Chapter 18
Emilia
When Damian had suggested dinner, I knew it would become a thing. The last time we'd gone to that seafood restaurant, unflattering pictures of me ended up everywhere with captions like:
Damian Archer is having a plain Winter(s).
Is that a paint brush in her hair? Honey, that's the wrong kind of hairbrush.
Billionaire's New Bride Dresses Like A Homeless Person
In addition, the last time we ate out, I didn't see him for weeks after. So, I wasn't sure what the repercussions of this little outing would be.
We were in a cute French bistro not far from the Four Seasons. The chef had greeted us himself. Jean-Pierre Jeunet was a Michelin-star chef and a good friend of the Archer family.
He took my hand in his when Damian introduced us and kissed my fingers. Very movie-like. "I can see why you're keeping her to yourself," he said in a French accent.
"You can?" I asked.
"You're a… how do I say this? Belle comme une rose fra?che."
I arched an eyebrow. My French was rusty at best. "A fresh rose?"
"Beautiful like a fresh rose," Damian corrected me.
I've been called a lot of things. Beautiful never made the repertoire.
Chef himself led us to our table and we sat French bistro style, not across from each other but at a slight angle, nearly side by side. The table was just large enough to hold plates and wine glasses. I felt like I was in Paris.
Jean-Pierre chit-chatted with Damian while I looked around the Michelin-star restaurant. The atmosphere was intimate and charming, with soft lighting that cast a warm glow over the white tablecloths and polished silverware. The air was filled with the enticing aroma of French cuisine, and the gentle hum of conversation.
When Jean-Pierre excused himself to tend to his kitchen, Damian turned his attention back to me. After we were served champagne and made some small talk, Damian asked with genuine curiosity, "How did you get into art?"
I took a sip of the wine, enjoying its rich, crispy texture on my tongue. "It was my aunt…my father's sister," I began, my mind drifting back to fond memories. "She was an artist herself, not famous or anything, but she loved painting. She taught me everything she knew. I spent countless hours in her studio, watching her bring canvases to life."
Aunt Maddy had been the only person in my family who truly noticed me. I spent a few summers with her at her horse ranch in Temecula. She was my favorite person growing up. She died when I was ten from an aneurysm that came out of nowhere. She was only fifty—so young, with so much left to do and be. I still missed her.
"I thought Gideon's sister works for Vogue in New York."
"That's Aunt Tonya. This is Aunt Maddy. She's his half-sister."
My parents had been happy to leave me with Aunt Maddy and I preferred it as well.
"How often did you see her?"
"From when I was seven to ten, I spent every summer with her," I told him. "Dad would drop me off at SFO and Aunt Maddy would pick me up in San Diego. She lived in Temecula. She raised horses. She was an equine therapist."
Damian leaned in, clearly interested. "She sounds like a remarkable woman."
"She was," I nodded, smiling at the thought. "She always encouraged me to see the world through an artist's eyes. Every time I paint I feel like she's watching over me."
Damian's gaze lingered on me for a moment, as if he was seeing me in a new light. "The painting you made last weekend is stunning. I can feel your pain just by looking at it, and I hate that I'm the one who caused it."
Not just you!
"My pain is my problem."
The waiter took our orders, and the Sommelier came to chat with Damian. They discussed various wines for dinner and finally settled on a Grenache, Syrah, and Mourvèdre Chateauneuf-du-Pape blend.
I liked wine. I wasn't militant about it. But Damian seemed to be really into it. The truth was that I didn't drink much. Since I was so small, a couple of glasses and I was ready to stand on tables and sing at the top of my lungs; or apparently, marry my sister's boyfriend at the Silver Bells Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas. I saved getting my drunk on for when I was either alone or with Moana. It was less humiliating.
Damian tasted the wine and approved it. He thanked the Sommelier who filled our glasses.
"To Aunt Maddy." He raised his glass, and I clinked mine against his. "You know, Em, there's a certain magic in the way you talk about your art. It's inspiring."
Before I could respond, the waiter arrived with our appetizers—delicately arranged plates of escargot and foie gras.
"You look very lovely tonight," Damian told me out of the blue.
I had put in some effort. I was so tired of being called the lesser sister that I went to Moana and asked her to do me up. Having waited years for this moment, she clapped her hands and called some friends over.
The end result was still me, just a much, much better version. One that I couldn’t sustain without the three women who had yanked and pulled and worked on me. One of Moana's friends worked for Mademoiselle magazine, and she was the one who had found me a dress.
