Ma Soleil
Chapter Ten: All the Things She Said
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
Oh, yeah, and the title is taken from that Tatu song. I don't actually like them, but it just seemed to fit perfectly with the whole idea of this chapter.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
Victor Creed squirmed in his suit, despising the chrome-hued jacket and slacks he wore, despising the black leather belt spanning his waist, despising the navy-blue button-up shirt he wore, and the pinch-toed dress shoes constricting his feet. But most of all, he despised the golden silk tie around his throat, tight and strangling, much like a noose. Creed hated nooses. Once, in Serbia…but he preferred not to dwell on such things. At least Monet was looking beyond edible in that shimmering evening gown that matched the very tie he so hated. It slit high up to her thighs on both sides, and the mile-high heels she was in showed off her yards-long legs to a fantastic advantage. Though he was having a little trouble restraining himself, especially with her hand creeping up his leg like that, he managed to keep to himself for the duration of the limousine ride.
The things he loved about Monet was that, though she spoke continuously and yet made not attempt to actually enter a real conversation with him, the things she said made sense, and her voice was low and a little smoky, which, combined with her soft, lisping French accent, lent her an understatedly sexy aura.
And it was their six-month anniversary. Victor had it all planned out, and the little episode that morning had made it only that much easier to persuade her to show herself in her full regalia. First, there would be dinner at the Four Seasons, dancing at the hottest new club in the city, Blue Diamonds, then passionate sex at a suite in the Plaza, where he'd give her an anniversary gift he could only hope she'd love. Even that overly romantic little turd of a Summers would be impressed.
"Victor?" Monet squeezed his leg gently, which nearly had him jumping out of his skin, "What are you thinking, mon amour?"
He grinned and took her hand in his, if only to remove it from his thigh, and raised it to his lips. "I'm thinkin' that I hope yer hungry, beautiful."
"So I am. And look, here we are." She smiled. They had indeed arrived, and the valet pulled the limo door open in a single smooth movement. Victor climbed out, turned to take his girlfriend's hand, and led her up the walk, through the doors, which were scrupulously opened. They had little trouble at the Maître d's, and were directly escorted toward a table.
The scents in the air were mixed and a little disconcerting, but something caught Creed's nose the moment he stepped inside. While Monet perused the menu, he glanced anxiously about himself. *It can't be. It can't. Argh, damn the woman!* as he turned to his left, he spotted her.
Rebecca. Wearing a dress of muted wine with a plunging neckline and long, wide sleeves. The skirt cut off at mid-thigh and rode dangerously high as she drummed the heels of her six-inch stilettos on the carpet. She looked-well, beautiful. Her eyes were highlighted with careful and subtle detail, her cheekbones sculptured and classic in the soft light, her lips, lusciously painted in 30s cabaret red. . .
And she wasn't alone, either. Victor felt a low growl build in his chest as he sighted the man opposite her. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and had dark skin and a halo of curly brown hair. His eyes were deep, foresty green and his jaw was square and modelesque. He was tall and of medium, athletic build. He was certainly very good-looking, with sharp, precise, bad-boy features and a presence about him that Creed was sure a vast majority of women would appreciate, including Rebecca.
He didn't know the man's scent, so it was nominally safe to assume he was not a mercenary or an Operative for some random government nosing round Rebecca for information.
They looked to be engrossed in deep conversation, and from what Creed could register, they both were fairly interested physically in one another. When the schmuck reached across the table and touched Rebecca's hand, it was all Creed could to restrain himself from leaping up and decapitating him. . .
"Victor? Mon amour, what's wrong? You seem so preoccupied," Monet asked softly, sliding her foot up Victor's leg. He instantly came to attention, and the fixed snarl that had begun to assert itself on his face vanished rapidly.
"Oh, Monet! Whatch'ya want, beautiful?"
"I've ordered. The waiter would like to take your selection, mon amour."
"Oh, I'll have the same as her, an' bring around a bottle o' Don Perignon while yer at it, willya?" he said quickly, fighting the urge to snap out his claws and disembowel the man opposite his ex-wife.
As the waiter left with his ridiculous, mincing trot, Monet tapped his hand. "Is that Rebecca?"
