Free The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY by Rajeev Roy Page A

this way and this easily. But some way, Savannah Burns seemed so right. She just did. There’s no rational explanation to it .
    He regarded the big house.
    It was a dwelling his father had built with great love and care. Put together with black stone, its most remarkable feature was its single-storied nature. The structure was linearly spread, roughly in a ‘C’ shape. No multiple floors for the Butchers. The front porch led to a hall which bifurcated into two clear sections. The east wing was for the family. On this wing, there were rooms on both sides of the passageway. First was the living room, on the swimming pool side, the north side. Across the living room, on the south, was the family theater. Next to the theater came two Home Offices, one for President Grant and the other for Butcher Organization. Further up was the family kitchen, the pantry and the dining room. Then the laundry room and two storerooms, followed by the library and a pool room. Next to the living room on the north side, were the bedrooms, ten in all, all master-size. Wolf’s was the first.
    The west wing was chiefly for guests and visitors and kicked off with a media room on the south side. Across from this was the Great Room—sixty-five feet by forty. The west wing had its own kitchen, pantry, dining room, laundry room and storerooms, as also a bar. Further up was a theater, another library, a pool room, and a badminton hall. And still further westward were the guest bedrooms—a total of twelve.
    Wolf’s eyes suddenly misted. The sprawling house looked so cold and lifeless right now. At one time, it had been thriving. That was when there had been a little irresistible girl called Philippa. That was when there had been four more booming people—two men and two women. That was then. Only five now remained and the big house simply consumed them.
    As he slowly climbed the porch steps, he felt he was entering a haunted house—there was such an eerie feeling to it. He felt lonelier than ever before. Eleven days ago, he had been so upbeat.
    .
    F or the next three days, Wolf remained closeted in his room. He would check his mail every ten minutes; he remained rooted by the telephone near his bed, and carried his cellphone to the loo.
    With hope in his heart, Wolf waited.
    .
    T he evening of Sunday, March 23.
    After a quick dinner in his room (which the ever-obliging Rochelle had quietly provided—as she had done on so many occasions in the past three days, much to Grant’s consternation. He had wanted his boy at the dining table with him), Wolf shaved and showered.
    Suddenly he was upbeat, for the first time in two weeks. Something had lit in his heart, a sudden flame, some instinct that told him that Savannah would not fail the deadline. That she was merely playing it to the hilt, extracting every ounce of revenge. And she had every right to. Only if he suffered as she had, could he even come close to understanding the deep hurt he had caused her. And when she announced herself, he would be ready. If she came, he would without a pause take her in his arms. If she called, he would rush over to her.
    He put on his favorite suit: a light blue shirt on dark blue trousers and a similarly colored jacket, topped off by a blood-red tie with black spots. He looked in the mirror and he smiled. His face glowed, his eyes sparkled, and he looked every bit of the superstar who had made the world wobble at the knees, momentarily yielding to uncharacteristic narcissism.
    With a lung saturating breath, he sat down close to the edge of the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and waited. Doing nothing—not watching television, not listening to music. Nothing. Just waited, staring out the French windows at the gray of the night outside.
    Ten o’clock. He could feel the excitement in him—the mild sizzle of the blood in his veins. He straightened for a second and stretched his chest.
    Eleven o’clock. His pulse began to rise now, with a blend of anticipation