Page 82 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane

“Awesome! I’m thinking about so many cool things.”

She has a plan and I wish she’d clue us all in so we can get on board. Even the bitch looks suspicious.

I shake my head as she prattles on, looking animated and excited. Hell, I’m a little jealous. I was skeptical when they started hanging out after she contacted him and more so when they started getting serious, but I can’t argue with the results. She’s happy, and that makes my heart warm.

The cat and me? We’re a match like two opposite poles—fire and ice, soft and hard—and we go together without a hint of drama. I’m not threatened by her choices; I’m thrilled for her. I wish our families hadn’t taken the odd twist that left me as the charity case when she’s gone. I could have had Victor, but I royally buggered that one when Wilde and I started seeing one another.

That’s another regret to go with the whole fall and winter fiascos that sent us reeling into the miasma of the here and now.

At least there will be alcohol and lots of it—I’m going to need it.

The Socialite Assesses The Damage

PHILOMENA

The rhythmic clink of ice against glass underscored the room’s murmurs as I took a discreet sip, watching the frenzy unfold from my vantage point. The bleach heads darted across the floor with an air of frenetic grace, their pale locks bouncing in unison as they arranged extravagant bouquets and draped silken fabrics over every imaginable surface. The unity of their movements was almost hypnotic — a well-orchestrated ballet of obedience.

Whether we agree or not, we have to plan for this den of iniquity the cat planned.

“Can you believe it?” murmurs Leo, his words barely audible. “A party now? Of all times?”

“Doesn’t make a lick of sense,” replies Hex, frowning as he adjusts a crooked centerpiece. His hands moved ceaselessly, but his eyes are clouded with uncertainty, searching for a reason amidst the opulence.

I know what gnaws at their minds. Why risk it all for a night of revelry? It seems a gambit born of whimsy, a fool’s errand wrapped in silk and tied with a bow of folly. They’re blind to Deli’s purpose, unable to see the threads of the web she’s weaving with such care.

“Hey,” Caesar beckons his companions closer, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think there’s a plan we’re not privy to? Some grand design hidden behind this madness?”

“Whatever it is,” says Leo, casting a wary glance in my direction, “the bitch hasn’t let us in on it.”

But I know. Oh, I know exactly why she’s summoning the chaos of celebration.

A glint of worry shimmers in my eyes as I look away—a flicker almost imperceptible amongst the rush of preparations. I move with purpose through the chaos that fills the backyard, hands deftly rearranging a misplaced goblet here, smoothing a wrinkle there. I'm the eye of a storm our friend has conjured herself and I take that role seriously.

“Everything has to be perfect,” I murmur to myself, though loud enough for me to catch the edge of concern beneath the determination. Rafe’s eyes meet mine, and in that brief exchange, I understand his silent plea. This masquerade isn’t just another extravagant whim; it’s a lifeline thrown into the depths of despair where the artist has confined himself.

He’s doing this to try to dig out of his hole of pain.

I shift my stance, leaning against the intricately carved gazebo, observing as he approaches the towering doors leading to his sanctuary. He pauses, hand hovering over the golden knob, resolve momentarily wavering before he moves away from it. The artist is endeavoring not to run away from us as we prepare the fake event for our leader’s approval.

“Make sure he has no choice but to join us,” I instruct Sahara. “Tell him it’s not just about him tonight—he needs to be present for everyone else to see, too.”

The brunette nods, a mixture of confusion and obedience in her posture, then scurries away to fulfill another task on her list.

“Will he even come out?” Siren asks, breaking our unspoken agreement to communicate only with glances and gestures. “He has been so closed off since his break-up with the ex-family.

“He will,” I reply without hesitation, my gaze once again climbing the stairs. “He must. The cat wants us all to present a united front.”

As my attention returns to the final touches of the gathering, I ensure each decorative element is aligned with Deli and Hex’s meticulous vision. I realize the depth of the cat’s gamble—it isn’t just a party. No, it’s an act of salvation, a ploy to draw the artist out from the shadows of isolation and into the light of camaraderie. She wants to remind him that life pulses beyond his door, vibrant and waiting.

Plus, she has to present the assassin to the public as her mate and the baby’s father.

In that moment, I know my role in this pageant is more than a mere planner. Deli’s silent command was clear: be vigilant, ready to guide Rafe gently into the throng, and ensure he finds his place in public again. She wants him to be able to function without those who have betrayed him, especially in the wake of her latest announcement.

The clink of ice against glass punctuates the hum of anticipation as I wander into the kitchen, my eyes scanning for the artist who disappeared while I was checking the edges of the party zone. He needs this—needs to be pulled from the quagmire of self-pity that has become his sanctuary. Tonight, he’ll face the music, or more aptly, the laughter and chatter of a house reborn in revelry.

The Maison has always been the hub of fun and pleasure—people need to know that will not change with the addition of the peacock to our brood.

I glimpse him at the pool house, hesitating as he watches us all flitter about. His hair, normally a wild tangle of disinterest of late, is now tamed and styled. Rafe is still wearing his normal informal gear, but for today that’s fine. He will need to dress for the fetish ball, but I’m okay with baby steps in this case. One foot after another, he is descending into life once more.

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