"Yeah," Victor replied, without looking around.
"You smelled her and you didn't. . .oh my. Who is she with?" her voice dropped an octave, signifying interest.
"Dunno. Some bastard unfortunate enough ta deceive himself inta believin' she's actually interested in 'im."
Monet grinned. "You're so bitter, Victor. One would hardly guess by the way you familiarly banter with her!"
"I ain't bitter. I'm jest concerned."
"For Rebecca? Or for the 'unfortunate bastard'?"
Victor snorted. "Ain't sure."
"From their surface thoughts, they seem to be enjoying themselves."
"Don't scan 'er!" Victor cautioned, but too late. Rebecca had already turned, and noticed both of them. Her scent became alarmed, and she abruptly seized a menu and buried her face in it.
"She seems rather discomfited at having been detected," observed Monet.
"Let's just leave 'er alone." Suggested Victor.
"Well that would hardly be fair, let's politely introduce ourselves, and I want to meet her date!"
"It ain't none o' our business!"
"What if he's a Skrull, or a member of the FoH?"
"I'm sure Beck can handle herself just fine."
"But mon amour," Monet pouted prettily. So because Victor also wanted to meet her date (primarily to castrate and torture him), he grunted and helped her stand up. They meandered their way across the restaurant floor, and confronted the couple.
"Evenin', Beck. Fancy meetin' you here."
"Victor! Miss St. Croix! I hadn't noticed you," Rebecca lied easily. "Guillaume, darling, I'd like for you to meet Victor Creed and Monet St. Croix. Miss St. Croix went to school with my brother, and I've known Victor since I was nearly a child. Vic, Monet, this is Guillaume l'Rivière."
The young man stood and shook Victor's, then Monet's hands coolly, ignoring the over firm grip Creed was forcing on him with expressionless politesse. When he spoke, his voice was like liquid sex, dropping suggestively when there was nothing to suggest, in an accent as familiar as the morning sun to both Victor and Monet. "Bonjour, mes amis. It's all a pleasure. Woul' y' like t' join us fo'e dinner?"
Monet gave him a charming smile. "We'd hate to intrude. Besides, it's our six-month anniversary,"
"Oh, well, den. Congratulations, M'sieu' Creed, Mademoiselle St. Croix."
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Rebecca's voice was ever-so-mildly reprimanding. Victor felt like throwing her against a wall and giving her a good, stern talking-to. What or who the hell did she think she was?
"I suppose," Monet was already taking her polite leave of them, so Victor exchanged another frigid handshake with l'Rivière, and escorted her back to their table.
Victor, what the fuck are you doing here? the frantic psionic channel opened without warning, but Creed managed to cover his alarm.
Sorry 'bout yer date, but Monet an' I are here celebrating our anniversary,
Oh, ARE you?
Do ya really think yer so important as that? That I'd stalk ya, use my anniversary as an excuse just ta see ya? How low do ya think I'll go, Beck? How fuckin' low? Cause I'm sure I can meet and surpass any expectations ya have o' me. Just try me.
Hey, you think YOU'RE frustrated? I haven't seen Guillaume in years, all right? And the moment I do, you and M come charging into the very place we're having some decent, civilized conversation.
Who the hell IS this guy, Beck?
Just a friend.
Oh? Just a friend. With a Cajun accent? An' intonations like LeBeau? I don't think so.
Yes, he's just a friend. So what if Gambit introduced me to him? We get along a lot better than you and I. Now, we've finished eating, and we're just going to get drinks. Can I trust that this will be the end of your evening with Monet? I'm meeting Natty later at Blue Diamonds for a few.
Sinister?
It's a completely harmless meeting.
S'what I was told when I joined the Marauders,
Oh, fuck off!
Ya can't go ta Blue Diamonds. Monet an' I'll be there.
Fine, I'll just call him and tell him to meet me at the Mansion. Oh, and I'll remind him of a certain dumb arse feral who somehow manages to fuck up his best-laid plans.
See, now yer just braggin' about Logan.
Rebecca rolled her eyes mentally. Shove it. So where am I supposed to go, then? I can't very well just go home before my evening's out.
Sure ya can! Yer single, ya don't have no obligations.
