Page 33 of Downfall

Both their absences do.

I’m wearing a wraparound dress. It’s not what I’d planned but the dress I had intended was damaged. Soiled. If I didn’t know better I’d think Paris had spunked over it but I know better than that. Especially now. He’s so determined to get me pregnant that he wouldn’t have wasted any of it my clothes when he could shove it up me whenever he likes.

And he is. At every awful opportunity despite the fact that, as the weeks have gone by, he’s becoming more and more convinced that I really am infertile. Still, I’d rather he think that, rather he see it as some physical defect on my part than realise what it really is.

I hide the scowl at that thought, at the notion that he might just discover my real secret.

When my eyes fall on her, onhisex, I realise exactly how incestuous this place is. Lynne married a real estate magnate, a distant cousin of Roman’s, though he doesn’t bear the Montague name, he has similar enough features that every time I see him, my heart stops just a tiny bit before I recover, before I remind myself that it’s not Roman. That it’s someone else entirely.

She walks up to me, greets me warmly then disappears off to speak to someone. She’s a social butterfly. Better than me truth be told. Besides she has no reason to be off with me, she doesn’t know my history. Nobody here does.

Darius’s house is in the old colonial style with a great wooden surround and polished floors. The doors have been thrown open and the bay air is refreshing against the heat that’s been steadily building.

Soon most of these people will leave, will pack up their lives and disappear off. Most will vacate to the Hamptons, or some other millionaires playground. Normally I would go too. Paris and I have a beach house, a great monstrosity of a thing, completely to his tastes but at least when we’re there we are free of each other. He spends his days playing golf, drinking, sailing, whirling away the hours, while I spend as much time as I can anywhere else but where he is. It’s an unspoken agreement. One we danced around at the beginning but one that’s pretty much set in stone now.

Out of Verona we don’t keep the pretence. He is free and I am free. And for two blissful months of the year I can actually breathe.

Only this year it’s not happening. This year, I’m stuck in Verona, stuck because of his family. Because of the Blumenfelds.

I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. Back to the room.

I’m caught in a conversation with Paula Lewinksy. She’s new money and obviously so. From the way she smiles at me she’s desperate for me to give her my approval. If I were more of a bitch then I could easily make her life hell but I’m not that person. Instead I force myself to engage, to be polite, to act like I care what the cost of her latest shopping trip was and that yes, the dresses she bought are beautiful as she flashes them to me on her brand new jewel encrusted phone.

Around me a few people stir. It’s enough to draw my attention away and for a moment I think I’m hallucinating.

Because in the doorway is Otto Blumenfeld, beaming like a god damn Cheshire cat, and on his arm, looking so serenely beautiful, is Sofia Montague.

I blink expecting the mirage to crack. Expecting the woman to morph into someone else. Only she doesn’t. It’s her. It’s actually fucking her.

Sofia Montague.

She’s wearing a pale satin slip of a dress that makes her skin look like she’s actually glowing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so put together. Not that she’s a state normally but still, the Sofia I know leans towards dark hues, clothes that while stylish, cover.

But that dress is anything but.

Her eyes skim over the crowd now half gawping but she seems barely bothered. Otto murmurs something in her ear and she blushes before nodding. And then his arm is sliding around her waist, clearly keeping her beside him and he leads her over right to where I am by the drinks.

He picks up a champagne flute and hands it to her.

She thanks him so quietly, as if she’s afraid of her own voice, as if she’s had a whole personality switch, as if Otto Blumenfeld overwhelms her to the point of timidity.

“Rose.” Otto says smirking just a little. “I trust you know my date.” He emphasises the word enough for everyone to hear, like we can’t see it.

“I do.” I smile to hide my shock. “Sofia.” I tilt my glass, hopefully showing no enmity. I have nothing against her personally. Though she might be a Montague, though she might be sibling to the man who tore out my heart and stamped all over it, Sofia has never done anything to harm me.

And besides I’m still embarrassed about the whole lift incident.

“Rose.” She replies before sipping her drink.

God, what the gossip columns will say about this. A Montague and a Capulet sharing a drink. Worse still, a Montague on the arm of a Blumenfeld. My father is going to shit kittens when he hears.

And then I realise he’s going to take all that rage out on me because I was meant to stop this wasn’t I? Christ I’m screwed.

“Rose.” Darius says quietly as he slides beside me. His eyes flit between Otto and Sofia for a moment and then they reach my face. “Let me show you this new painting I’ve acquired. It’s exquisite and exactly to your tastes.”

I smile letting him lead me away, no, relieved that he is. I need a moment to think. To process.

We walk into an empty side room. The breeze is cooling but it does nothing to ease the rising fear in me.

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