A Flower Between the Thorns: A Mafia Romance [REWRITING]

Chpater 12: LA night two

Fillips's POV:

Today at 3 p.m., some makeup artists came to work on Fleur so they could get her ready for the party at 10. I am pretty sure if she had seen me at any time close to that, she would have shot me. She absolutely hated it. I mean, the screaming from upstairs that reached the living room gave it away.

"God, why did we even bring her with us again?" Luc asked, annoyed.

"Because I wanted to do so." He rolls his eyes at me, not answering.

"Come on, Luc, she is fun, all hard feelings aside, of course," Christian adds to the conversation. It's funny how he still makes fun of Luc for what Fleur did to him on her first day.

"Hey Christian, kill yourself," Luc says, and Christian bursts into laughter.

This conversation was cut short when the two makeup artists came down the stairs, breathing as if they had just run a marathon. "We are done," one of them says, smiling proudly as if they just hit a word record. It could not have been that bad, but yet again, I was not there.

"Thank you; Luc can pay you," I inform them, not waiting for a reply as I make my way to her room, only after making a stop at my room and bringing the dress Nina bought for her with me.

"You," she says, immediately leaving whatever she has in her hand and pointing at me.

"Me?"

"You have no right to make these people play with my face and hair like dolls."

"Did they now?" I made amusement clear in my voice; that makes her angrier. Before she says another thing, I bring out the dress and say, "Wear this."

She looks at me weirdly, then takes the thing from my hand. She turns it around, takes a look at the back, and throws it on the bed. "I am not going to wear this Fillip."

"why not?"

"I don't want to; I can't."

"I did not pick that out, if that's your concern."

"It is not that, Fillip; I just can't."

"Try it on."

"It is not going to look good, okay? Just listen to me."

"No, I don't have a valid reason to do so, so until I have one...Please wear it."

"No."

"You're coming with me, Fleur. And if you want to be representable, then you better wear this." My nose flared, and I didn't get why she disagreed.

"That's the only way to look representable with you, oh so fucking important Don of New York." She bit out, harshness coming out with every syllable.

"Yes." My answer was simple. Request clear. She gave me no reason not to wear it.

"Fine, get out so I can get changed." She sounded too angry.

Ten minutes later, I knock on her door, but she doesn't answer. I tell her I am coming in; she doesn't answer either, so I do. I walk inside the room, and I hear sniffing. She is facing the mirror; is she crying?

Her sniffs get louder and her back becomes clearer the more I walk into the dimly lit room. The dress has an open back, and when I am finally close enough, I understand. Taking an unsteady breath, she looks at me through the mirror. "Does it still look good?" she asks defensively, the harshness in her voice not subsiding.

"Who did this to you? Alberto did?"

Instead of answering me, she repeated her question. This time the words came out shakier, and tears started to mist her eyes.