I'm single, that's WHY I'm out here. I'm thirty-fucking-three, Vic, I need to reassert myself as a woman before this divorce starts wearing out my ego. Yes, that's right, you did something to dent it. Are you proud of yourself?
Victor swore under his breath. I thought this was a mutual thing, Beck. Dammit, I thought you wanted out as much as I did!
Who says I didn't?
Don't even try that one on me, Beck. Yer talkin' in yer own personal lil' code, an' ya ferget that I deciphered it a long time ago. It ain't gonna work. So yer unhappy. How's that my fault? I was the one who initiated th' relationship, an' you were the one bitchin' about it fer sixteen fuckin' years!
Fuck you, Creed, her psi-voice turned frigid and she pulled abruptly out of his mind. Victor saw her, as though in a dream, touch her date's hand and murmur something to him. He heard something to the effect of "I have to use the restroom," and watched her get up and leave. But she wasn't going to the restroom. She was running away, pure and simple. Vic locked eyes with Monet.
"Lissen, darlin', I don't want Beck ta do anythin' stupid. I know she's got somethin' with more'n average firepower in her stockin's, an' she's just left the building angry. Can ya manage fer a few without me?"
"I thought you said she could handle herself," Monet whispered snidely, describing a circle around the lip of her crystal champagne flute.
"From the scents I'm pickin' up, she ain't so stable as I thought. Gimme a second?"
"Of course,"
"I love ya," Victor rose quickly and followed Rebecca outside, watched her don a long, fur-trimmed overcoat and trot outside, request a cab from the doorman. "Beck! Beck, damn it! What th' hell do ya think yer doin'?"
"Leaving."
"Ta where?"
"The mansion, you stupid fuck, where do you THINK I'm going?" she hissed.
"Ya can't usually tell, with you. An' what about your date?"
"He knows what I do. He'll understand."
"But I don't."
"What don't you understand, Vic? That I want to fall in love again or that you dented my ego? Because to me, those are the only two issues I can see." She looked very pale, perhaps about to faint.
"I see two issues, too, Beck, an' those ain't them," Victor steadied her shoulders with his big, golden hands. "I see you tryin' ta make something different of a life ya won't let go of, an' I see ya tryin' ta get over me. The thing I don't understand is why th' hell would ya need ta get over me if ya never felt anything fer me in the first place?"
"Who says I didn't?" she inquired coldly, her voice not revealing a single nuance of emotion. "Who says I never loved you? Who says it didn't devastate me when you left? For a woman who's always made it her priority to remind me that I was about as low down as shit, no less."
"What, so ya think Monet's just with me fer some screwed-up hatred she's always had fer you? Ya think she only says she loves me cause she don't like you?"
"Did I say that? No. I didn't. I just said she never liked me. Hell, she made Jono believe anything she wanted, why the hell shouldn't she manipulate you?" a cab pulled in, and the doorman opened for her. "I don't care about your damn relationship with Monet, Victor. I do care about you, no matter what you think, and I'd like it very much if you'd not ask me why my behavior is so irrational tonight. I think I need to do more field-work. I've gotta go. I love you, Victor." She refused to make eye-contact with him as she slid into the cab and slammed the door behind her. It drove off into the eddying traffic just as Creed's mind was beginning to process just what he had heard.
Stumbling back into the restaurant, he sat heavily in his seat. Rebecca's date was gone. He idly noted the entrées had arrived. Monet was smiling at him as though he'd never left. There was nothing different about his life. Nothing. Damn, he was in denial.
"No," he murmured angrily.
"No what, mon amour?" Monet inquired, taking one of his hands in both of hers. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Shall we eat?"
"How's about a toast?" he forced himself to form the words. Hell, it was only polite to give a decent toast on his first six-month anniversary since God-knew-when.
Monet smiled and lifted her filled champagne glass, making some flowery speech Victor scarcely listened to and which stretched over five minutes or more. All he could say was that it ended in "To us," and that they both drained their flutes.
For the remainder of the evening, the only words he really heard were the ones repeating in his head, accompanied by the unusual desperation in Rebecca's stormy blue eyes. All he heard was, "I love you, Victor,"
And he couldn't say, truthfully, that he didn't love her in return.
