Fillip's POV:
After leaving the airport, we make it to my villa in Los Angeles. It is not as big as my mansion back in New York, obviously, nor are most of my other houses. This was the first house I ever owned; it was the view and the company that made it matter. Marie loved coming here; she loved the beach. She was as vibrant as the sky's blue and flowing like the shore's waves. She was once full of life, and I was too, until that night when life got sucked out of her and sucked mine along with it. That's why I've never set foot here since. I couldn't stand it, really.
This is the first time we have had a party held in LA, but since Stephan decided to relocate all his business last year, we are forced to come here, and since I am also the don of New York, I cannot not attend. I already did that last week at the third party for Christmas that was held in Las Vegas. I did not want to leave Fleur, mostly because of what she is capable of. Also, this is the last party of the year, on Christmas, which makes it even more impossible not to attend.
Even if I cannot stand Stephan. One, I have to pay respect since this is his new house and he attended the party at mine. On that disastrous night when he danced with Fleur, this man should never have been allowed to be in the vicinity of women. Two, as I said, it's the last party of the year, so I am really obliged to attend.
Fleur was in awe of this place; she knows how to hide it, though. I watched her take in the place carefully. Her face is stoic, but her eyes are glowing; she is absolutely mesmerised by the place. It makes me wonder; she has been to a lot of people's houses, yet every time she seems to be more and more taken aback by the luxury. What did this woman see if not glowing houses? I do not want to know.
"Balcony is that way," I tell her, pointing towards it. She does not need more directions; as she rushes to the balcony, opens it wide, and steps outside, her gasp can be heard from behind. For a moment, I see Marie; despite the hair and eye colour difference, it's just the same look of life Marie used to have on her face whenever we did come here. The same light, when the sun was not even shining in the sky. Right now, the sun was drowning in the water, and I have to say I missed the view of this place. People walking on the beach, voices so loud, or maybe there was just too much of them that their voice was reaching us. Even the waves crashing can be heard from here.
"This looks so beautiful," Fleur says, still in awe of the view. Who can blame her? New York has another type of magic. Discovering new things with every step you take, even if you have lived there for years while going unnoticed by the people. Here, you can't stop looking until you have devoured this place, and you are still hungry for more and more dazzling glamour. That is the allure of this place.
"Are you hungry?" I ask Fleur, breaking the moment of magic here.
"Not really, no."
"Well, lucky for you, I do not care, plus you slept through the whole flight; we are eating."
"I am sure if I had heard Christian and that woman, I would have thrown up anyway, and I also do not want to leave here."
"We can eat here if you want to," I tell her, and she asks if I am being serious. Telling her I am, we go back inside and into the kitchen, looking for food. I told one of the maids that was in here to bring out a table and two chairs. They came in here yesterday to clean this place. It had not been opened for six years. Everything here looks outdated, yet it has never looked more comfortable. Whoever came made food too; this is why me and Fleur are standing in the kitchen looking for something to pick from the fridge.
"Do you want beef or chicken?" she asks me, sticking her head in the fridge.
"You know you do sound like that flight attendant right now," she freezes, then turns around quickly. Well, I am not a dance choreographer, am I? I know when someone decides to attack, and right now she throws an apple, aiming it at my head. I catch it in midair, raise my eyebrow at her, and take a bite out of it. "Really, an apple?"
"How did you even—you know what I don't want to know—don't you ever compare me to this woman again, or anyone like her in that case," she says, scrunching her face at me.
"Fine, what are we eating, though?"
"Since you're a gentleman yourself, how about you pick us something out?" I leave the half-eaten apple on the marble aisle and take her place in front of the fridge, reaching for the first two plastic plates in front of me.
"What is this?"
"No idea; let's find out." I put the plates in the microwave, heating them just to the point where they don't explode and we all die. When it beeps, I take the food out, opening one of the drawers that I remember had the cutlery in and took out two forks. Then we walk back to the balcony, sitting on one of the chairs the maid moved outside.
Fleur sits down seconds later, taking a plate from my hand and removes the cover. She starts to eat. She was hungry then; she just did not want to say it. Turns out I chose both of us a plate with chicken in it. We start eating in silence, watching the sunset. When I am done, I say, standing up, "Have a good night's rest, Fleur." Then I leave her and make it to my room, supposedly to sleep, but I don't. I can't when Fleur is on my mind and Marie is everywhere.
**********
The next day, I didn't see Fleur until the afternoon. She'd stayed in her room as if mentally preparing for the party. I decided I couldn't just sit doing nothing until tomorrow, so I got up to cook so we wouldn't have to eat pre-prepared food either. That's when I finally saw Fleur.
"Cooking?" was the only word from Fleur's mouth as she leaned against the door frame of the kitchen's entrance, folding her arms. She was dressed in only shorts and a plain white shirt. Coal-black hair on one side, while her fair skin shined under the dim yellow lights of the kitchen. "I thought we had food in the fridge."
