Chapter 9 Fawn
CHAPTER NINE
fawn
Things don't come in threes—I know that now.
But three distinct thoughts have been circling like hungry crows through my mind all weekend until this crisp Monday morning while I rock baby Luca against my bare chest, his plush-coloured lips looped around my tender nipple, sucking with the relentless demand only a true Butcher could possess.
Three thoughts:
My foster mother's unexpected appearance on Saturday at the flower market: number one.
The elaborate Juliet bouquet with its peach-white roses sitting wondrously in my marble foyer: number two.
And I never got my damn sausage roll or the Gucci underwear: number three.
So, as Jasmine sashays through the nursery's dusty-blue door with a paper shopping bag clutched in each newly manicured hand, I arch my eyebrows and tip my shoulders questioningly. "I know you get Sundays off, but I didn't expect to wait two whole days for my sausage roll."
"Oh." She freezes mid-step, her hazel-coloured eyes widening. "I thought you were joking about that."
"And the Gucci underwear?" I press, shifting Luca's weight against me.
"Well, I did look." Her lips curve into a mischievous smile. "But I thought we could go together, ya know? Try on some silky lingerie." She rocks her hips in a seductive figure-eight, singing in a husky voice, "For your wedding night."
"Lingerie?"
Can I do that?
Without Sir?
"Yeah. While the boss is at the hotel. I've called the Gucci store in the District Centre, and they'll lock the doors for a private viewing from nine to twelve today."
Oh, I glance down at Luca as he starts to gnaw on my nipple with his wet, gummy mouth, his heavy eyelashes fluttering against chubby cheeks.
"I guess you can come with us?" I whisper to him.
God, he's breathtaking. At what point does a precious baby like this transform into a hardened man?
Is it a slow change, or sudden like flipping a switch?
I hope it's incredibly slow, hope I witness every tiny milestone, every adorable hiccup.
"Wait." My eyes snap up to meet hers. "Sir is at a hotel? When? Now?” He’s never in bed when I wake up, but I presumed he was in his office or at his father’s house or one of the outer wings where he does business.
"At his hotel. The one where the rehearsal dinner is booked? With the hunky doormen. It’s next to the ballroom where you’re getting married, and it's where the Family will be staying during the wedding.”
I frown.
“You know this hotel, Fawn,” she adds.
“I know his hotel,” I clarify. “Never been there, but yes, I’ve seen the pictures. This isn’t confusion on my face, Jasmine.” I’m sulking, not dumbfounded. That hollow feeling burrows into my chest again, a twisted yearning that churns when he is absent.
True to his word, we spent every moment together on Sunday, but he said nothing about a hotel today. I don’t like being in the dark about his routine. It feels wrong to be the last to know. Did he kiss me goodbye? Did I sleep through a conversation about this?
“Is he staying long?”
“I don’t know. I presume for the night. He is like... checking their security systems, having staff thoroughly interrogated, big boss man stuff like that. You didn’t know?”
No…
Change the subject, Fawn.
"Does Clay hear you talk about him like that? Have you ever said, 'big boss man' to his face?" I ask, picturing Clay’s disapproving expression.
She snorts, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "God, no. I value my employment and my life."
Luca suddenly gets a little too enthusiastic, then yanks away from my nipple without releasing suction first, causing me to yelp in sharp pain. I slap my palm over my now throbbing, elastic nipple, cradling the stinging flesh.
I wince. "Ouch! Not cool at all."
Jasmine gasps. “Does he have teeth?”
“Only two.” I shake my head. “Still hurts when he rips his mouth away without unlatching.”
“Not an entire row of sharp teeth, though?” she confirms. “Right? Right? Right?”
I tilt my head. “What’s your malfunction?”
“I had a nightmare about baby teeth.”
Huh? “Baby teeth?”
“Yeah…” she drawls, nodding slowly, as if reliving it, then shudders. “It was—weird. I’ve seen you wince when breastfeeding so many times, so I guess my brain just took that information and ran with it.”
Okey Dokey.
“Right…” I lift Luca to my shoulder, burping him gently, and stand to walk to the edge of Ash’s cot.
He patty-cakes the lion and deer mobile with his hands.
“You don’t have sharp teeth, do you, my little prince?
” He smiles up at me like I am his favourite sight, then giggles, chubby cheeks bunching over a big goofy grin. “No, you don’t. Oh, no you don’t.”
Jasmine laughs, reaching for Luca. "Let me take this little vampire while you get yourself together. We've got some serious shopping to do."