XXX
Chapter Ten: All the Things She Said
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
Oh, yeah, and the title is taken from that Tatu song. I don't actually like them, but it just seemed to fit perfectly with the whole idea of this chapter.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
Victor Creed squirmed in his suit, despising the chrome-hued jacket and slacks he wore, despising the black leather belt spanning his waist, despising the navy-blue button-up shirt he wore, and the pinch-toed dress shoes constricting his feet. But most of all, he despised the golden silk tie around his throat, tight and strangling, much like a noose. Creed hated nooses. Once, in Serbia…but he preferred not to dwell on such things. At least Monet was looking beyond edible in that shimmering evening gown that matched the very tie he so hated. It slit high up to her thighs on both sides, and the mile-high heels she was in showed off her yards-long legs to a fantastic advantage. Though he was having a little trouble restraining himself, especially with her hand creeping up his leg like that, he managed to keep to himself for the duration of the limousine ride.
The things he loved about Monet was that, though she spoke continuously and yet made not attempt to actually enter a real conversation with him, the things she said made sense, and her voice was low and a little smoky, which, combined with her soft, lisping French accent, lent her an understatedly sexy aura.
And it was their six-month anniversary. Victor had it all planned out, and the little episode that morning had made it only that much easier to persuade her to show herself in her full regalia. First, there would be dinner at the Four Seasons, dancing at the hottest new club in the city, Blue Diamonds, then passionate sex at a suite in the Plaza, where he'd give her an anniversary gift he could only hope she'd love. Even that overly romantic little turd of a Summers would be impressed.
"Victor?" Monet squeezed his leg gently, which nearly had him jumping out of his skin, "What are you thinking, mon amour?"
He grinned and took her hand in his, if only to remove it from his thigh, and raised it to his lips. "I'm thinkin' that I hope yer hungry, beautiful."
"So I am. And look, here we are." She smiled. They had indeed arrived, and the valet pulled the limo door open in a single smooth movement. Victor climbed out, turned to take his girlfriend's hand, and led her up the walk, through the doors, which were scrupulously opened. They had little trouble at the Maître d's, and were directly escorted toward a table.
The scents in the air were mixed and a little disconcerting, but something caught Creed's nose the moment he stepped inside. While Monet perused the menu, he glanced anxiously about himself. *It can't be. It can't. Argh, damn the woman!* as he turned to his left, he spotted her.
Rebecca. Wearing a dress of muted wine with a plunging neckline and long, wide sleeves. The skirt cut off at mid-thigh and rode dangerously high as she drummed the heels of her six-inch stilettos on the carpet. She looked-well, beautiful. Her eyes were highlighted with careful and subtle detail, her cheekbones sculptured and classic in the soft light, her lips, lusciously painted in 30s cabaret red. . .
And she wasn't alone, either. Victor felt a low growl build in his chest as he sighted the man opposite her. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and had dark skin and a halo of curly brown hair. His eyes were deep, foresty green and his jaw was square and modelesque. He was tall and of medium, athletic build. He was certainly very good-looking, with sharp, precise, bad-boy features and a presence about him that Creed was sure a vast majority of women would appreciate, including Rebecca.
He didn't know the man's scent, so it was nominally safe to assume he was not a mercenary or an Operative for some random government nosing round Rebecca for information.
They looked to be engrossed in deep conversation, and from what Creed could register, they both were fairly interested physically in one another. When the schmuck reached across the table and touched Rebecca's hand, it was all Creed could to restrain himself from leaping up and decapitating him. . .
"Victor? Mon amour, what's wrong? You seem so preoccupied," Monet asked softly, sliding her foot up Victor's leg. He instantly came to attention, and the fixed snarl that had begun to assert itself on his face vanished rapidly.
"Oh, Monet! Whatch'ya want, beautiful?"
"I've ordered. The waiter would like to take your selection, mon amour."
"Oh, I'll have the same as her, an' bring around a bottle o' Don Perignon while yer at it, willya?" he said quickly, fighting the urge to snap out his claws and disembowel the man opposite his ex-wife.
As the waiter left with his ridiculous, mincing trot, Monet tapped his hand. "Is that Rebecca?"
