Chapter 3
"If you'll excuse me, Alfred, I'm going to take a bath." She needed to get away from him; Satine was suffocating from his zealous attention and any moment she was going to break down and cry. Upon looking down, the diamond weighting down hand glittered as though it was mocking her. Satine wanted to rip it off and throw it in the grass.
"Of course."
"Goodnight, my dear." Disguising her misery, Satine turned herself back into the Sparkling Diamond, a persona that had been so easy to embody earlier but was now nearly impossible. "Goodnight, Satine darling. I will have the maids prepare your bath."
She was living openly at his France home. Satine could care less who thought this scandalous; it was better than living at the Moulin with the endless memories there to haunt her and Christian residing so close by. And with her career as a prostitute, she was no stranger to scandal.
Satine made her way up the heavy mahogany stairs lined with red velvet, trailing her hand across the balustrade. This would be her home. She would be Duchess Satine of Monroth. She'd live a life of discontent, restlessness. The Duke would want children; Satine couldn't bear the thought of having his children. Rabbity babies with red hair like hers. Children she would never be able to love as they were not the children of her true love, her Lancelot, her knight in shining armor, the only one she would ever love: Christian.
As she slid herself into the huge bathtub brimming with water and smelling of lavender, Satine's tears began to flow. Uncontrollable hot tears ran down her face and mingled with the bathwater. Although she tried to sob as quietly as possible, soon it became too hard to breathe and she was sure her loud gasping could be heard down the hall. Her chest cavity was totally devoid of a heart, empty forever. It was as hollow as could be, and she cared little now. She was a diamond and she had a heart of stone.
Satine contemplated submerging herself in the water forever. The maids would find her, auburn hair streaming like seaweed; face a ghastly shade of blue-gray. Death would come hurtling toward her like a comet and she would welcome it, for death was a far better fate than the mess she'd entangled herself in.
But who would come to her funeral? Harold, Marie, and the girls, of course. Alfred would be there, playing the role of the grieving fiancée. Would Christian come? A knife stabbed into Satine's heart when she realized that was doubtful. He cared nothing for her now; she had ruined their beautiful love with her selfish desire for fame and glory. Wiping away her tears, Satine stepped out of the bath not with a relaxed mind but a heavy heart. "Are you all right, Mademoiselle?" Asked one of the maids when she encountered the red-eyed Satine in the hallway. "I'm fine. I got a little soap in my eye; I shall be just fine, Amelia." She flashed the petite maid a smile in effort to disguise her unhappiness, but had a feeling that the girl knew her true feelings.
In her bedroom, she slipped into one of her fine French silk dressing gowns and sat at her vanity running a brush through her mass of tangles. "Mademoiselle?" Amelia's soft and timid voice could be heard on the other side of the door. "Master Alfred would like you to come down to his office for a cup of tea."
"Tell him I shall be right down, Amelia."
"Yes, Mademoiselle." "Amelia?" Satine called through the heavy wood of the door. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"Please, call me Satine."
"Yes, Mademoiselle . . .Satine."
"That's much better. Thank you." Satine pinched her cheeks to give them a little color; she had become so frightfully pale! Tying the white dressing gown around her, she slipped her feet into the matching silk slippers and headed down the hallways to meet Alfred.
The halls of Maison Blanche, Alfred's France home, were dark and masculine; mahogany and velvet, leather and paintings depicting a man's triumph over beasts. In the dark with only the dim gaslights to help her find her way, Satine found herself gasping at animal heads mounted on the walls. A deer, a buffalo, even the head of a tiger stared at her with their glassy death eyes and Satine couldn't help but feel akin to them. "Look at us," she whispered. "We're one and the same. We're prizes to hang on a wall or an arm, captured simply so he can display us for the world to see."
Padding softly across the red velvet carpeting, Satine came finally to the menacingly carved door leading to Alfred's study. She raised her hand cautiously and knocked three times, very softly. "Come in," came the snidely reply.
The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol hit her right away, smells that reminded her of the Moulin Rouge. The appreciation for the little she wore shone brightly in Alfred's seawater eyes and he smiled. "How was your bath?"
"Horrible," Satine wanted to say, but instead she beamed and replied, "Very nice."
"I hate this house! I hate this man!" Screamed her conscience. Satine quickly shoved that to the back of her mind. "Tea?" Alfred handed her a china cup and Satine took it, cupping her cold hands against the warmth.