Ignoring what her bare neck had done to me, I answered, "I'm not a fan of overnight food. You should know that; you bring me my food all the time." I take a bite from the unpeeled cucumber next to me on the marble counter. "Now if you wouldn't mind just standing right there doing nothing—"
"What should I do?"
"Cut the chicken into little cubes, hmph Chicken Alfredo they call this recipe. If my Nona would have seen me cooking, she would have disowned me."
"Why cook it then?"
I thought a lot before answering, "Someone likes eating it that way."
"That someone must be very special."
"Yeah." I breathed, thankful that Fleur focused on cutting the chicken while I worked on the pasta and the sauce getting cooked on the stove. If she wasn't busy doing something else, she would have immediately noticed something about me when I answered her.
Wrapping one arm around Fleur, I reach for the pepper on her own counter. She gasps, craning her neck to look me in the eyes. "You don't need that," she stated.
"I don't? Seems like I need that too," I said, reaching for the salt with my other arm. Now she was trapped. Setting the Knife down, she turned around—still trapped between my arms that were resting on the counter—and started to hit me playfully on the chest.
"Get away, pervert."
"I'm no pervert if you enjoy it."
For a second, she stops the fight, taking in my words, then resumes, "How would you know? I still can't stand you. Now get the hell away." The part where she says she can't stand me, I felt. Even if she didn't 100 per cent mean it. She's not that fond of me; to an extent, she meant it, and it annoyed me so much to think she did.
I lowered my head so that now we were basically breathing in the same air, so close that our lips could have touched if anyone dared to move an inch closer, so close that her heartbeats were mixed with my own. Her lips, her perfect, magnetically ravishing lips, parted, just a bit, as I said. "I'm quite aware of my effect on women, Fleur..."
Glistening with something so hungry, her icy gaze deepened, as I am sure mine did, becoming warmer. Inviting me, her eyes were, no matter how her mouth tried to deny it, and I was taking the bait, "Now, Fleur, you're not just a woman... No, you're something even better." The heat between us only swelled as our gazes locked for longer than usual.
Just then, just as we were about to throw all the boundaries and all the walls built between us in the past three months to the ground, the sound of the sizzling flame—that could have just as much been my heart—broke us apart as we both ran to turn off the stove. All the white sauce is still overflowing, with bubbles coming out of the pot. After we stared at it for a while, as if waiting for something to happen, she started to leave. "I need to go," she said, rushing out of the kitchen, her hand running through her hair as she breathed in and out quickly.
I tried to fix the pasta as much as I could, and just when I was done serving my plate and was about to leave, Fleur returned.
"You are back?" It surprised me that she was, I thought she would just stay away until the party tomorrow.
"Didn't want you to eat alone," she simply explained.
Nodding, I serve her a plate as well, handing it to her. Without talking, we both head to the balcony, just like we did yesterday.
"It tastes good."
"You are lying."
"No, I am not. I would always make overcooked pasta anyway. My dad and Emma would complain, but I liked it." She explained, then zoned out a bit as she, I assume, thought about her family.
"What else?" I ask, sipping some of my scotch.
"What?"
"Tell me more about your family." She stared at me as if I were not real—something she was imagining.
"Um..." She finally starts a minute later," Well, my mom died when I was about sixteen; Emma was only 8 at the time, so I kind of became her mother as well. My dad had no interest in taking on my mother's role in any of our lives; he just worked. I think he used that as an excuse as to why he was always distant. I think he was just hurt. We reminded him of my mom; both of us looked like her."
"How did your mother die, if you don't mind me asking?"
"No, it's alright. She gave birth prematurely. She and the baby died while she was giving birth." To think this probably wasn't the hardest thing she went through—losing her mother and sibling—was heart-wrenching to think about.
"What about you?"
"A story for another time, Fleur."
"No that's not fair. I told you a lot of things."
I contemplated the idea for a while, drinking more of my scotch, before ultimately deciding to tell her a little about my childhood with Christian. She would laugh at everything foolish we did as children, and I would smile when she laughed in turn. It was an electrifying laugh. She also gave me a fair share of some of her more troublesome moments during her adolescence. Not that I am at all surprised she went to that length to annoy a teacher or to get back at a mean girl in school.
We sat there for hours, our empty plates beside our legs on the floor, until we had nothing more to say, so Fleur decided to get up. She approaches my chair to pick up the plate sitting next to my legs. When she bends downward, a part of her shirt is lifted, and I cannot help but stare. I was reminded of her yesterday on the plane. Between my legs. What I would do to get her back in that position.
When she was standing back up, she was close to my face, just like earlier. A fast breath escaped me from the surprise, she only leaned in to kiss my cheek. It's embarrassing what that did to me. I was acting like a high school student.
"Thank you, Fillip, for this night," she said slowly as she kissed my cheek. "Goodnight."
Then I was all alone on the balcony, staring at the beach in the distance, it took every bit of self-control in me not to get up after her and go to her room.