“And Sir is okay with this?” I hand Luca over, adjusting my silk nursing bra. “He knows?”
“Bolton already confirmed it. Something about having more fun… I haven’t heard the boss use the word fun before. Maybe he was drunk.”
Drunk? Surely not.
He is too controlled.
"Fine.” I look at Luca, who has a splatter of breast milk vomit on his lower lip. He rubs it into Jasmine’s shirt, and she tries to look disgusted, but she adores that chubby bundle. “Okay. More fun.” Without Sir. I inwardly sulk. “So, I want that sausage roll on the way, then?”
Two hours later, our ridiculous entourage sweeps through the gleaming doors of the Gucci flagship store in the District’s city centre.
Henchman Jeeves and three expressionless henchmen flank us, their eyes constantly scanning for threats even though the store is empty for our visit.
Of course.
Sir wouldn’t allow us to mingle with the public two days in one week. Hell forbid.
The twins are nestled in their double stroller—Luca now peaceful, Ash wide-eyed at the glittering chandeliers above.
The store manager practically bows as we enter. "Mrs Butcher, we're honoured by your presence. The private room is prepared as requested."
Mrs Butcher?
That’s the first time that title has curled into my ears.
I look down the length of my body. I’m still not sure it's me they're addressing. That name should belong to someone older, someone with long-French-tipped nails—is that still fashionable?—and a confidence that glides rather than shuffles, someone who laughs at the notion of foster homes and thrift store clearance bins. Who enjoys the time her husband is at work so she can live a life of luxury and play golf or backgammon. I don’t know what that last game is, but I’m sure the wife of the Don would know.
Mrs Butcher
It’ll be my name.
I taste it on my tongue, tart and grown-up, as if just having the title makes my hair healthier, my posture more commanding, my use of language more eloquent, and my smile smoother.
"Mrs Butcher?" the store manager repeats politely. “This way. Follow me.”
The henchmen, in their tailored suits and meticulous grooming, don't so much as blink at the extravagance of it all. Jasmine, meanwhile, is eating up the performance, walking a step behind me in five-inch heels.
The words echo in my mind as we glide past walls lined with handbags more expensive than my foster mother’s house. Fuck. Guilt curls in my lower stomach. That woman fed me and clothed me, even while she was poor. Here I am, about to spend money she could use.
Gah. Why am I thinking this way?
She was a terrible mother!
But she was a mother…
Shut up, Fawn.
As I stroll through the glitz of the space, my reflection greets me in the mirrored displays—blonde hair a little wild, skin flushed, but I don't feel like an impostor. Not entirely.
Another outing without Clay, another moment that feels incomplete without him.
I get it—he's busy and important. And everything he does is for me and the boys. I know I can be clingy.
At home, I’m perfectly content with raising his babies and being the woman he comes home to, the one he crawls over at night, thrusts into, who handles his evil in private.
But just like on Saturday, even as I have fun, something feels like it’s missing. I want the thrill of shopping, the excitement of choosing something for myself, but not without his heavy gaze or subtle smiles.
Even if his phone is attached to his ear, his eyes are still always on me. I want that. Why can’t I have that?
It feels hollow without him here to share it—as if every experience needs his presence to feel complete. It’s frustrating, this tug-of-war between wanting to impress him with my independence, to be Mrs Butcher, and needing him by my side because he is my everything.
My period makes me sulk.
I trail behind the manager to the private room—a suite draped in creamy suede and crystal accents, where a glass bowl of macarons and an uncorked bottle of champagne await. Trying not to let the pout show, my eyes widen on the alcohol.
Ooh.
"Can I have a whiskey?" I toss out playfully. Clay would say no… But he isn’t here, is he?
Nope, he’s not.
“Miss Harlow?” HJ interjects, his voice a mix of concern and formality, with just a hint of disapproval.
He is such a dobber.
Such a rat.
I park the twins beside an ottoman. “Oh, come on, you dobber rat! Just one little whiskey!” I stick my tongue out at him as the manager pours a whiskey and hands it to me. “The doctor says it’s perfectly fine for me to have a few drinks, especially since I just breastfed them.”
Jasmine swoops in, snatching up the champagne. “I’ll start with the bubbles. You know, to protect you from yourself.”
“Right, that is very considerate of you,” I quip, sipping the whiskey with enthusiasm, still daring my dobber rat henchman to retort.
I guess I want to bicker. Look at him in his dapper suit, wearing that serious expression.
He is adorable. “What do you think? Should I finish this whiskey, try on some lingerie, parade around a little?”