Chapter 32 Fawn
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
fawn
The day before the wedding
Her meows are incessant.
“Luna, you little troublemaker,” I murmur as I slip out of bed. Shadows move around the room. Luna twists between my ankles, batting playfully at my toes. She is not hungry. The little diva just wants to play.
“Careful.” I bend to scoop her into my arms, her purring a warm rumble against my chest.
Today marks the end of my life as Fawn Harlow. By nightfall tomorrow, I'll be Mrs Clay Butcher.
Sleep should have come easily, knowing how long I've dreamed of this day, but it teased me all night.
Maybe it was anticipation keeping me awake, or maybe it was the cold sheets beside me after Clay slipped out at three a.m. to meet Alceu's plane.
Maybe it was the monster in my closet, a tiny black box-shaped monster that needs to be removed.
That’s job one for today.
The rehearsal dinner will be the last time I see him before I walk down the aisle tomorrow—my idea, not his. One night apart, to dwell and yearn before our forever begins.
With my vibrating feline in my arms, I peek into the nursery where my twins sleep, their tiny chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm. As much as I crave their warmth against me, I resist waking them.
I’m growing as a mother.
I've finally accepted help—just for the wedding.
A girl named Grace will care for them over the next two days instead of burdening Jasmine, who deserves to enjoy the celebration without responsibility.
After we cut the cake, Grace will whisk the boys back to the penthouse while the party continues.
She will be accompanied by four Cosa Nostra henchmen, of course.
I balance Luna against my chest as I reach into my dressing room closet for a small shoebox.
The box is my monster. It kept me tossing and turning all night. Glancing up at the dreamcatcher suspended over our bed, I shoot it an accusatory look.
“Where were you last night? Huh?”
I sigh and head outside.
Stepping onto the alfresco, I shiver as the breeze finds its way through my silk pyjamas, raising goosebumps across my skin. The word "brIDE" sparkles across my back in diamonds—a necessity, according to Jasmine, that makes me smile despite the weight of what I'm about to do.
The sun’s fingers tickle the horizon, the manicured garden almost backlit with pearly light.
I carry Luna and the box to the daybed on the patio—once a hard wrought-iron table and chairs, now a lounge draped in plush cushions and blankets.
“This used to be so uncomfortable,” I tell Luna, smoothing her spine with a gentle hand. She meows, padding around the cushions. “Now look at us, so comfortable.”
Sir hated comfort.
Until me…
I settle cross-legged in the centre of the daybed and position the box before me.
Prepare myself. One little look. One big goodbye.
My heart tightens. I bite my lower lip for courage and lift the lid.
Inside, nestled against a faded cotton shirt from my first day at the mansion, is a tiny black notebook.
I draw it out, fingertips brushing worn edges. I open it. A single line catches my eye. “It’s okay, Fawn, just breathe,” I read it aloud into the still air, then snap the cover shut. “Goodbye,” I whisper, sliding the notebook back into the box.
With the shoebox tucked under my arm, I pad barefoot into Maggie’s dimly lit kitchen.
With a flick of the switch, I illuminate the space, revealing gleaming stainless steel countertops and a six-tier cake in pieces. We have been working on it for three days, and today—we put it together and decorate it.
That’s job two…
Luna trails after me, tail swishing high in curiosity and confidence. She has never gone a day without, never felt hunger, though she often acts starved.
I press down on the pedal of the rubbish bin and let the shoebox tumble inside. Strange how freeing it feels to let go of the girl who was only a Harlow for ten years and never accepted as a Nerrock.
Soon to be Mrs Butcher.
I tap the wall-mounted tablet and navigate to Spotify, finding the wedding playlist Cassidy and Blesk compiled for me.
While I enjoy music, I've never been the type to obsess over artists or albums like those two do.
Still, I wanted something that would capture both my taste and Clay's—something refined enough to earn approving nods from the Family.
Romantic.
Classical.
Classy.
I hit shuffle. The first song to roll through the surrounding speakers is Heroes by David Bowie.
“You will be queen,” I sing along and bop my head, looking at the array of baking goodies ready to become our masterpiece.
I laugh to myself. “I might be the first bride who spends the day before her wedding finishing her own cake.” Looping the apron around my neck, I prepare. Rolling up the sleeves of my pyjamas, I line up bowls and utensils like soldiers.
Maggie appears in the doorway, her hair messy from sleep, her fists working her eyes back to life. “Sweetheart, you’re up at the crack of dawn. I know you don’t need your beauty sleep, but I do,” she teases, voice warm.
I freeze what I’m doing.
And stare at her.
How lucky am I?
