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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Galactica, Chapter 4 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Thank you so much to anyone who’s liked or commented. You guys are awesome! We are attempting to post a chapter a week, so hopefully we can keep that up for awhile! Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Violet’s living situation was about to improve, and she got to spend some quality time with Pearl.

This Chapter: Fame begins to doubt the new collection, and Violet finally gets into her new apartment--with some surprising new neighbors.

***

Fame groaned as she finally managed to open the front door to the Galactica floor after fumbling with her keycard for what felt like forever.

The floor was dark, but as Fame walked past the reception desk, the automatic light turned on.

There was no one there, all of the employees at home since it was barely past 7 am. Fame didn’t usually show up until after 9, having her mornings with Patrick and walking her dog herself an important part of starting her day right, but sometimes Fame preferred the quiet.

There was a certain peace in an empty office, and she desperately needed the peace.

She walked down the corridor, passing by the ever-expanding clothing racks that seemed to grow like cockroaches on the hallways, someone always working on something in one of the offices.

Fame was normally not one for contemplation, her heart always telling her where to go, but what she had seen of their own collection yesterday had left a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach.

She had been so happy when they had conceptualized it, had been so excited to see it go into production, but now that she had it, now that Trixie could present piece after piece of physical clothing, Fame had a nagging feeling that it was not good enough, not good enough at all.

She turned the corner and stopped when she saw that the light was on in her office and the front office where Violet resided.

As she walked closer, she saw Violet sitting at her desk, steam coming from a takeaway cup and Fame recognized the vanilla scent of her morning order. She had actually wondered how Violet always had a hot cup ready, and it seemed like the clever girl simply ordered multiples every single day.

Violet nibbled on an apple, her feet tucked underneath her as she tapped away on her keyboard, the printer spitting out a chunk of paper every once in a while.

Before Fame knew it, she had spent several minutes just standing there, observing Violet go about her workday before anyone else had even come in.

Just then, Violet looked up, almost dropping her apple when she saw Fame standing in the door. She jumped up from her chair, and Fame had to hide a smile when she saw that Violet was wearing sneakers with her Prada dress.

“Miss!” Violet maneuvered around her desk. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you would be here this early.” Fame handed Violet her jacket, the other woman quickly hanging it up.

“Is there any news about my new assistant?” Fame took the coffee from the table. It wasn’t scalding hot like she preferred it, but she wasn’t inclined to wait while her assistant got her another one.

“Yes.” Violet nodded, grabbing a stack of papers from the printer, and Fame realized she had probably been printing resumes. “We should be ready to bring in some candidates by next Tuesday.”

“Good-” Fame held her hand out, taking the stack. “I expect you to pre-interview each and every one of them before I see them.” She wanted a competent assistant, and had no intention of suffering through the first round of the blubbering fools HR always seemed to think would be appropriate for her. “Remember, only perfection is acceptable.”

***

Violet’s eyes were resting on Raja and Fame in the rearview mirror. They were in a town car, Violet instantly climbing into the front with the driver. Violet never spoke unless she was spoken to, her presence in the car only required in case she would be needed.

It was fascinating to watch Raja and Fame interact. They had worked together for so long that it seemed like they knew each other inside and out. It was as if they shared a creative mind, and had an intimate understanding of exactly what the other one was talking about.

Normally, Violet would be listening in, imagining what her own professional life could maybe be one day, but today, however, Violet was thoroughly distracted.

She was so happy, so relieved, to be moving, that she could almost dance in her seat. Yesterday, when she had been sent the pictures of the vacant apartment, she’d nearly cried with joy. It was beautiful - a small but perfect one-bedroom with a sweet little kitchen, central air, sparkling new bathroom fixtures, and even a French balcony. It was so far beyond anything she’d imagined she might have for years and years.

The fact that she was going to be packing all night in order to be ready for the movers tomorrow at noon didn’t bother her in the slightest.

Burning bridges was something Violet was used to, and she couldn’t wait to set this one on fire

“Violet-” Fame’s voice broke through Violet’s daydream of the strongly-worded email she’d send to her landlord. “Violet, have you gone deaf?”

“No Miss. Sorry.”

“I need a pen.”

Violet reached into her bag, Fame acknowledging her only to take it, and then it was back to being invisible as Fame turned her attention to Raja.

This time, however, Violet couldn’t help but listen.

