Love By Design

Chapter 51

It’s an industry-recognised verifiable truth that the Peroxide Prince is hardhearted— reserved and standoffish with an ever-present scowl on his face. So witnessing him interact with my family members in an overly engaging manner, all mega-watt-smiles and tongue-in-cheek replies is more than a little baffling.

In fact, it’s almost dangerous.

How ridiculously charming he can be, given the opportunity.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room, August is showing my cousins the pictures he’s taken during our trip to Toussaint, print photographs now digitised on his phone. Perched next to him, Dayna is peering over the pictures as August scrolls through them one by one.

“She worked on the regalwear collection for the Royals of Touissant.” He reveals, opting to leave out the fact that he’s related to said monarchs of the Mediterranean country. “We went on a trip over the summer and it was gorgeous. Wasn’t it, mon c?ur?”

I can only nod as August talks animatedly.

“Ate Lili made clothes for a prince?” She gapes, wide-eyed.

“Working towards designing for the whole royal family,” August elaborates, proudly. “The Royals of Toussaint have only worked with fashion brands in the past, not a specific designer so it’s a very significant feat.”

Just as I’m about to comment, the sound of the front door opening followed by a cold gust of wind draws our attention to the entrance hall.

“It’s a nightmare out there!” A voice exclaims.

“We didn’t think we would make it out of the high street.” A deeper voice adds.

Aunt Luisa and Uncle Jeremiah step into the living room, casting a hush over the space. There’s a sense of disquiet as everyone acknowledges their arrival before a chorus of greetings erupts from my aunts and uncles. My cousins scuttle over to greet them and I shift on the sofa, a sense of unease settling in my stomach as I stand.

“Lili, can you take the boxes from the study and store them in your room for the time being?” My grandpa’s voice echoes from the kitchen.

“Sure,” I reply, grateful for the distraction as I rise from the sofa.

“I’ll help,” August offers as he stands with me.

Shuffling out of the living room, I feel a set of eyes scrutinise August and I as we make our way to my grandpa’s study.

“Nobody calls you Hallie.” He comments as we step into my room after finally collecting the cardboard boxes from downstairs.

“Technically, none of my family do.” I laugh lightly, scrunching my nose. “But everybody else back in London does.”

“Lili?” August asks, teasingly. “It’s cute.”

“Reduplication,” I explain with a shrug, making my way over to the window. “Filipinos like repetition, I guess?”

He sets the boxes down on my worktable, grey eyes catching the ones underneath with my name taped on them.

“It’s going to take some time getting used to,” He admits. “Lia.”

“Why does it sound so unnatural coming from you?” I snort, drawing the blinds close.

August strides over to the bed, plopping down casually. His arms stretch across the entire double and I’m glad to see him more active and less lethargic.

“You don’t have to keep your room dim for my sake, you know.” He insists, sitting up. “I like seeing you in the light.”

“Charmer,” I comment with a smile, bounding over to him.

“Only for you,” He chuckles, tugging me to stand between his legs. “Lia. Lili.”

I wrinkle my nose playfully. “So unnatural.”

My fingers twitch, a sudden urge to play with his hair but instead, I smooth out the shoulders of the jumper he’s wearing. It’s one of the two grey woollen knits I’ve been working on since arriving in Switzerland and it surprisingly fits him perfectly.

“Your grandma calls your grandpa your name,” He states, looking up at me. “Is that another nickname system I should know about?”

I tilt my head to the side. “What?”

“Mahal,” He pauses for a moment, attempting to remember the word as he re-pronounces it. “Mahal. I’ve heard her call him that a few times.”

My heart stutters, not expecting the term of endearment in my native tongue to have such an effect on me.

“Love,” I say.

August blinks for a moment. “Yes, mon c?ur?”

“No,” I giggle. “It means love. Mahal means ‘love’ in Tagalog. It can also mean ‘expensive’ but, um, in that context it means love.”

“Ah,” He nods in understanding.

August pauses, his eyes crinkling and the corner of his mouth quirking up, amused.

“What?” I blink at his expression, moving to sit next to him on the bed.

“So your name is…” He pauses, turning to me, the smile on his face widening. “Love Heart?”

His smile is impossibly dazzling as he gazes at me and my heart stutters, finding the expression on his face all too endearing.

“How fitting,” He comments.

“What?”

“Loveheart,” He chuckles, the sound warm. “I’m surprised your middle name isn’t ‘Amour’ instead of ‘Aurora’.”

I bite my lip. “I think I would have preferred that, really.”

Hearing the different variations of love on August’s lips pulls on my chest in a way that I can’t quite describe and I feel it again.

An unravelling in my heart.

“The couple that came today,” He inquires. “Who are they?”

Falling backwards on the bed, I try not to let my discomfort show.

“Uncle Jeremiah and Aunt Luisa. He’s the oldest out of my uncles.”

“No children?”

I shake my head. “They’ve been trying for decades though.”

The ceiling suddenly looks a lot more interesting as I stare at the whimsically painted clouds across the expanse of my room.

“Everyone seemed a little on edge when they arrived,” August observes, lying down next to me.