Clay Butcher once said, ‘I’m surprised you believe in luck. It is only real to those who hang on to it for every move. You have raised yourself.’
How can I not believe in luck?
In karma, in magic?
Look at this house, this perfect white cat at my feet, and that wonderful woman opposite me. Gratitude swells in my chest, warming me down to my toes.
My eyes gloss over as I look at her. “Thank you,” I say, voice trembling with emotion, cutting through the early morning quiet.
“Whatever for?” Startled, Maggie tilts her head, a gentle smile blooming, knowing, but not assuming.
“For teaching me,” I say. “For your patience, for never making me feel like a… like a burden.”
She crosses the room and takes my hands in hers. “Oh, Fawn,” she whispers, “you’re more than welcome.”
“I may not have a mother or a father, but I have a lot of great role models. And you are one of them.”
“What kind words.” She swallows over a lump of emotion.
We share a quiet moment. Our gazes lock in mutual affection. Then I shrug and grin. “Right! Let’s get to it. Shall we?
She nods. “We shall.”
“I have until midday,” I offer, “then it’s hair appointments and makeup trials with the bridesmaids.”
For the next two hours, in companionable silence, we begin preparing and draping the fondant. The kitchen fills with the soft sounds of our work and the jazzy tones from my Spotify mix, until a burst of Jasmine and HJ’s laughter coming through the foyer reminds me that time is of the essence.
The front door clicks.
“You have a visitor! And he’s hunky!” I hear Jasmine call out, before speaking to someone closer. “Let me guess, you’re a Butcher? You must be a Butcher. You have that ridiculous jawline and perfect propositions.”
"I believe she means proportions, not propositions," HJ corrects, and I smile at the interaction.
Who is here?
I emerge from the kitchen, dusting flour from my apron, tucking a loose near-white strand of hair back under my hairnet, only to remember—I am wearing a fucking hairnet!
Fucksake.
"I'm only half-a Butcher,” a man says, his tone familiar, deep, and playful.
When I turn the corner, Konnor Slater stands there, dimples deepening as his smile widens. Striking green eyes sparkle with amusement as they take me in, from my bare feet to my hairnet. "Hey, Fawn. Bad timing?"
“Hi?” Smiling, I lift a questioning brow. “I wasn’t expecting…” I gesture at myself with a short laugh. “Company.”
"Sorry for the surprise visit. Thought we should talk before the big day." He shifts his weight. "Been meaning to for a while, actually. Figured something like this deserved more than just a call from outside The District. I just got back to town, and you’re my first call. I hope that’s cool?”
“Yeah, of course.” I wave him through to the lounge, ignoring Jasmine, who peeks around the edge of the wall like a wishful fly-spy.
We sit opposite each other.
I grab my hairnet and tug it from my crown, smoothing down the blonde that is wiry and waving around. “Is everything alright?” I ask, not sure what to say.
“Yeah.” He glances around the guest sitting lounge that we rarely use, releasing a long whistle. “Nice pad. I’ve never been here.” He sighs, then leans forwards. “We haven't spoken much, have we?”
“No.” I smooth my hair down again, needing to do something with my hands. Maybe I should offer him tea? Or coffee? Or cake? “Are you hungry?”
“No. I just ate. Don’t be nervous. I’m the one who should be nervous with all those damn guards out the front.”
I wave clumsily towards no-one—feeling a flush of awkwardness rise to my cheeks. “Oh, don’t worry, they are harmless.” I don’t know why I said that; they most definitely are not harmless.
“Right.” He grins again. “Look, I’ll get straight to it. You know I was a Nerrock, yeah? My first birth certificate says I'm Deakon Nerrock.”
The warmth in my cheeks is replaced by a chill that sweeps across my skin. I find the ends of my hair, coiling them around my finger. “Are we…?”
“Related? No. Not by blood. You're Dustin's biological daughter, and I'm his lie. My mum, his wife at the time, had an affair with Butch, but she died, like yours did.”
I lean back into the sofa. “Oh, yes, I remember this story. Luca told me about her.”
“Yeah, well”—he mirrors my action, resting backwards into the chair—"He didn't want me. Sold me off. That's cool. I'm okay with it now. He could have accepted me as his own, but instead, he got rid of me. Dick move.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Dick move.” Chewing on my lower lip, I feel a tight knot of sympathy curling in my stomach. “He didn't want me either,” I offer.
“I spent a lot of time without family,” he says. “Without birthdays, or healthy food until the Slaters adopted me. Then I learnt how to be a brother to Cassidy and Flick, and how to be a son. It took a long time.”
It’s so sad.