“I realize that you don’t agree-” Fame put the pen to the sketches she and Raja were looking at, “but don’t you think that the lines are too jarring?” Fame did a small correction, the emeralds on her fingers shining in the light. “And this color story, the more I look at it, the more I-”

Violet knew she wasn’t supposed to listen, but she reached into her bag, grabbing her phone, sending a quick left hand text to Trixie.

Fame worried abt collection dislikes colors v v weird vibe

It felt like going behind her boss’s back, but Violet knew Fame well enough to pick up on the note in her voice, in the furrow between her brows.

“Fame, darling,” Raja put a hand on Fame’s knee, her gold bangles clicking together, her tan skin standing out against the creamy white of Fame’s skirt. “You do this to yourself every time,” Raja soothed, her voice surprisingly soft. “It’s all beautiful. We’ll go back to the office, we’ll have a cup of tea, and you’ll see-”

“Don’t patronize me,” Fame snapped, pulling her knee away from Raja’s grasp.

“Don’t act crazy.” Raja rolled her eyes. “I hate to see you stress over something that will be magnificent.”

It seemed like Raja had completely forgotten that Violet was in the car, her ability to make herself invisible once again biting her in the ass since she was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to see this display of affection.

“Bianca would agree that something isn’t right,” Fame huffed slightly, crossing her arms, and Violet stifled a tiny laugh.

Bianca Del Rio was editor-in-chief of Marie Claire, one of Fame and Raja’s dearest friends, and possibly the scariest person Violet had ever met. Anyone who thought Fame was too tough would probably just wither and die within 30 seconds of being around Bianca. What amused Violet was that her boss treated the infamous hard-ass like she was the sweetest, most adorable person in the universe.

“Well, Bianca doesn’t work here,” Raja countered, adding, “Thank god.” She leaned her head on her hand, a teasing glint in her eyes.

Fame pursed her lips, turning to look out the window, and Raja seemed to change tactics.

She slung an arm around Fame’s shoulder, her voice sugary sweet. “Why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?” Raja tugged on one of Fame’s golden earrings, the emeralds on it matching her ring. “Raven promised she wouldn’t cook.”

“Thanks,” Fame chuckled, “but no thanks. I promised Patrick I would pay him attention for the first time all week.”

“Fair enough,” Raja sat back up. “Have a nice night with your husband. Have a few drinks and forget that I exist over the weekend.” Raja smirked. “I have plans of my own anyway.”

***

Bianca rolled over as her phone buzzed on the nightstand, reaching over Derrick’s sleeping form to answer it. The fact that she was still awake, obsessing over the new printing contracts, didn’t change the fact that it was far too late (or too early) for any rational person to be calling.

There were only two people it might be, and she prayed that it wasn’t Adore, because she was not in the mood for whatever shenanigans her baby sister might have gotten herself into this time. Glancing at the screen, she let out a sigh of half relief, half irritation when she saw that it was Fame. And worse, she was FaceTiming.

“Hey Blondie. What’s wrong?” Bianca answered, voice hoarse.

“Why would something be wrong?” asked Fame, blue-gray eyes widening innocently.

“Well, it’s 3 am. So if nothing’s wrong, I’m gonna hang up and we can resume when the sun comes up…”

“Wait!” Fame said, then furrowed her brow, asking, “Who’s that?”

Bianca glanced at the tousled blonde head beside her.

“That’s Derrick.”

“Uh huh, and why haven’t I met her?”

“We’re not at that point yet,” Bianca told her, tilting the phone down and lifting the covers. “But if you really want, you can meet her ass.”

Bianca moved the phone closer, flash lighting up Derrick’s ass in a pair of boy-cut red panties.

“Bianca!” Derrick shrieked, slapping her hand away. “What the fuck?!”

“Nevermind, her ass isn’t in the mood.”

“Really, Bianca,” Fame clucked. “That poor girl.”

“Ugh!” Derrick moved over, unamused, putting a pillow over her head to block out the noise.

“So, blondie...you gonna tell me what this is about? Cause if not, I should really get to sleep. Rest my weary tongue.” Bianca grinned lasciviously at her, dimples deep in her cheeks.

After a moment, when she saw that Fame was neither laughing nor giving her a disapproving pout, she sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“Seriously, Fame. Are you okay?” she asked, voice a bit softer.

“Yeah...I’m…” Fame sighed slightly, leaning her head on the arm of the sofa. “I just feel a bit...unsettled.”

“Unsettled about what?” Bianca asked. “Would this by any chance have to do with Fashion Week coming up?”

