Azalea Faye Larau - The sweetheart socialite with a fire underneath and an up and coming ballet dancer in London striving to stay afloat in an ocean of sharks, all the while dealing with heartbreak and loss.
Harlan Emeric Marchetti - The Italian Maf...
"Nobody can love you in the way I do and when you're hurt, I'm hurting too, in your darkest hour, I'll be there for you."
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The breakfast ended in a haze of tension, the heavy silence only broken by the occasional clink of silverware. My thoughts were elsewhere, still swirling around Harlan's presence, the uncertainty in my heart, and the way my family seemed to be watching every move we made.
I could feel their eyes on us—Harlan, in particular—and the weight of their silent judgment was unbearable.
As the meal concluded, the murmurs from the rest of the table were muted and I felt an unsettling pull in my chest.
I wanted to speak to them, to ask questions, but everything felt like it was laced with secrecy. I could sense that Harlan was watching me, his eyes focused, calculating.
Once breakfast was over, Harlan stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden movement made everyone pause, their eyes shifting to him and their expressions wary.
"I need to speak with Azalea. Alone." He said, his voice steady and authoritative.
The moment his words hung in the air, Papa and uncle Gabriel exchanged a quick glance, and Celine, who had been quiet up until now, cleared her throat. Her smile was tight, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Harlan interrupted before she could.
"I believe," He said, his voice colder and lower than before, "That this is between me and fiancé."
The tension in the room thickened, palpable like an impending storm and the family didn't look particularly pleased with his demand.
Papa narrowed his eyes at Harlan, his hand resting on the arm of his chair, his fingers curling ever so slightly. Uncle Gabriel's expression was harder now, the disapproval evident.
"It's not that simple, Marchetti," Uncle Gabriel said in a low voice, his tone sharp and cold, "She's not just yours to call on whenever you feel like it."
But Harlan wasn't moved by his words as He stood his ground, his gaze unwavering as he met the older man's eyes.
"She's my fiancée Mr. Blanc." The words were carefully chosen, each one an assertion of power, control, and the undeniable truth of our arrangement.
Azalea is mine, he seemed to be saying without saying it outright, and it was clear that his patience had run thin.
For a few moments the room fell quiet again, the air thick with unspoken challenges. I could feel the weight of everyone's scrutiny but when Harlan finally spoke again, his voice was calmer, yet firm.
"Come on, butterfly." He placed his hand on my shoulder when I nodded, standing up to follow him.
