Read Online Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde - Free Book Online Page B

her left was a smaller door with a sliver of pale light indicating it was ajar. She tapped lightly just as a bolt of thunder rattled the windows. She pushed the door open.
    Dorian sat alone at a small oak table. The room appeared to have been a bedroom that was converted into a dining room, with a terrace attached. Stooped over his plate, Dorian emanated a most unusual dejection. Pangs of adoration and self-consciousness took turns at Rosemary. She cursed herself for coming here and wanted to run away. If only she’d collected herself before rushing over here. She felt Helen’s familiar reprimand, “ So dramatic! ” hissing like a snake.
    Oddly, Dorian did not turn to see her when she entered, though he seemed aware of her presence, for he stopped eating and sighed as if he had to face something he’d been dreading. Rosemary deemed it best to act exceedingly happy.
    â€œWhy, good morning there!” Rosemary said with forced cheer. “Though, actually it is high afternoon. May I?” She gestured to the vacant seat beside him. He nodded and yawned loudly, then returned to his eating. He still would not look at her. She took the seat.
    Being close to him still held its humiliating enchantments. She bowed her head shyly, a flush of pleasure stealing into her cheek. Biting her lower lip, she wondered what facile excuse she could invent for her appearance, not to mention her inexplicable frenzy and showing up at his door without invitation. Act as if nothing is wrong , she thought. Just be natural . But what was natural anymore? She was not the same person that she was before she met Dorian Gray. Ah, she wasn’t even the same person she was hours ago! Her father, the only man in her life, the man she worshipped and trusted with the entirety of her being, was just a liar. The celestial angel she’d long to know all her life—her mother—hadn’t even loved the pathetic man. Ah, that angel was a fallen one, perhaps.
    â€œDorian,” she started at last. “I’m sorry for not telling you that I’d be coming at this hour, but I figured I was more or less expected, since we agreed that you would take the painting as soon as it was ready to go. I thought it would be done days ago, but since I didn’t hear from you, I really didn’t think it was much of a rush. But, wouldn’t you know, paint takes so long to dry! Much longer than you’d think. It always surprises me—even after all these years!”
    Oh, dear . She was so nervous that she was going to just keep talking. Usually, when she did this, Dorian looked at her with amusement, a spark of flirtation lighting up his eyes. But today he was altogether indifferent. He just went about finishing his food, now and again dabbing his chin (which was uncharacteristically stubbly) with a silk napkin that bore his initials in a steel-colored thread. When he was done, he tossed the napkin on the crumb-filled plate and took a long sip of his tea.
    Still, he said nothing. It was as if he was stalling or perhaps preparing to make eye contact with Rosemary, who was willing him to look at her. She needed him. She needed him to love her.
    â€œDorian,” she said. At last, his eyes on hers. His face was as beautiful as ever, and there were no signs of fatigue, but there was an absence in his eyes, an unknown darkness filling it. Rosemary went on chatting, but now, with his cold gaze upon her, so stark and unfeeling, she felt that she was on the brink of a wonderful danger.
    â€œYou look well,” she said, her voice trembling. “Yes, as well as ever! But, honestly, you do seem rather withdrawn and seeing that you’ve taken your breakfast so late, I’m prompted to ask: Are you feeling all right?”
    In the background rose a sudden, small dinging of a bell. It startled Rosemary, and she looked around for the source. Then, glimpsing the service bell on the other side of Dorian, she realized it was