“Of course,” Fame said with a slight chuckle. “I should be feeling great. I mean, we’re ahead of schedule, for once, and everyone seems to love the direction, but I just...it feels a bit off.”

“What does Raja think?”

“Raja loves it the most, she thinks I’m crazy.”

“Well. You are. But you also have spot-on creative instincts, so maybe this is a time to trust yourself?” Bianca said.

“Mmmh.”

“Okay how’s this...tomorrow morning, once I get rid of Derrick here, I’ll pick up a couple bottles of Veuve and some fresh-squeezed orange juice, head over to your place, and we can spend the whole morning drinking mimosas and ripping the collection to shreds. What do you say?”

“Do I really have to wait until the morning?”

“Fraid so, blondie. Liquor stores are closed right now,” Bianca laughed.

“Well then, I say, great plan.”

“Perfect. So now can I fuckin’ sleep?” Bianca asked, an affectionate smile on her face.

Fame smiled back, nodding.

“Thank you, B.”

“Anytime.”

***

As Violet closed the door behind her, she couldn’t help but leave out a giant sigh of relief.

The movers had finished in record time, everything going smoother than she had dared to imagine, though she knew a big part of the seamless move was due to her barely owning any furniture.

Violet had never bothered to buy a bedframe for her last apartment, not that there would have been any space for it in the room she had rented anyway, so all she owned was a twin mattress, a sewing table that sometimes served as a desk and a single chair.

What did take up Violet’s space was all of her sewing equipment. The overlocker and sewing machine, who had been her trusted college companions, were sitting on top of her table while her embroidery frame and her mannequins were lying in a pile besides the big garbage bags she used to store her leftover fabric.

The apartment had a miniature walk-in closet, and Violet couldn’t wait to hang up her clothes, two racks holding all of her pieces.

Violet fished her work phone out of her bag. She unlocked it, the empty screen causing her to bite her lip. Violet would never prefer to be interrupted during the weekend, but there wasn’t a single text, voice memo or email from Fame. It was strange however, when taken into consideration how anxious she’d seemed the day before, and while Violet had no hard facts to lean against, she was still bracing for a storm.

Violet was pulled out of her thoughts by three hard, quick knocks on her door. She wasn’t expecting anyone, so she opened it curiously to find a grinning Katya and mischievous looking Max, holding a basket full of tea, candles and a pastry Violet couldn’t place, the small cakes glistening with honey.

“Welcome to the building!” Katya exclaimed, flashing those blindingly white teeth.

“We’re so happy to have you join us,” Max added kindly, holding out the large basket.

“Umh…” Violet took the basket, too unsure to decide what leg she should stand on. “Hello?”

“Can we come in?” Katya smiled, holding up a flask. “I brought tea!”

“Oh, sure, but I don’t-” Violet wanted to say that she didn’t have a seat for them, but Katya was already making her way inside, Max following right behind her.

“Trixie would have come too, but he’s a bit in the weeds at the moment.” Katya put her thermos down on Violet’s kitchen counter, apparently not fazed at all by the lack of furniture as she pulled paper cups out of her bag, “tearing his hair out coming up with new ideas in case you’re right about Fame’s freak-out.”

“Shit-” Violet froze. She had only meant for the text to be helpful, to sooth her own anxiety over the look she had seen on Fame’s face. “I hope I didn’t-”

“No no, don’t worry.” Katya smiled, taking the basket back and putting that on the table too. “He’d much rather freak out now than when Fashion Week is closer.” Katya put one of the cakes on a little napkin she had pulled up from somewhere. “Medovik? Max?”

“Yes please.” Max smiled, taking the napkin Katya offered.

“Violet?”

“Thank you.” Violet took it, knowing for sure that she wasn’t going to eat all of it, her stomach too tight with worry about Trixie. She bit into it, the taste of honey exploding in her mouth. They all ate together, Katya chatting away while Max walked over to the rack beside her sewing table.

“What’s that?” Max pointed with a finger at a half-open garment bag.

“That?” Violet felt a warm glow spread in her body. “It’s my graduation project.” Violet put down her napkin, a giant smile on her face as she walked over. “Do you want to see it?” Violet touched the bag, the grey plastic crinkling between her fingers.

“Yes please!” Katya smiled brightly, Max nodding excitedly.