"Yeah," Victor replied, without looking around.
"You smelled her and you didn't. . .oh my. Who is she with?" her voice dropped an octave, signifying interest.
"Dunno. Some bastard unfortunate enough ta deceive himself inta believin' she's actually interested in 'im."
Monet grinned. "You're so bitter, Victor. One would hardly guess by the way you familiarly banter with her!"
"I ain't bitter. I'm jest concerned."
"For Rebecca? Or for the 'unfortunate bastard'?"
Victor snorted. "Ain't sure."
"From their surface thoughts, they seem to be enjoying themselves."
"Don't scan 'er!" Victor cautioned, but too late. Rebecca had already turned, and noticed both of them. Her scent became alarmed, and she abruptly seized a menu and buried her face in it.
"She seems rather discomfited at having been detected," observed Monet.
"Let's just leave 'er alone." Suggested Victor.
"Well that would hardly be fair, let's politely introduce ourselves, and I want to meet her date!"
"It ain't none o' our business!"
"What if he's a Skrull, or a member of the FoH?"
"I'm sure Beck can handle herself just fine."
"But mon amour," Monet pouted prettily. So because Victor also wanted to meet her date (primarily to castrate and torture him), he grunted and helped her stand up. They meandered their way across the restaurant floor, and confronted the couple.
"Evenin', Beck. Fancy meetin' you here."
"Victor! Miss St. Croix! I hadn't noticed you," Rebecca lied easily. "Guillaume, darling, I'd like for you to meet Victor Creed and Monet St. Croix. Miss St. Croix went to school with my brother, and I've known Victor since I was nearly a child. Vic, Monet, this is Guillaume l'Rivière."
The young man stood and shook Victor's, then Monet's hands coolly, ignoring the over firm grip Creed was forcing on him with expressionless politesse. When he spoke, his voice was like liquid sex, dropping suggestively when there was nothing to suggest, in an accent as familiar as the morning sun to both Victor and Monet. "Bonjour, mes amis. It's all a pleasure. Woul' y' like t' join us fo'e dinner?"
Monet gave him a charming smile. "We'd hate to intrude. Besides, it's our six-month anniversary,"
"Oh, well, den. Congratulations, M'sieu' Creed, Mademoiselle St. Croix."
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Rebecca's voice was ever-so-mildly reprimanding. Victor felt like throwing her against a wall and giving her a good, stern talking-to. What or who the hell did she think she was?
"I suppose," Monet was already taking her polite leave of them, so Victor exchanged another frigid handshake with l'Rivière, and escorted her back to their table.
Victor, what the fuck are you doing here? the frantic psionic channel opened without warning, but Creed managed to cover his alarm.
Sorry 'bout yer date, but Monet an' I are here celebrating our anniversary,
Oh, ARE you?
Do ya really think yer so important as that? That I'd stalk ya, use my anniversary as an excuse just ta see ya? How low do ya think I'll go, Beck? How fuckin' low? Cause I'm sure I can meet and surpass any expectations ya have o' me. Just try me.
Hey, you think YOU'RE frustrated? I haven't seen Guillaume in years, all right? And the moment I do, you and M come charging into the very place we're having some decent, civilized conversation.
Who the hell IS this guy, Beck?
Just a friend.
Oh? Just a friend. With a Cajun accent? An' intonations like LeBeau? I don't think so.
Yes, he's just a friend. So what if Gambit introduced me to him? We get along a lot better than you and I. Now, we've finished eating, and we're just going to get drinks. Can I trust that this will be the end of your evening with Monet? I'm meeting Natty later at Blue Diamonds for a few.
Sinister?
It's a completely harmless meeting.
S'what I was told when I joined the Marauders,
Oh, fuck off!
Ya can't go ta Blue Diamonds. Monet an' I'll be there.
Fine, I'll just call him and tell him to meet me at the Mansion. Oh, and I'll remind him of a certain dumb arse feral who somehow manages to fuck up his best-laid plans.
See, now yer just braggin' about Logan.
Rebecca rolled her eyes mentally. Shove it. So where am I supposed to go, then? I can't very well just go home before my evening's out.
Sure ya can! Yer single, ya don't have no obligations.