"Mmm, thank you." "Darling?" Satine looked up and met his eyes. "I want to discuss our wedding." A blush arose in his cheeks and he squirmed in pleasure. "What do you want to discuss?" Uncomfortable with his suggestion, Satine stirred her tea and pretended to be fascinated with the pale liquid as it swirled around and around. "Shall we set a date?"
"I want to be married as quickly as possible." Satine stated flatly, barely looking up. "As do I."
"June twelfth." The date was an impulse to Satine, but when the words had left her mouth she instantly regretted it. "The first day we met." She said it with a smile, for it was also the day she had met Christian and fallen so completely in love. Alfred nodded. "I shall alert the papers."
"I want to be married in England." "Excuse me?" He lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "You want to be married in England?"
"Yes."
"How lovely! We can marry at my ancestral home, Monroth Manor. It's a splendid idea!" Alfred grinned, showing quintessentially British teeth and repulsing Satine. He advanced toward her. "He's going to touch me," thought Satine, trying not to shrink away in fear and disgust. "I don't want this . . .not tonight."
Alfred's hand was in her hair, stroking the damp curls. His lips were on her neck while the other hand roved to slip under the collar of her dressing gown. His fingers on her skin made her flesh crawl, but he mistook this for pleasure. "You like that?" Satine uttered a small cry, and yet again Alfred misunderstood. "Ah, yes, you do."
"Please, not tonight. I don't feel well." She managed, gasping out the words, her heart pounding all the way up to her throat.
"It's always 'No.' Tonight, it will not be 'No.' Tonight it will be MY way. You will be MY bride. Consider it your wedding gift to me." His voice was cold and menacing, sending shivers down Satine's spine. She squirmed but his firm grip withheld her from escaping. His dry, meaningless lips planted kisses all over her body. She hated him, hated him with the fire of a thousand suns.
He took her there, right on the desk of his study, the rough, dark surface scraping her back and making her bleed. Her dressing gown lay in shreds, torn by his passion and possession. "I own you," Alfred whispered into her ear while she shuddered. "You are mine." His thrusts into her aching, bleeding, fragile body were painful, making Satine bite her lip to fend off a scream until it bled too. "Mine. Mine. MINE!" He must have reached his climax, for the last word shook them both so violently Alfred was torn off her and down to the ground, Satine in his iron clench. When they toppled to the floor and her head made contact with that surface, she lost consciousness.
EOC3
"If you'll excuse me, Alfred, I'm going to take a bath." She needed to get away from him; Satine was suffocating from his zealous attention and any moment she was going to break down and cry. Upon looking down, the diamond weighting down hand glittered as though it was mocking her. Satine wanted to rip it off and throw it in the grass.
"Of course."
"Goodnight, my dear." Disguising her misery, Satine turned herself back into the Sparkling Diamond, a persona that had been so easy to embody earlier but was now nearly impossible. "Goodnight, Satine darling. I will have the maids prepare your bath."
She was living openly at his France home. Satine could care less who thought this scandalous; it was better than living at the Moulin with the endless memories there to haunt her and Christian residing so close by. And with her career as a prostitute, she was no stranger to scandal.
Satine made her way up the heavy mahogany stairs lined with red velvet, trailing her hand across the balustrade. This would be her home. She would be Duchess Satine of Monroth. She'd live a life of discontent, restlessness. The Duke would want children; Satine couldn't bear the thought of having his children. Rabbity babies with red hair like hers. Children she would never be able to love as they were not the children of her true love, her Lancelot, her knight in shining armor, the only one she would ever love: Christian.
As she slid herself into the huge bathtub brimming with water and smelling of lavender, Satine's tears began to flow. Uncontrollable hot tears ran down her face and mingled with the bathwater. Although she tried to sob as quietly as possible, soon it became too hard to breathe and she was sure her loud gasping could be heard down the hall. Her chest cavity was totally devoid of a heart, empty forever. It was as hollow as could be, and she cared little now. She was a diamond and she had a heart of stone.
Satine contemplated submerging herself in the water forever. The maids would find her, auburn hair streaming like seaweed; face a ghastly shade of blue-gray. Death would come hurtling toward her like a comet and she would welcome it, for death was a far better fate than the mess she'd entangled herself in.
But who would come to her funeral? Harold, Marie, and the girls, of course. Alfred would be there, playing the role of the grieving fiancée. Would Christian come? A knife stabbed into Satine's heart when she realized that was doubtful. He cared nothing for her now; she had ruined their beautiful love with her selfish desire for fame and glory. Wiping away her tears, Satine stepped out of the bath not with a relaxed mind but a heavy heart. "Are you all right, Mademoiselle?" Asked one of the maids when she encountered the red-eyed Satine in the hallway. "I'm fine. I got a little soap in my eye; I shall be just fine, Amelia." She flashed the petite maid a smile in effort to disguise her unhappiness, but had a feeling that the girl knew her true feelings.