Violet pulled the dress out, a whoosh of excitement rushing through her. The dress was a floor length see-through gown, dripping in violet jewels, the glittering pieces covering the breasts and pouring out in an elegant waterfall down the skirt.

“Oh god, it’s gorgeous!” Katya clapped, and Violet nodded.

“I went for a bit of a neo-Victorian take.” Violet touched the shoulders and hips that were jutting out, both supported by beige boning. “I realised it might seem derivative to use violet, but it’s one of my favorite colors-”

“With good reason.” Max had stood up, the man now at Violet’s side as he reached out, gently touching the skirt.

“I can’t believe you made this.” Katya had joined them as well, the two of them standing side by side.

“I wanted to use real amethysts,” Violet supported the fabric, catching the setting sun in the stones, “but I didn’t have the budget. It was a pain in the ass to stitch all that plastic on.”

“Wait, you did this yourself?” Katya looked shocked. “It’s not prejeweled?”

Violet wanted to snort, or at least huff, the idea that she’d ever use prejeweled fabric actually kind of insulting.

“That must have taken weeks.”

“Believe me, it did.

“Wow.” Katya smiled. “That’s really dedicated. Fame sure is lucky to have you!”

***

“Shit-” Violet muttered under her breath as she tried to grab her keys. She could feel plastic dig into her elbow, her grocery bag heavy with all the things she had purchased.

She had only meant to get some rolled oats and a few emergency boxes of instant mashed potatoes, but when she had actually entered the store, Violet had made the realization that for the first time in her adult life, she had a kitchen that was entirely her own.

“I got it!” Violet heard the beep of the door opening as someone behind her swiped their key fob. She glanced over her shoulder to say thank you, only to bump into the last person she had ever expected to see on an early Sunday morning.

Pearl Liaison was standing right behind her, a surprised expression on her face that probably mirrored Violet’s own.

Pearl was wearing what was clearly last night’s outfit, her blonde hair collected in a braid down her back, the snow white globes of her small breasts boosted by a black corset.

Violet was frozen in place, shocked, as Pearl moved closer to her, an arm snaking over her shoulder.

“Hey Vivi.”

Was this real life? Was Pearl about to kiss her? Violet swore she could feel Pearl’s breasts against her own, their bodies touching.

But instead of a kiss, the blonde grabbed the door handle and pushed, tossing Violet an airy smile and gesturing for her to enter.

“Ladies first,” she said.

Still stunned, Violet let out an embarrassed scoff, saying, “You’re a lady, too.”

“Debatable,” Pearl replied with a grin, following her into the lobby. “So…I wondered if you’d be joining us here. When did you move in?”

“Yesterday.” Violet bit her lip.

“Ah. Awesome.” Pearl smirked. Violet swore she could feel Pearl’s eyes on her body, the woman smelling of tequila and cigarettes, the scent of sex lingering just underneath.

She lowered her eyes as Pearl brushed by her to climb the stairs, needing a moment to catch her breath. She tried to keep it together as last night’s skirt clung to Pearl’s ass. Before she disappeared around the corner, Pearl turned back to give Violet another cheeky grin.

“See you around, pumpkin.”

#rpdr fanfiction #thedane #veronica #galactica #lesbian au #fashion au #pearlet #violet chachki #miss fame #raja gemini #bianca del rio #katya zamolodchikova #max malanaphy #pearl liaison

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adhdyosafire · 7 years

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it took a fuckin while to draw these but alas here she is. i would have put her basic info DRAWN there 2 but the PAIN of lacking a pentab & using nothing but MOUSE is terrible but u kno ,,,, nya! both canon & variant verse will be explained below B”) just 4give my poor ass drawing skills

basically her full name is kyana fletcher d.(aiki) mellington. she’s a british-japanese ( though she’s lived more in england rather than japan , thus was more used to their culture and language. she has visited her mother’s hometown several times though , but not as often. her accent is ever so slightly similar to bl/izzard’s tra/cer ) . she’s about 23 y/o born on 05/26/19XX , about 6′5″ in height though originally 6′2″. her heels made her taller. fluent in japanese and knows a little bit of french. she’s an IT engineer at mu/rkoff , yet also a web developer/designer and was responsible for several unsolved crimes. she uses a golden revolver to commit these crimes.

she has undiagnosed psychopathy mainly because she rarely gave a shit about her mental health ( and highly doubts that she is sick in the first place , even believes in the contrary that she sees better than anyone else. smth like that. ) .

her character , basically , is the villain in most stories who’s aware that they’re the villain and even lives up to it. think lor/d dom’s i’m the bad guy or sa/l just being the little shit he is. maybe less worse. or worse. you decide. she’s an antagonist and isn’t exactly the nicest girl around.