I'm single, that's WHY I'm out here. I'm thirty-fucking-three, Vic, I need to reassert myself as a woman before this divorce starts wearing out my ego. Yes, that's right, you did something to dent it. Are you proud of yourself?
Victor swore under his breath. I thought this was a mutual thing, Beck. Dammit, I thought you wanted out as much as I did!
Who says I didn't?
Don't even try that one on me, Beck. Yer talkin' in yer own personal lil' code, an' ya ferget that I deciphered it a long time ago. It ain't gonna work. So yer unhappy. How's that my fault? I was the one who initiated th' relationship, an' you were the one bitchin' about it fer sixteen fuckin' years!
Fuck you, Creed, her psi-voice turned frigid and she pulled abruptly out of his mind. Victor saw her, as though in a dream, touch her date's hand and murmur something to him. He heard something to the effect of "I have to use the restroom," and watched her get up and leave. But she wasn't going to the restroom. She was running away, pure and simple. Vic locked eyes with Monet.
"Lissen, darlin', I don't want Beck ta do anythin' stupid. I know she's got somethin' with more'n average firepower in her stockin's, an' she's just left the building angry. Can ya manage fer a few without me?"
"I thought you said she could handle herself," Monet whispered snidely, describing a circle around the lip of her crystal champagne flute.
"From the scents I'm pickin' up, she ain't so stable as I thought. Gimme a second?"
"Of course,"
"I love ya," Victor rose quickly and followed Rebecca outside, watched her don a long, fur-trimmed overcoat and trot outside, request a cab from the doorman. "Beck! Beck, damn it! What th' hell do ya think yer doin'?"
"Leaving."
"Ta where?"
"The mansion, you stupid fuck, where do you THINK I'm going?" she hissed.
"Ya can't usually tell, with you. An' what about your date?"
"He knows what I do. He'll understand."
"But I don't."
"What don't you understand, Vic? That I want to fall in love again or that you dented my ego? Because to me, those are the only two issues I can see." She looked very pale, perhaps about to faint.
"I see two issues, too, Beck, an' those ain't them," Victor steadied her shoulders with his big, golden hands. "I see you tryin' ta make something different of a life ya won't let go of, an' I see ya tryin' ta get over me. The thing I don't understand is why th' hell would ya need ta get over me if ya never felt anything fer me in the first place?"
"Who says I didn't?" she inquired coldly, her voice not revealing a single nuance of emotion. "Who says I never loved you? Who says it didn't devastate me when you left? For a woman who's always made it her priority to remind me that I was about as low down as shit, no less."
"What, so ya think Monet's just with me fer some screwed-up hatred she's always had fer you? Ya think she only says she loves me cause she don't like you?"
"Did I say that? No. I didn't. I just said she never liked me. Hell, she made Jono believe anything she wanted, why the hell shouldn't she manipulate you?" a cab pulled in, and the doorman opened for her. "I don't care about your damn relationship with Monet, Victor. I do care about you, no matter what you think, and I'd like it very much if you'd not ask me why my behavior is so irrational tonight. I think I need to do more field-work. I've gotta go. I love you, Victor." She refused to make eye-contact with him as she slid into the cab and slammed the door behind her. It drove off into the eddying traffic just as Creed's mind was beginning to process just what he had heard.
Stumbling back into the restaurant, he sat heavily in his seat. Rebecca's date was gone. He idly noted the entrées had arrived. Monet was smiling at him as though he'd never left. There was nothing different about his life. Nothing. Damn, he was in denial.
"No," he murmured angrily.
"No what, mon amour?" Monet inquired, taking one of his hands in both of hers. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Shall we eat?"
"How's about a toast?" he forced himself to form the words. Hell, it was only polite to give a decent toast on his first six-month anniversary since God-knew-when.
Monet smiled and lifted her filled champagne glass, making some flowery speech Victor scarcely listened to and which stretched over five minutes or more. All he could say was that it ended in "To us," and that they both drained their flutes.
For the remainder of the evening, the only words he really heard were the ones repeating in his head, accompanied by the unusual desperation in Rebecca's stormy blue eyes. All he heard was, "I love you, Victor,"
And he couldn't say, truthfully, that he didn't love her in return.
XXX