by two neoclassical Corinthian columns. As I get closer, I see the words “In God We Trust” inscribed above the massive bronze door along with the date the building was erected: 1907. The Beaux-Art era. I know a lot about architecture from being a Fine Arts major.
My stomach knots with dread. As if I’m not anxious enough, second thoughts bombard me. Maybe I’m at the wrong address. I pull out my phone from my backpack and double-check. Nope, this is it. I’ve come to the right place. There are no windows on the front side of the intimidating edifice, but on the Canal side, arched double-story windows face the street, the curtains drawn. Nowhere is there a sign for the House of Hurst. Just the street number 123 right above the door, next to which there’s an intercom and what looks to be a
security system.
My heart thudding, I hit the button on the intercom. It buzzes. Anxiously waiting for someone to come to the door, I review the questions I’m supposed to ask Roman. That’s if he doesn’t see through my masquerade.
I press the buzzer again, and as my finger lifts off the button, the door swings open. A handsome, green-eyed woman, who looks to be in her mid-fifties, faces me. She is quite tall, her graying ash-brown hair tied back in a simple chignon. Her slender figure is clad in a white jacket that resembles a lab coat and a simple knee-length black skirt. Thick, black opaque stockings cover her legs. And on her feet, she’s wearing sensible, laced-up black shoes. The rubber-soled, non-skid kind you might find at an orthopedic shoe store. Her only burst of color is a worn yellow cloth tape measure around her neck.
She gives a small smile. “You must be Ms. Albright.” Bearing a pronounced accent, her voice is warm and inviting, matching the kindness in her face. With her high cheekbones and striking features, she must have been a great beauty in her youth.
I gulp down a breath and haphazardly throw my phone back into my backpack. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Enchantée. I am Madame DuBois.” I surmise she must be French as she ushers me inside. “Monsieur Hurst is expecting you.”
My eyes go wide as I step into a vast atelier with soaring ceilings. Women, who look like clones of Madame DuBois, are buzzing about the open, obviously gutted space. Maybe a dozen in total. To my surprise, there’s not a sewing machine in sight; all the women are painstakingly working by hand. Some are bent over ironing boards, hand-steaming fabric while others are seated on high-back chairs hand-sewing buttons. Yet others are gathered around a large drafting table, cutting and pinning patterns. Shelves filled with see-through plastic containers of accouterments—sequins, feathers, threads, trims, needles, pins, and more—line the stark white walls and mingle with bolts of assorted black fabrics, all lush and shimmering. The recessed lighting is bright, but the mood is intense and focused. If it weren’t for the hiss of the steamers, you could probably hear a pin drop. My eyes circle the studio, taking in the breathtaking black gowns, in various stages of completion, that drape dress forms scattered on the shiny marble floor. I’m in awe but don’t show it.