Chapter 22 Fawn
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
fawn
Eleanor is shaking her head at the dress, but she’s really shaking her head at me.
This was such a bad idea.
She always said my pretty looks couldn’t fix what’s broken. That I’m nothing without them. Now, I’m not even pretty, but homely. What am I? Can she please fucking decide? I suppose what she sees, then and now, is just trash. Pretty. Not pretty. Homely. Unacceptable.
Disappointing.
Trash.
That’s all I’ll ever be to her.
She stares at me. Her mouth is a straight cut across her face, her hands waving in the air like she wants to swipe left on my dress, wipe it from her vision.
“Let’s be honest with ourselves, Fawn.” Her tone is flat—ugh—designed to make me feel like a disappointment before she even explains why.
She cups her chin with one poorly manicured hand, then lets it drop. Her brows furrow in a way that’s supposed to display some kind of maternal concern but reminds me of Disgust, the character from Inside Out, looking at broccoli.
In the reflection, Jasmine sits behind me and appears ready to swing.
But I just stand there, eyelids fluttering as I look at my dress, forcing myself to stay strong.
This is a test. I can show her I’m different, that I can be the right woman for a man like Clay Butcher.
If I can’t convince her—her—of all people, who is cheering for me?
Right? Isn’t that what the note said? Then what chance do I have of convincing the Family!
Mafia bosses and their wives, born in pearls and chauffeured around in gold-plated carriages?
“You’re a homely girl,” she says.
Okey dokey…
I draw a shaky breath.
“The kind that looks best in simple material,” she adds. Her gaze travels up and down my body. “I think you should present what you are.”
What you are.
Not who you are.
“This—” Her hand flicks at my white hem, as if maybe she can adjust my DNA with a snap of her fingers— “this is a lie. You’re not this girl.”
“How would you know?” Jasmine blurts out, jumping to her feet with Ash cradled against her, his chubby hands pawing at her hair and earrings.
Woah.
Eleanor slaps a hand to her chest, as though the question snatches the breath from her very lungs. “I lived with her for over five years, young-lad—”
“Don’t young-lady me! Do you know who I am?
” Jasmine walks towards us, stopping beside me, reflected in the mirror.
My mouth drops open. “I’m the daughter of Que Neal.
The head man at Clay Butcher’s estate. My family has protected and served some of the most important and wealthy figures in history, and right now, I am holding a literal heir to that estate. You’re out of your depth here, lady.”
Again, woah.
There was a time when Jasmine wasn’t fulfilled by her career as a Mafia servant. It’s nice to hear her speak of herself, her position in this empire, with such pride.
“Well, I never,” Eleanor mutters, shock plastered across her features.
“I had no idea…” Her eyes dart to the top of Ash’s crown, then evade as if the tiny heir somehow hurt her.
“I had no idea how much you have changed, dear.” She looks at my reflection, her upper lip curling involuntarily.
“You’re not that scraggly little nobody—”
“No one is nobody!” I growl at her, facing her. “And why won’t you look at Ash? Or Luca? You seemed so interested in them the last time we spoke.”
I hadn’t realised until right now while Ash is literally under her nose—that my foster mother has been refusing to even glimpse at them for the past twenty minutes since she has been here.
She lifts her nose.
“Little deer.”
A chill rushes down my spine at the sound of that dark timbre, and my gaze darts to the closed door.
Sir… He is here.
His dark timbre has never chilled me like that before, but there is an edge to it I’ve only heard once.
It was the night I met my father, when the world was raining ash and embers.
It’s not just an edge that throws me off balance, but one so sharp and deadly it has its own gravitational pull, raising the hairs along my skin, drawing the air from my lungs.
It sounds like a threat with no need for words.
“Sir,” I whisper, then catch my reflection—my wedding dress. I call over, “Don’t come in,” rushing to the silk robe. “I’m in my dress. It’s bad luck.” I wrap it around the dress, tying the ends in a bow at my waist and covering my wedding gown.
I hear Jasmine mutter, “Daddy’s here.”
I turn to look at her, but she is staring straight at my foster mother, giving her a look of amusement. And it dawns on me—he won’t like this. I didn’t ask him whether this visit was allowed. How long has he been there? Could he hear what she was saying?
The door opens, and Clay strides inside. While my eyes are on him, wide and nervous, his gaze hits my foster mother with the kind of force that knocks you backwards.
“I don’t believe you have made my acquaintance.” He strides towards her and presents his hand to her. “Clay Butcher. Fawn’s fiancé.”
Eleanor pales, but tries to smile innocently, softly saying, “Of course, I know who you are.”
“It’s nice to be known.” He holds his arm out, gesturing through the doorway and back into the boutique’s lobby. “Please.” He smiles, smooth and calculated. “A word.”
No.
I want to hear.
She doesn’t move for a moment.
He stares at her unblinking.
The tension lasts so long, I literally see Eleanor wither, then nod, and walk from the room. The kind of power Clay Butcher holds, the kind of presence, it just isn’t something you can buy or even summon. It’s born into your very soul.
Scooping up Luca, I rush to the door and press my ear against it, patting my bundle so he doesn’t start fussing right when I need to eavesdrop. Jasmine does the same, meeting me by the door with Ash in her arms. We lean in, stare at each other and try desperately to listen.