PRE/BACKSTORY

kyana grew up in a rather wealthy family with parents that loved her so. she’s a spoiled brat to say at the least , since her parents always gave her what she wanted and tried to make reason to her incorrect behavior . in school , she was typically a ‘’queen bee’’ but rarely had any friends despite her intimidating personality. it’s not like she cared too much though , what more she liked being an intimidating figure. needless to say , she grew up in a life that was near to ‘ perfect ‘ but shit hit the fan eventually .

her parents weren’t too young when they gave birth , thus they died of old age when kyana was around her teens. this distressed her , of course , but unlike most was quick to move on. her parents’ wealth was promised to be given to her when she was 18 but was first given to the hands of her aunt whom she moved in with. her aunt didn’t necessarily pay attention to her too much unlike her parents , and kyana wasn’t used to such treatment. she felt neglected for this state of her childhood but tried to not let it bother her too much . she had to move schools too eventually , and therefore lost her ‘popularity’ . she always got into several arguments and refused to be proven wrong even with evidence that she in fact was. her pride was something she never gave up . she eventually learned to become manipulative and put up a personality that was liked by many so her popularity once again increased and just like before , she was loved by many. but she uses this to her advantage to bully/bring down those who’ve disliked her at first , up to the point where they’ve chosen to leave the school / other terrible stuff. she never felt remorse for this however , only pure satisfaction. basically the same shit until she grew up to have a job. college was where she learned to toy with other’s hearts/feelings just for the sake of her amusement/sexual satisfaction for both men and women . her charms/good looks became a heavy advantage for her on this , along with her ability to flirt wisely though all deceived. ‘ falling in love ‘ was never a state kyana felt in her life because she couldn’t care less for romance .

another thing about her personality as she grew up was she despised rules. she did not see the point in them , be it the commandments or laws in general. she has her own belief in where rules always rendered useless because ‘ life’s short , so ‘m gonna do whatever the fuck i wanna do ‘ . she finds it boring to follow such commands like robots being obliged to do tasks they’re programmed to do. this leads her to do some crimes for , again , the sake of her amusement or needs. be it greed for money or wrath / wanting revenge on some prick who’s pissed her off. she’s that petty. she was very power hungry too , which lead her to abandon her catholicism and worship herself instead.

CANON

kyana was still her ever so bitchy self in mount m/assive. of course she fucked with the other employees in more ways than one , and made sure she had a likable figure there as well. though she was aware of how terrible the shit they do in her workplace , it’s not like she could care less because ‘’ helping them nor pitying them would not be my benefit. perhaps , if i did , i’d achieve ‘justice’ as most would say , but it’s still an equivalence to golden rings to me. they’re both useless to me , hun. ‘’ so she continues on with her work. the variants always piqued her interest though , and so ‘’playing’’ with them didn’t seem bad aka she wouldn’t really mind taking a trip inside the asylum herself ( AND BOY OH BOY WAS SHE WRONG )

another thing she liked doing though was purely teasing with everyone else. think constantly bullying wa/ylon despite his size/timidness/reluctance to go ‘’rebel’’ with her ( and truthfully she does pity those who liked to follow rules , saying that they’re missing one hell of a life and just hopelessly becoming slaves to some dumb text printed on some paper ) . she would literally cross the boundaries and even tease her boss as well since she didn’t enjoy being ‘bossed’ around or having someone more dominant/powerful than she is. ( lit tho she’d place a gun against his head n threaten him all she was n 5 seconds later lol bitch it’s a watergun i cant BELIEVE u peed urself!! )