In her bedroom, she slipped into one of her fine French silk dressing gowns and sat at her vanity running a brush through her mass of tangles. "Mademoiselle?" Amelia's soft and timid voice could be heard on the other side of the door. "Master Alfred would like you to come down to his office for a cup of tea."
"Tell him I shall be right down, Amelia."
"Yes, Mademoiselle." "Amelia?" Satine called through the heavy wood of the door. "Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"Please, call me Satine."
"Yes, Mademoiselle . . .Satine."
"That's much better. Thank you." Satine pinched her cheeks to give them a little color; she had become so frightfully pale! Tying the white dressing gown around her, she slipped her feet into the matching silk slippers and headed down the hallways to meet Alfred.
The halls of Maison Blanche, Alfred's France home, were dark and masculine; mahogany and velvet, leather and paintings depicting a man's triumph over beasts. In the dark with only the dim gaslights to help her find her way, Satine found herself gasping at animal heads mounted on the walls. A deer, a buffalo, even the head of a tiger stared at her with their glassy death eyes and Satine couldn't help but feel akin to them. "Look at us," she whispered. "We're one and the same. We're prizes to hang on a wall or an arm, captured simply so he can display us for the world to see."
Padding softly across the red velvet carpeting, Satine came finally to the menacingly carved door leading to Alfred's study. She raised her hand cautiously and knocked three times, very softly. "Come in," came the snidely reply.
The smell of cigar smoke and alcohol hit her right away, smells that reminded her of the Moulin Rouge. The appreciation for the little she wore shone brightly in Alfred's seawater eyes and he smiled. "How was your bath?"
"Horrible," Satine wanted to say, but instead she beamed and replied, "Very nice."
"I hate this house! I hate this man!" Screamed her conscience. Satine quickly shoved that to the back of her mind. "Tea?" Alfred handed her a china cup and Satine took it, cupping her cold hands against the warmth.
"Mmm, thank you." "Darling?" Satine looked up and met his eyes. "I want to discuss our wedding." A blush arose in his cheeks and he squirmed in pleasure. "What do you want to discuss?" Uncomfortable with his suggestion, Satine stirred her tea and pretended to be fascinated with the pale liquid as it swirled around and around. "Shall we set a date?"
"I want to be married as quickly as possible." Satine stated flatly, barely looking up. "As do I."
"June twelfth." The date was an impulse to Satine, but when the words had left her mouth she instantly regretted it. "The first day we met." She said it with a smile, for it was also the day she had met Christian and fallen so completely in love. Alfred nodded. "I shall alert the papers."
"I want to be married in England." "Excuse me?" He lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "You want to be married in England?"
"Yes."
"How lovely! We can marry at my ancestral home, Monroth Manor. It's a splendid idea!" Alfred grinned, showing quintessentially British teeth and repulsing Satine. He advanced toward her. "He's going to touch me," thought Satine, trying not to shrink away in fear and disgust. "I don't want this . . .not tonight."
Alfred's hand was in her hair, stroking the damp curls. His lips were on her neck while the other hand roved to slip under the collar of her dressing gown. His fingers on her skin made her flesh crawl, but he mistook this for pleasure. "You like that?" Satine uttered a small cry, and yet again Alfred misunderstood. "Ah, yes, you do."
"Please, not tonight. I don't feel well." She managed, gasping out the words, her heart pounding all the way up to her throat.
"It's always 'No.' Tonight, it will not be 'No.' Tonight it will be MY way. You will be MY bride. Consider it your wedding gift to me." His voice was cold and menacing, sending shivers down Satine's spine. She squirmed but his firm grip withheld her from escaping. His dry, meaningless lips planted kisses all over her body. She hated him, hated him with the fire of a thousand suns.
He took her there, right on the desk of his study, the rough, dark surface scraping her back and making her bleed. Her dressing gown lay in shreds, torn by his passion and possession. "I own you," Alfred whispered into her ear while she shuddered. "You are mine." His thrusts into her aching, bleeding, fragile body were painful, making Satine bite her lip to fend off a scream until it bled too. "Mine. Mine. MINE!" He must have reached his climax, for the last word shook them both so violently Alfred was torn off her and down to the ground, Satine in his iron clench. When they toppled to the floor and her head made contact with that surface, she lost consciousness.
EOC3