Given my petite frame, Moana had put me in a form-fitting cocktail dress with a deep V-neckline and delicate spaghetti straps, adding a touch of elegance and allure (Moana's words not mine). The hemline hit just above the knee. The dress came from the designer closet at Mademoiselle as did the shoes that complimented the dress. They were classic, strappy stiletto heels in matching black, which were meant to enhance my look but made me feel conscious about not falling flat on my face. I was more comfortable in flats and sneakers.
Moana also made me wear a pair of her sparkling diamond stud earrings, a thin silver bracelet, and a small, elegant clutch bag in a metallic shade. Her other friend who ran a salon did my hair and makeup. She insisted that my hair was made to be styled in loose waves and not scrunched up in a knot. For the makeup, she kept it minimal but told me that the red lip was nonnegotiable.
"Thank you. Moana played fairy godmother," I explained.
"She is a good friend."
I smiled at that. "She's my best friend…my only friend."
"How's that even possible?" Damian asked as he reached for his glass of wine. "You're a fun and generous woman, why don’t you have more friends?"
"I'm an introvert who prefers to spend time in front of a canvas rather than with people?" I mused.
"You're funny and charming, Em. I'm so sorry that I didn't get to know you earlier."
My heart did that pitter-patter nonsense and to silence that shit, I said, "That's because no one notices me."
He put his hand on mine. "Sweetheart. I do. I always have."
"I call bullshit on that." I snatched my hand away.
I'll take emotions for five hundred.
This is worse than being invisible.
What is pity, Alex?
"I am serious, Em. I did. I…was with Bianca and…fuck, this is going to come out wrong but bear with me." He set his fork down. "She takes up a lot of space."
He was talking about her charisma not her size since she was a size four with curves. The best of all worlds, that was how good Bianca looked. Flat stomach but perky tits. Slender legs but juicy ass.
"Growing up under Bianca's shadow could not have been easy." He cupped my cheek. "I think you're wonderful. I think all of us who didn't get to know you are fools, and I'm the biggest one because I noticed you and…," he stroked my lips with a thumb, "I want to kiss you."
This man was giving me whiplash.
"Please," he whispered.
I nodded like a fool.
He leaned over and stroked his lips over mine.
"Open," he ordered softly.
I did and he groaned. It was a long, drugging kiss. My red lip would be all gone, I thought, as the magic of Damian took me over.
"Damian?"
I heard my sister's voice and flinched.
Bianca and a friend of hers were standing at our table. She looked at me like I had stabbed her, which I had. I married the man she loved.
"You brought her to our place?" There were tears in Bianca's eyes and I felt like the worst person in the world.
Damian for some reason didn't look guilty at all. I didn't know what to make of him.
He just sat, his arm possessively around me. "Hi, Bianca, how are you? Ginny," he addressed her friend. "Bianca, this is not our place. It’s Jean-Pierre's and mine."
"You know what I mean," Bianca's voice was raised, and people around us started to notice our drama.
Ginny wrapped a hand around Bianca's arm. "Let's go, darling."
Bianca was crying. Tears poured down her face. I hated myself.
I was about to say something when Bianca's friend turned on me. "You're such a cunt. She loves him…how could you destroy your own sister's life?"
"I'm—"
"Stop making a spectacle in public," Damian cut in smoothly. He looked bored like this was a nuisance and not worth his time.
Was I wrong in thinking he was still in love with Bianca? The man sitting next to me didn't seem to give a shit about his ex.
"Do you know she stole Bianca's prom date too?" the friend now launched on Damian.
The who what?
Bianca looked guilty as hell because I'd never stolen anything from her, well, except maybe the love of her life. But her prom date? I couldn't remember who he was, and Bianca was four years older than me, if I stole her date he'd be committing rape against a minor.
"I hate you, Emilia," Bianca announced loudly and stormed out of the restaurant with her friend.
There was silence across the French bistro except for Edith Piaf crooning about how she didn't regret anything—the complete opposite of how I felt.
"Should we leave?" I asked Damian.
He gave me a puzzled look. "Why?"
"Sheesh, Damian, we just…there was a scene," I whispered.
"Show's over everyone." Jean-Pierre clapped. "Please meet my partner and fifty percent owner of La Saveur, Damian Archer."
Damian rose and took a bow with a smirk like this was normal.
Jean-Pierre came to our table, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Never a dull moment with you."
"What can I say—I have mad skills." He winked at me and then focused on the chef, "I'm assuming everyone with a phone got that?"
"I think even people without phones got that," Jean-Pierre mocked.
I dropped my head. "God! We should've stayed home."
"Why?" Jean-Pierre asked.
I looked at him. "What do you mean why? Didn't you see what happened?"
"Sure. But you can't stay home all the time. Bianca knew you'd be here, and she came to do this. That's not on you. That's on her."
"Bianca came here on purpose?" I couldn't believe that. How would she even know?