VARIANT

in which her dream becomes true. this one’s still pretty much a huge wip but she generally takes the same path as wa/ylon , except she was either thrown in there w/o having to go to the morphogenic engine for either 1) angering jere/my and him just wantin 2 get petty revenge idk 2) kyana wasn’t mentally healthy in the first place and her little ‘gun’ incident made them throw her there , god im so unsure or 3) her just. getting in. bc why not. ( i was supposed 2 add abt her following after way’s paths but that’s a WHOLE DIFF STORY OOPS )

she unfortunately gets in unarmed though and loses her gun in the process. though she’s (thicc) physically capable of handling herself , her combat skills were not as great w/o the usage of weapons. thus in the path of meeting fra/nk she unfortunately gets her left breast cut off ( bc it was ‘’’meaty’’’ and thus more delicious yum YUM ) and manages to escape him . she’s slightly TERRIFIED at this point but not as much. the other variants didn’t matter to her nor did they have a large effect on her , what more they annoyed her with their stares/w/e im too lazy to explain it at this moment it’d be pretty obvious since she was a female wandering in the male ward

much like both protagonists , traveling around the asylum made her sanity DROP further than it already was originally. it’s basically the same or at least ALMOST the same torture as wa/ylon went through ( in which i’ll talk about in a more detailed way #soon(tm) ) . the gown , obviously , came from ed/die in attempts of making her into one of his brides ( and since she was presumbably the first female he’s come across with he’d be glad to finally found someone who was already PHYSICALLY acceptable for him so all he did was shove her in that damn dress ) but at this point she’s already snapped . she’d play for a while , but moments later had fought back and eventually killing the other inmate in the process , but not without saying ‘ thanks for the dress though , darlin~ ‘ in the process of murder. much like her previous criminal acts , she found slaughter amusing and p much did it to the other variants she’d come across w/ and called it an act of ‘mercy’ since it was so much better to die than let murkoff use them for experiments. think chris’ except his intentions were more linked to the wal/rider , in where kyana talked about the entire asylum in general.

the guts were a faux flowercrown . since she still had to look pretty even in a godforsaken place , which should hint/show her VERY obvious narcissism .

she has either stayed in the asylum as a wandering female variant in the male ward or if we’re following/making her path in the whistl/eblower story , she’d end up killing even jerem/y rather than miles’ wa/lrider doing it. same w/ waylo/n but AGAIN , that’s a different story(tm) that i’ll post abt soon

ONCE AGAIN NON FILTER FOR PROPER COLORS...

#outlast oc #kyana #blood /#gore /#THIS TOOK A WHILE IM TIRED #i'll edit it soon if i see any mistakes jfc #long post /#my art #death /#idk what else to tag this ahh !!#she's problematic af that's it

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

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Relase me chapter 16

“There you go,” Blaine says. “I like that color on your cheeks, Blondie.”

I can’t move, of course, but I’m seething as Justin leaves, chuckling softly as he descends the marble staircase.

After he’s gone, Blaine is a whirlwind of activity, in constant motion, looking, sketching, giving orders, adjusting lights. Despite the overtly erotic nature of his work, he’s actually a hoot to work with, and as far as I can tell there’s not a dark bone in his body.

“Evelyn’s dying to see you again,” he says when we’re finally wrapping up. “She wants the gossip on Justin.”

I slip the robe back on and tie the sash around my waist. “Really? I get the feeling she’s the one who has all the gossip. On Justin and on everybody else.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got my lady nailed.”

“I really do need to give her a call,” I admit. “I’ve been wanting to see her, too. Maybe we can see each other tomorrow.”

He gives me an odd look and shakes his head. “Get out of here, Blondie. You’re messing with my concentration.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure how the conversation slipped away, but maybe Blaine is just showing off an artistic temperament. “You’re sure it’s okay if I go? I mean, how can you paint me if there’s no me to paint?”

“It’s amazing how much of painting from life doesn’t actually require the living to be present.” He makes a shooing gesture with his paintbrush. “Go. Edward’s probably bored out of his mind.”

“He’s just waiting out there?” I had assumed I’d need to call him or something.

I get dressed quickly, then grab my stuff and hurry down the stairs, but before I do I also grab the Leica and take a few quick shots of the room, of the painting in progress, and of Blaine. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen to me often. I’m keeping a record.”

“Blondie,” Blaine says, “I know the feeling.”

Edward isn’t at all put out by how long I’ve taken. Apparently he likes to sit in the Town Car and listen to audiobooks. “Last week it was Tom Clancy,” he says. “This week, Stephen King.”

On the ride from Malibu back to Studio City, Edward listens to his book and I listen to my thoughts. Or I try to. There’s so much going on in my head—Justin, my job search, Justin, the portrait, the million dollars, Justin, Jamie and Ollie. And, oh yeah, Justin.

I lean my head back, half-dozing and half-thinking, and before I know it, Edward has pulled up in front of the condo and is walking around to open the door for me.

“Thanks for the lift,” I say as I climb out.

