The Belvedere Casino and Hotel, A Year Ago

The murmur of the crowd and the bells and whistles of the slot machines were going off, and everyone was enjoying themselves at the event. They were sipping on the best wine and the best food that the chefs from all over Atlanta and the chefs of the Belvedere Casino had to offer. Everyone that was anyone was here, clinking glasses and shelling out money like crazy at the card tables and at the slot machines.

Lady Rosalie Darlington Whit, the late wife of Sir Elijah Darlington-Whit, slowly walked inside the huge ballroom, ignoring the slot machine noises. She was wearing a black bow one shoulder gown that hugged her like a glove, complete with Jessica Simpson heels that flashed in the light thanks to the thigh slit in her dress, a simple diamond necklace her husband gave her, and her huge 15 karat diamond wedding ring from Cartier. Almost every single head rose as she walked in the room, and their mouths slowly dropped and tongues started to wag.

"What is she doing here? Isn't she supposed to be in mourning?"

"Maybe she got tired of staying in the huge house of hers and wanted to show her face. Though she could've waited a couple months before showing her face. Or is it different over in England?"

"She does look fantastic...though I heard she rented that dress instead of buying it."

"Quelle horreur! It looks tacky-maybe she got it from Macy's."

"But what's she's doing here at the Belvedere? Didn't she swear that she'll never step foot in here ever again? I wonder what's changed?"

"Olivier Barthel, that might've changed her mind."

"But she can't even stand him!"

Sitting down at the bar and ordering a glass of pinot noir and some food from Staplehouse, she listened to every single rumor that was spread about her. From sleeping with Olivier (which made her want to throw up-she can't stand the man, no less be in the same room with him), to her clothes, down her reasons why she was here, she ignored every single last one of them. Let them talk about her, she didn't give a damn.

When she cut into the beef brisket and took a slow bite, she nearly choked when she heard that deep Luxembourgish voice ask, "Having a good time?"

Coughing and catching her breath, she turned her head to the one and only Olivier Barthel, dressed immaculately in an Armani tux, sitting right next to her. His dirty blonde hair rested on the nape of his neck, some of it curled, and he smelled so damned good...Spicebomb by Viktor and Rolf...Rosalie curled her fingers, trying to resist leaning in and taking a deep smell of him...

Then she remembered that she was here, hoping to have a good time, not trying to go to bed with him right now. So with a deep breath, she pulled back. "I'm having a blast," she answered through gritted teeth, draining her wine and picking up her plate. She didn't want to make a scene-not when one of Olivier's girlfriends were stalking about-or worse, her worst enemy, Lily Hamilton, Atlanta's Queen of Gossip. "and I think it's time for me to leave." She started to get up when his hand touched her wrist.

"Rosalie...I'm sorry about Elijah's death." Olivier said quietly.

His words made her snatch her wrist away from him. "You don't get to say sorry. You're the one that drove him to his death," Rosalie hisses, trembling as she walked away from him and went to find her friend's table.

Olivier sat there, watching the woman he was in love with since they day he spotted her at that party, walk away from him. Of course she blamed him for her husband's death-she blamed him for everything bad that ever happened to her. He wanted to go over there and tell her that it wasn't his fault that her husband died, but she wouldn't listen to anything that came out of his mouth. Silently cursing, he got up and went about his rounds, putting Rosalie in the back of his mind.

"Are you alright?" Genevieve Ayers asked as Rosalie sat down next to her. She placed a hand on her shoulder before they heard a very loud voice yelling, "Move, bitch. I got somethin' to deal with!"

Lorelei Kennedy, Rosalie's sister, looked up from her strip steak when she heard her brother's voice. "Oh my god, Rosie," she breathed, nudging her to get her attention.

Rosalie looked up and cursed when their brother, Decker Kennedy, his suit all crumpled and messed up, his platinum blonde hair all done in messy spikes, stood at the entrance of the ballroom. He was trying to fight off some big guards, but between his lanky frame and them, he couldn't get through. The Kennedy sisters started to get up and move towards the commotion when Olivier stepped in.

The sisters weren't even close, but they knew Decker was starting something-they can tell that his words were slurring, even his lanky frame was swaying a bit. "What if something happens to him?" Lorelei said, always the worrywart out of the Kennedy siblings. They moved a bit closer, and could finally listen to everything-Olivier was calmly telling Decker to leave, and Decker, drunk, still yelling 'Yo, bitch," making everyone look at the scene unfolding.

The smell of both alcohol and marijuana nearly choked the sisters as they watched in horror as their brother's hand grabbed Oliver's shirt and twisted it in his fist.

"I swear I'll see your Frenchie ass in jail," Decker snarled before punching the Luxembourgish man in the face.

"DECKER JONATHAN KENNEDY!" Rosalie gasped, quickly going over and pushing her brother out, before he did anything else. Lorelei was right next to him, helping him escort him out of the ballroom. Whispers started to float up as Senator Bryan and her friend's husband, Prescott Spencer, came over and helped.

"GET YOUR FUCKIN' HANDS OFF ME, LOR!" Decker screamed as Rosalie ran back inside, tears streaming down her face. She was still in shock that her own brother, drunk and high as a kite, punched the host of the party, and swearing to see Olivier in jail-all because of her, she thought, wiping the tears away as she reached him.

Olivier looked up when Rosalie came back. His eye started to pulse, knowing it'll probably form a black eye, but it still shocked him when she came back, tears in her eyes. "Thank you for the dinner," she said, her voice cracking. "But I think me and my sister will be taking our brother home now." They could still hear Decker screaming in the background, this time yelling "I FUCKED YOUR GIRL, FRENCHIE, AND SHE LIKED ME BETTER THAN YOU."

Rosalie's voice cracked something in him as he reached out and tried to touch her, to wipe the tears away, but she took a step back from him. "Rosalie," he started, watching her wipe the tear from her eye.

"I'm sorry about Decker." Was the last thing she said as she turned around and left, helping her sister push Decker Kennedy out the door of his casino. Straightening his suit out and asking a passing waitress to bring him a whiskey neat with ice, Olivier Barthel turned back to the event, turning to the senator, and started talking to him, ignoring the whispers and gossipers about what happened.