Jean-Pierre shrugged. "I think my hostess is Team Bianca.”
"Team who?" I felt like I was living in an alternate universe. How was this my life suddenly?
"You better give your PR people a head's up," Jean-Pierre warned. He winked at me and went to speak with guests at other tables.
"This is going to be all over the Internet, isn't it?" I said bleakly.
"It certainly is," Damian sighed. "Actually, it already is."
"Let's go—"
"I'm here to enjoy a meal with my wife, which is what I fully intend to do. Come on, Em, you have to grow a thicker skin. This is what happens when you're an Archer."
He picked up his wine and toasted to one of the guests who was staring at us. That woman hurriedly looked away.
"The key is to genuinely not care, not just pretend you don't."
"If you don't care, then why did you want us to stay married?"
"Because that would make me look bad. This whole scene makes Bianca look like a jealous, lunatic ex."
I didn't get a chance to close my gaping mouth at his comment because our main course arrived. I could barely taste what looked like a succulent coq au vin paired with perfectly seasoned vegetables.
Damian didn't seem to have any problems digging into his steak frites cooked medium rare.
I thought we'd be silent and uncomfortable, but Damian was a consummate social being and he made it his mission to make me forget the ugly scene with Bianca. He succeeded.
"Have you been to any of our auctions?" Damian asked me when he told me about a Renoir that Archer Galleries was going to auction off at an exclusive event in a few weeks.
"No. But I have been to a few at Sotheby's when I was interning there."
"We do it better." Damian winked at me.
"Of course you do." I couldn't help but be drawn back into a good mood, which I hadn't thought was possible.
Conversation at our table eased, as if Bianca had never been there and told me she hated me.
We were having coffee and petit fours at the end of our meal when Damian asked me why I worked as a buyer for Bianca and my mother when I was a talented artist.
"They asked me for help. It was when they were starting out and they were desperate. I…couldn't say no."
"What were you doing then?"
"I'd just graduated and I had an offer with Sotheby's which I turned down. But when family asks, you show up, right?"
Damian kissed my forehead softly. "You're a generous soul, Emilia Archer."
"Still Winters. Never legally changed my last name."
I loved how Emilia Archer sounded and knew that kind of hope would only end in heartbreak. I'd seen Damian in action. I thought he'd loved Bianca and look at him now. He didn't love me, when our marriage was over, he probably wouldn’t even remember me.
"I don't care about legalities. You're an Archer. You're my wife." He nuzzled my cheek, and my heart went from calm to just ran a sprint from one beat to the next.
"Em, you smell so good." He kissed the corner of my mouth. "You ready to go home?"
I nodded like a fool because I loved that he called my loft home.
We were in the car and his driver was chatting with Damian. After the conversation ended, he raised the privacy screen and turned to me.
"What is this whole stealing of Bianca's prom date story?" Damian asked.
"I have no idea. I'd never do that. I know you think…I know I married her boyfriend but… I'm not like that."
Damian nodded. "Ex-boyfriend and I know."
"You believe me?"
He chuckled. "You were a virgin, Em. You obviously were not fucking Bianca's prom date and even if you weren't a virgin, from what I know about you, no way would you have done that. You and I got together after Bianca and I broke up. She had and has no claim on me. I was a free agent when we got married. You understand that, don't you?"
I tapped the side of my head. "I do here." I put a hand on my heart. "Here I feel tremendous guilt. Whenever I saw you with Bianca, it was clear how infatuated you were with her and her with you."
"Feelings change, Em."
"Love can disappear just like that?" I asked smiling sadly.
I knew it didn't because how I felt about Damian had taken root inside me and instead of becoming less intense was only growing. My crush had transformed into love—despite how he treated me. I think when people said that you can't control who you love what they were saying was that we human beings when it comes to our hearts have zero self-preservation instincts.
"Maybe it wasn't love." Damian shrugged and took my hand in his. "I thought it was but then it shouldn't feel the way it does."
"How does it feel?"
"I was irritated that she caused a scene, but I felt no pain. It should hurt, should it not?"
"She was crying."
He chuckled and kissed my knuckles. "You and I both know those were fake."
I leaned back on the leather seat and looked out of the window. "I don’t know about her tears, but I believed her when she said she hated me."
I closed my eyes against the pain of losing my family. All my life I'd tried to win them over and now there was no recourse. I was truly alone. I couldn't pretend anymore that my parents and sister cared about me even though they didn't show it. Even that fiction was taken away and I had to face the stark reality—I didn't have a family. I never did.
Damian gently turned my face toward him. "Don't be sad. She isn't worth it."
"She's my sister."
"And I'm your husband." He kissed me then and for that brief time when his tongue stroked mine, I forgot about my heartache and let him claim me.