“There’s usually some sort of drama happening at family events every year,” I shrug. “But I wouldn’t know much about recent years. This is my first Christmas back in Switzerland in four years, so.”

“That’s a long time to spend away from family,” August comments. “What happened?”

My fingers spasm, the phantom feeling of glass slicing through skin and the faraway sound of bones crunching all too present.

Hesitantly, I lift my left hand to show him the scar.

August blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he takes in the white roughened line of skin tissue that curved from the middle of my palm to the back of my hand.

I stretch my fingers as wide as the limited mobility on my left hand will let me and I watch his eyes trail along each misalignment and noticeable deformity.

Slowly, his mouth drops.

My pinky finger is crooked, index and middle finger deviating from the usually straight alignment, instead bending slightly towards each other. When resting naturally or curled up into fists, there’s no indication of any issues with my hand. However, splayed out and under closer inspection? There’s no denying the disfigured state of it.

“I’m naturally left-handed too,” I huff playfully, attempting to ease the tension. “Just my luck.”

“Mahalia,” He swallows, voice quiet.

His hand tentatively reaches out to touch mine.

“It was an accident,” I say, quietly. “For the most part.”

August looks troubled, almost scared to find out.

“Hands on the table.”

I blink at Uncle Jeremiah, staring at me with a stony expression on his face as he enters the dining room.

Confused about his demand, I frown, looking down at the empty dishes between my hands.

With the majority of the plates cleared after Christmas dinner, everyone retreated to the living room to continue the festivities but I stayed behind to help tidy the table.

“I don’t understand,” I comment, my fingers twitching as they grip the edge of the glass dinnerware I’m currently holding.

The conversation I overheard between him and my grandparents earlier replay in my mind and something lurches in my stomach.

“If no one is going to discipline you, I will.” He continues. “Hands on the table, Aurora.”

I flinch at the sound of my middle name, slowly placing the plates back down on the table.

He doesn’t give me time to fully rest my palms on the oak surface when he grabs a wooden ladle from one of the casserole dishes and strikes it down. The faint crunching of my fingers as he hits my left hand is masked by the loud noise of the utensil slamming against the table and I grimace at the impact.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim, my eyes watering at the twinging pain on my left hand.

“Disobedient children need to be punished.”

“I’m not a child,” I turn to him, biting my lip to stop it from quivering.

Most definitely not yours.

Only when his eyes flash angrily and he strikes my hand, more heavily this time, do I realise that I voiced the statement out loud.

“Uncle Jeremiah!”

He jerks his arm, swiping and smashing the dinnerware on the wooden surface, ceramic and crystal flying everywhere. The loud crashes of tableware pieces hitting the floor lock me in place, causing me to stay deathly still. I hear the commotion of people rushing frantically to the dining room and I’m almost afraid to breathe.

From the corner of my eye, I see my uncle swing the wooden ladle again and I forcefully jerk back, my hand catching on the cracked crystal on the table.

The jagged edge of the glass cuts through my skin almost effortlessly and it takes me a moment to react. Pain doesn’t register until moments later, when the gash on my palm gapes open and streams of scarlet decorate my skin, ribboning from my wrist and all the way down to my elbow.

August stays silent.

Consciously, I tug the sleeve of my sweatshirt over my hand as my fingers tremble involuntarily at the memory.

“Mahalia…” He begins, staring at me in disbelief.

“I know,” I exhale shakily.

“Why the fuck would he do that?” He asks, almost demanding. “He can’t discipline his own children because he doesn’t and can’t fucking have any so he takes it out on you? How does that make any sense?”

He shifts closer to me, his grey eyes darting across my face as if he’s trying to find the answers there.

“I don’t know.” I shrug.

August looks at me for a moment, a torn expression on his face, before shifting to lie on his back.

A long silence falls between us and I couldn’t help but feel that I may have overshared.

Eyes closed, he takes a deep breath before releasing it slowly.

“Tinker-Talent?”

I turn to August, sitting up.

“Hold me down.”

I blink. “What?”

“Hold me down,” He repeats. “Because if you don’t do anything to restrain me right now, I’m going to end up bolting down those stairs and beating the absolute shit out of your uncle.”

Reaching my scarred hand over to him, I splay it out across his chest, the erratic thrumming of his heart betraying the nonchalant expression on his face.

Delicately, he envelops his hand around mine.

“I’m okay,” I reassure him. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Just tiny little singes and twitches. But, technically, I get them on both hands and I’ve had jittery fingers since I was young so I think it’s a me problem.”

August sits up but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

Instead, he keeps it firm against his chest.

“I can still make clothes, August,” I comment, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean, I did get a First in my Graduate Showcase. You know, the Disney Princes collection that kind of went viral last year? And, um, I’m not sure if you’ve heard but I assisted with the Regalwear Collection for the Royals of Toussaint.”

He lets out a short, strained laugh.

“Assisted?” He shakes his head. “You practically led the entire project.”

Another silence settles between us before he reaches over to take my other hand. He places both of them against his chest before lifting them up in front of me.

“These are hands of the greats, Mahalia Hartt.” August announces, pressing his lips on both of my palms. “Hands of the greats.”