“It was my pleasure. And Mr. Stark asked me to be sure you got this. He said to tell you it’s for this evening.” He hands me a white box tied with a piece of white twine. I take it from him, surprised to find there is essentially no weight to the box at all.

I’m curious about the box, but I’m more curious about my job prospects, so I toss the box on the bed as I enter my room, where I immediately fire up my computer and pull up my resume. This probably qualifies as anal, but I don’t want to call Thom, my headhunter, without having my resume in front of me. What if he has a question about the exact date one of my apps went on sale? What if he needs to know the title of the research paper I presented during my summer internship two years ago. What if he wants me to change the font and then resubmit the thing?

As soon as I’ve printed a copy, I dial Thom’s direct dial. “I know you just got my resume yesterday,” I say, “but I wanted to check and see if you’d had any nibbles.”

“I’ve had more than a nibble,” he says. “I’ve had a bite.”

“Seriously?” A sudden image of Justin asking why I didn’t just go work for him pops into my head. “Wait. With who?”

“Innovative Resources,” he says. “Familiar with them?”

“No,” I admit, sagging a bit with relief. I’m having a perfectly lovely time lost in my fantasy with Justin. But while silk sashes and blindfolds may get me hot in the bedroom, I don’t think I want to bow to the amount of control Justin would demand in the boardroom. “What kind of bite?”

“They want to schedule an interview. They’re short-staffed and they’re busy. They’d like to see you in the office tomorrow afternoon. Can you make it?”

“Absolutely,” I say, certain Blaine won’t mind. If I set the interview for two, that should be plenty of time to get in a full session, return to Studio City, get changed, and make it to wherever Innovative is located.

Thom promises me that he’ll set it up, and that he’ll pull some information on the company and send it over so that I can prep. I hang up the phone, drop the professional attitude, and do a wild dance out of my bedroom and out into the hall. I pound on Jamie’s door, but she’s not there, so I take my dance into the kitchen, pop the top on a Diet Coke, and go wild. Because it’s a celebration, I even dig into my secret stash and pull out the frozen Milky Way I keep hidden behind the ancient TV dinners.

Heaven.

I’m heading back to my room with my frozen chocolate bar sticking out of my mouth when I see the Monet still on the floor by the kitchen table. Jamie had promised she’d help me hang it—after making repeated lame jokes about needing to buy a stud finder so that it could get nailed—but so far we’d made no progress in that direction. I want it in my room, though, so I take it with me back to my bedroom. I clear a spot on my dresser, then prop it up in front of the mirror. Now, when I look at myself, I see me standing over an Impressionist sunset. Not a bad way to live, when you think about it.

In the mirror behind me, I see the reflection of the white box that Edward gave me. For this evening, he’d said. I turn to look at it, lift it, shake it a little.

I use a pair of nail scissors to clip the twine, then pull the top off the box. Inside, there is a piece of cloth and a strand of pearls. I peer at it for a second, confused, then hook a finger under the pearls. They rise, bringing the lace with them.

Panties.

A thong, to be specific. And the pearls are, well, in the thong part.

I leave them on my pillow and snatch up my phone. He’s probably buying the universe or something, but I text him anyway: Got ur present. V pretty. I wonder abt the comfort factor, tho.

His reply comes almost immediately: This from the woman who can’t walk in her shoes?

I scowl and type fast with my thumbs: U raise a good point. But shldn’t a man who can buy continents & small planets hve better sense?

I imagine his grin as his reply comes: Trust me. You’ll find my gift very satisfying. Did you read the card?

What? My reply is simple: ???

Under the thong. Read it. Follow it. Don’t break the rules.

And then, just moments later: Must go buy a large planet. Until tonight.

I laugh, grinning like an idiot as I toss my phone back on the bed and pull the box toward me. Sure enough, I find a card tucked into the tissue. I read it, and then I pick up the panties again. I run the strand of pearls between my fingers, breathing just a little bit harder than before as tiny beads of sweat gather between my breasts and my body warms all over.

I close my eyes, and I picture the words Justin wrote:

Wear this tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.

Cocktail attire.

You’ll want to touch yourself. Don’t.

That’s my privilege.

D.S.

I will never doubt Justin again.

I’m dressed by six-thirty. By seven, I’m so desperately turned on that I wonder how these panties can be legal. They’re most definitely not practical. I grab a sparkling water and sit on the couch trying to read, but mostly I just press the water to the back of my neck because every time I move, the pearls make me hot, and if I’m not careful I’m going to melt before Justin picks me up.

