Earlier in the day, anyone might have answered the door of her multi-million dollar home. One of the cleaning crew, her wedding planner, her chef.
But Cordelia had told them to all go home earlier than they really needed to. Even her tailor, in the middle of her final dress fitting, had been told to leave and come back tomorrow.
When she opened the Cordelia still wore the gown that she had mostly bought because her future mother-in-law had deemed it "vulgar". Maybe it was, but what was holy or sacred about this upcoming wedding?
The infidelity? The unspoken agreements to look away? The drug money?
Her entire life was spinning out of control, and she couldn't stop it. She had needed to be alone and think. The wedding was a mistake, it would all end in divorce, but she couldn't help herself from longing for how things had been with Pierre, once. For the time she had met him on the roof of the museum, when he had told her he had never seen anything so beautiful as the nape of her neck, and then he had kissed her as the fireworks that signaled a new year had shot above them.
She's stayed by him through the messy divorce from his previous wife, as his identical twin brother had appeared from nowhere and assumed his identity, as he had been kidnapped and held ransom by some French politicians while they were vacationing in Paris. But now, after all the drama and romance, all that was left seemed to be held together by the thinnest of threads.
Cordelia loved the excitement, and the glamour, and the money. But she missed the smell of leather and cigarette smoke and the feeling of being hugged like her ribs might break. She wanted to be thrown into a wall and hear the shatter of frames hit the wall. She wanted laughter and tears and passion. All that was left with Pierre were polite displays of affection when they were together in public.
She missed--
"Bert," Cordelia breathed as she opened the door. The light shone out from behind her into the night, illuminating the white gauze of her dress. "I knew it would be you."
no subject
But Cordelia had told them to all go home earlier than they really needed to. Even her tailor, in the middle of her final dress fitting, had been told to leave and come back tomorrow.
When she opened the Cordelia still wore the gown that she had mostly bought because her future mother-in-law had deemed it "vulgar". Maybe it was, but what was holy or sacred about this upcoming wedding?
The infidelity? The unspoken agreements to look away? The drug money?
Her entire life was spinning out of control, and she couldn't stop it. She had needed to be alone and think. The wedding was a mistake, it would all end in divorce, but she couldn't help herself from longing for how things had been with Pierre, once. For the time she had met him on the roof of the museum, when he had told her he had never seen anything so beautiful as the nape of her neck, and then he had kissed her as the fireworks that signaled a new year had shot above them.
She's stayed by him through the messy divorce from his previous wife, as his identical twin brother had appeared from nowhere and assumed his identity, as he had been kidnapped and held ransom by some French politicians while they were vacationing in Paris. But now, after all the drama and romance, all that was left seemed to be held together by the thinnest of threads.
Cordelia loved the excitement, and the glamour, and the money. But she missed the smell of leather and cigarette smoke and the feeling of being hugged like her ribs might break. She wanted to be thrown into a wall and hear the shatter of frames hit the wall. She wanted laughter and tears and passion. All that was left with Pierre were polite displays of affection when they were together in public.
She missed--
"Bert," Cordelia breathed as she opened the door. The light shone out from behind her into the night, illuminating the white gauze of her dress. "I knew it would be you."