Lady Rosalie Kennedy Darlington-Whit placed the Bigelow bag in the second tea cup and turned to her sister, who was flipping through an old issue of Vogue. The Vanilla Chai tea and her teacup set were the only thing she pulled out of the box ever since she moved in her new townhome in Brookhaven, and haven't even unpacked the rest of her house yet. But for three whole days since the move from Buckhead to Brookhaven, she had been thinking of the damned kiss at the Bacchanalia at Christmas, when she kissed the one man she cannot stand since she laid eyes on him.

Olivier Barthel.

She waved off the conjured image of the kiss as she scooped in three lumps of sugar in her tea, but she can't as it came up again. "Lorrellllaaaiiii," she whined, snatching the magazine from her sister's hand. "What should I do about the kiss?"

Lorelei Kennedy Daniels sighed as she looked at her sister. She may be the oldest out of the Kennedy siblings, but Rosalie was the baby, and in her cashmere sweater from Dolce and Gabbana and Diesel jeans, her slim fingers curled around the handle and her hair up in a bun, she looked like the little teenaged sister that needed advice. And when her baby sister needs her, her baby sister needs her. "Well," she started, shaking her head. "You can't. Because in reality, you wanted that kiss to happen, no matter how many times you tried resisting him."

A gasp escaped her sister's lips as her mouth dropped. "I didn't want to kiss him." Rosalie huffed. Automatically she rejected the idea of her wanting to kiss that man, no matter how hard she tried to resist it. Rosalie hated Olivier for so many things, one of them is that he killed her husband that night, and he had blood on his hands. But just thinking back on that night, her hand crept up to her lips, as if she can still feel his lips over hers. Her fingers brushed over her bottom lip as she pictured them kissing, his tongue stroking hers, igniting a fire she kept pushed down as her traitorous mind wanted more.

Shaking her head, she cleared her mind of Olivier Barthel before it went any further. "I never wanted that kiss to happen," she snapped. "I don't have any other motive to kiss that man. I will never kiss him ever again."

Yeah, right, Lorelei thought, chuckling and shaking her head again as she put in two lumps of sugar in her tea. She knew her sister very well-if there was a man she wanted to go after, she would've done it. But if it's one man, she'll fight tooth and nail to stay away from him, but she won't-she'll melt in his arms before she could even blink.

Looking around her sister's new place, though currently empty and only filled with boxes because she wasn't done moving, Lorelei waved her statement away. "So when are you finally going to unpack and open your house to guests?" she asked. "You've been moving in here for two days, and yet I'm your first guest? You know Decker's coming back from New York soon after spending time with daddy. He'd want to come by and see the place."

As soon as she mentioned their brother, the room got silent for a moment. Decker Kennedy was their younger brother, and he wanted to be a rockstar, touring with his band Mirror of Dread before he came to the Wine and Dine Gala last year, drunk and high on heroin, and punched the hell out of Olivier. Once Alexander Kennedy, their father, heard about what Decker did, he sent him to come to New York, where he stayed for a year. Both sisters wanted to call and check up on their baby brother, but Alexander told them to stay in Atlanta, and that they'll hear from him soon. What Alexander said was law, and the sisters agreed, though they hated it.

Rosalie shrugged at her sister's question. "I was thinking to throw the party one Deck's back home, so he and everyone can see it." She answered. She knew how she wanted to do her home, do it so very different than what she did back in her Buckhead home with her husband.

After Sir Elijah's death a year ago, being in that huge house by herself felt lonely. She wanted to throw a bunch of parties, but Rosalie didn't have the heart for it. It was a house made for a family, and her and Elijah was going to do that, make a family, raise a little one that was a mixture of her and Elijah, taking them to the best schools, dressing them up cutely. But all of that ended the night he died, and she wanted to get out of that huge house so she could move on.

So she moved out of Buckhead into Brookhaven into a three bedroom townhome, which was complete with a walk in closet and a guest bedroom. The guest bedroom was made up for Decker, the only room Rosalie had done since she moved in here, and the rest she had forgotten for a moment.

Lorelei sighed at her sister's answer. She knew her sister was trying to get Deck clean after what happened at the Gala, now that everyone knew about it, all thanks to one Lily Hamilton, Rosalie's nemesis and owner of Hamilton Creations, and also the owner of every gossip rag and blog in Atlanta. But now that Decker was in New York and they were in Atlanta, she could make him comfortable while he was here.

"Well think about it while you get this place ready for a housewarming party. And don't invite your two-day boyfriend over here-what's his name? Gerard Farrington or whatever?" Lorelei warns, placing a finger on her chin. "Don't want Olivier to think that you're trying to get over him. Or is it under him?" she teased, as Rosalie playfully pushed her sister on the shoulder.

