Page 25 of Downfall

I get out of the car and the wind makes my hair whip across my face forcing me to tuck it behind my ears. I’ve styled it today in big waves to cover the damage of Paris’s destruction. I would have tied it up but I need the volume to stop the light from hitting my face at the wrong angle and showing the final vestiges of swollen flesh.

We’re meeting in the Bay District. The most expensive part. Every bar, every restaurant has a waiting list months in advance but we’re Capulets. Waiting lists are for the masses not for the likes of us.

The doormen greet me with polite hellos and I smile back with my heels clacking against the polished surface.

I’m wearing a navy jumpsuit with a subtle Hermes belt. It’s understated. The kind of outfit I feel most comfortable in.

The Plaza is a homage to old time Hollywood glamour and all that entails with art nouveau panels and great palms that could almost lull you into believing you’d actually travelled back in time.

As expected my mother has her favourite table, right in the middle, where she sits like a queen. She’s wearing classic Chanel with a string of pearls too.

“Rose.” She says smiling before hugging me and kissing either side of my cheeks.

I don’t know if she notices as I wince just a little. If she does she does mention it. Most of the bruising is gone. It’s more just colouring now that I need to hide but my makeup is doing a stellar job of that.

“Mother.” I say taking a seat opposite.

A waiter appears almost immediately and we order some drinks.

She fixes her eyes on me then takes my hand. Her nails are blood red, perfectly manicured, her skin looks ageless.

“He’s done it again hasn’t he.” She says quietly.

I frown. Perhaps she has been paying more attention than I gave her credit for.

“What was his reason this time?” She asks.

I shrug. “There’s always something.” I murmur. It doesn’t really matter anyway. My marriage isn’t about me. It’s about Paris. About what he brings to our family.

She squeezes my hand sympathetically. “But you’re handling it well. Not making a scene. Just keeping your chin up.”

I don’t reply. It’s pointless to say anything anyway.

“Does Darius know?” She asks.

I shake my head. No he doesn’t. Not that I think he’d do all that much if he did. Paris is his favourite nephew. He’s like a son to him.

“It is what it is.” I say because I don’t want her sympathy. After all I married him didn’t I? Not that I had that much choice but still, I made this bed, now I have to lie in it.

The waiter comes back with our drinks. A cappuccino for her. A flat white for me.

I take a sip grateful for the caffeine as well as the warmth of it.

“What of Otto, have you spoken to Darius about him?”

“No.” I say. “And I don’t know how. Father seems to be labouring under the illusion that I have a better relationship with Darius than I do.”

“You seemed pretty close this week.” She states.

I let out a small laugh. “Appearances are deceptive you know that.”

“Is that why Paris did that?” She asks.

I sigh. “He gets jealous.” I mutter. Besides that’s only half the story, the more palatable side though not by much.

“We can’t afford for Sofia Montague to marry Otto.”

“I know.” I say. “But I don’t think she’s going to.”

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