~

That night was Date Night with Gerard Farrington, an art collector and financial analyst for some Fortune 500 business Rosalie didn't catch. They were up in Buckhead at Aria, and Rosalie stunned in a REDValentino lace insert short sleeved dress, her David Yurman silver starburst center bracelet, and matching Valentino shoes as they enjoyed lobster and slow-braised Bershire pork plates. Gerard couldn't take his eyes off of her, even when they drank wine and laughing.

Rosalie had to admit, in a white Polo Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater, a light blue button down Giorgio Armani shirt, and khakis, he was a dreamboat. His blonde hair was curly and fluffy, framing his face, and he'd look like every Upper East Side boy she dated when she was in high school. And not once, throughout this dinner, she didn't think or see that Luxembourgish man. She was enjoying herself, talking about whatever and admiring the décor of Aria.

"Hey, I'll be right back," Gerard said, staring at his phone once it started to ring. "Gotta take this."

Rosalie nodded, watching him leave. She smiled and dug into her parmesan polenta when her skin started to crawl the moment the scent of Spicebomb by Viktor and Rolf assaulted her senses. Putting her fork down, she slowly looked up-and cursed the ground he walked on as Olivier Barthel stood right next to her. Looking very good, she might add, wearing a burgundy twill coat, slacks, and Ralph Lauren shoes, and also wearing a smile she wanted to smack off his face.

"Speak of the Devil, and he shall appear," Rosalie drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"I had dinner with a business partner, and seeing you over here alone...why, I just couldn't help myself but to come over and say hello. Moien, Rosalie. Wéi geet et dir?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Her traitorous body melted as soon as Olivier spoke Luxemborgish, catching that he didn't call her Mäi Schatz this time. Closing her eyes, Rosalie took a deep breath as her whole entire body bristled. She couldn't think of a response to that, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, so she turned away, answering in perfect French. "Mal," she snarled. "You can leave now. I'm on a date, and no murderers allowed."

His index finger and thumb hooked over her chin and pulled her to him, so they were eye to eye, and it took all of Rosalie's will not to scratch his eyes out. Then he leaned over slightly and released her chin, trailing a finger down the side of her face. "Now why would I leave such a beautiful specimen like yourself sitting her all alone?"

"Who says I'm alone?" she accused, trying to look somewhere else other than his beautiful, handsome face. She cursed the ground he walked on in her mind, hating this effect he had to her. Picking up her wine, Rosalie took a long sip of her drink, trying to control her shaking as she sat the glass down. She started looking for Gerard, wishing he would show up by now. "I'm here on a date, like I said. With my boyfriend." She made sure she emphasized boyfriend so he could back the fuck up.

Olivier looked around the restaurant, looking for said boyfriend. It took him a while before he found the said boyfriend, at the bar, chatting up some blonde. "Is that him, mäi schatz?" he asked, pointing to the bar.

Rosalie looked to where he was pointing at-and her heart sank. There was her so-called boyfriend-of two days-talking to some blonde bimbo with the huge knockers. She wanted to lie, and say that it wasn't, but her lips couldn't even move. Fuck. He was cheating on her, right in front of her. Her fingers curled in anger as she drained her wine and turned to Olivier, brown eyes full of scorn and hatred.

Pulling out her Bogetta Veneta clutch, she paid for dinner and stood up. She will not be embarrassed in front of this man...she will fucking not....

"Au revoir, Olivier, espèce de crètin." She swore in French, moving away from him to head towards the bar, her heels clicking with each step. Once she reached the bar, she tapped Gerard on the shoulder, making him turn around, and his face fell when he saw her.

"Rosalie...I can explain..." Gerard started, but she interrupted him, shaking her head.

"Fuck off, Gerard," Rosalie snapped before turning to the shocked blonde. "You can have him, sweetie. He's a terrible kisser." She criticized, giving him a smile before turning to Olivier, who once again looked at her with that damn dumb look on his face. Blowing him a kiss, she turned to the bartender and ordered a huge dessert of Valrhona chocolate expresso cake, brown butter fuji apple tart, warm chocolate cheesecake, and a magnum of the extra-brut Rosé from Jacquesson to take home.

"Rosie...look, babe-" Gerard started, but she held up a lady-like hand, cutting him off to whatever he was going to say.

"You don't get to call me Rosie...in fact, you don't have that permission to call me that, you bastard. Have fun with the bimbo," she exploded. "Oh, and your paying for my desserts and magnum. Have fun." She gave him a cruel smile as she finally left the Aria, grabbing her desserts and Rosé and getting into her Mercedes once the valet pulled the car up, and drove home, wanting to pretend that the night didn't actually happen.