Or I’ll break a rule.

Except, dammit, simply breathing is making me crazy. I imagine Justin’s voice in my ear, telling me how hot I’m getting, how tormented he knows I am, how wet I’m going to be for him, and how I absolutely, positively cannot do anything to release this pressure growing inside of me.

Oh, to hell with it.

I’m wearing a black garter and black stockings, and as I lean my head back against the couch, I trail my fingers up my thighs. It’s only cheating a little if I pretend it’s Justin’s hand, right? And after all, it’s not like he needs to know.…

My fingers slide over the pearls, but I don’t touch myself. I only touch the strand. It moves, just like it does when I walk, and the sensation is amazing, like tiny rockets shooting through my body, raising me up. I’m so wet I can hardly stand it, and I imagine Justin’s hands on my thighs, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses up my leg, his tongue flicking gently over me.

I moan softly—then jump guiltily from the sharp knock at the front door.

“Coming!” I call, and the irony really isn’t lost on me.

I straighten my skirt, take a deep breath to hopefully smooth my face and hide my secret, then hurry to the door.

I open it to find Justin standing there, looking so sexy in a tux that I think I might just come without the benefit of pearls or fingers or anything except the sight of this man in front of me.

“You look amazing,” he says, then moves his finger in a twirling motion. I comply, spinning with enough force so that the skirt of my deep purple cocktail dress flares out. It’s a vintage dress that I’ve loved for years, with a fitted waist and a plunging neckline. Sexy, and yet at the same time it has a Grace Kelly kind of class. It makes me feel stunning, so it’s easy to smile and accept the compliment.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say as he bends down to brush a soft kiss over my lips—a kiss he punctuates with a not-so-soft squeeze to my ass.

“Careful,” I say. “Much more of that and we won’t be leaving this apartment.”

“Oh really? Why is that?” he asks innocently.

I smile sweetly, then grab my purse. I press a hand to his shoulder and lift myself up on my tiptoes so that my lips are right by his ear. “Because your little present is making me so hot that all I can think about is you inside me fucking me hard.”

I ease back, keeping the breezy smile pasted on. His expression no longer looks so innocent. With smug satisfaction I glide past him out the door. “Coming?” I ask from the threshold.

“Apparently not yet,” he growls, then follows me.

He’s brought the limo, and I swallow when I see the familiar backseat. My attempts to be cool may be harder than I imagined.

I nod to Edward, who is holding the door open for us, then slide in, the pearls moving with me. I can’t control the little gasp of pleasure that escapes me, but I settle into my seat and try to look nonchalant.

Justin eases in next to me and rests his hand on my knee. “Did you say something, Ms. Fairchild?”

“No. Nothing.” I clear my throat. It feels very, very warm in here. “So, where are we going?”

“It’s a charity function,” he says.

“Mmm.” I am so not interested. I’m also so, so aroused. Playing coy might be fun, but the fun is starting to turn into self-torture. “What charity?” I ask. “Any chance you could just write them a very big check and we can go to the house? Or your apartment? Or right here? Here is good, actually.”

What started as a grin on Justin’s perfect lips has turned into a full-blown chuckle. He reaches for the console and pushes the button to raise the privacy screen. “As a matter of fact, here is very good.”

Oh, thank God …

“I think you have something to tell me, Ms. Fairchild.” His eyes are dark and hungry.

I shift away from him, which considering the pearls isn’t the best idea. He sees my reaction and the corner of his mouth twitches. He’s enjoying my torment, the rotten bastard.

“Well?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He slides closer to me and takes my hand. He guides it to my thigh, then eases my skirt up just enough to reveal the band of my stocking. “You glow when you’re aroused,” he says. “I’ve told you that before. It’s an incredible turn-on.”

“Oh.” The word slips out of me like a wisp of cloud.

“Did you do this, baby?” he asks, guiding my hand higher. Tracing over my scars, finding that soft, tender spot where my thigh meets my sex. “Did you touch yourself before I came over?” He slides my hand over my sex. I’m slick with desire. He guides me to the pearls, then curves my fingers so that I’m caressing them as he moves my hand up and down, up and down. “Did you play with your clit? Did you think of me?”

“Yes,” I whisper, as his hand continues to control my finger.

“Did you read my note?”

“Yes.” I squirm as our joined hands continue to tease me. I am desperately, achingly hot for him.

“Yes, what?”

I fight not to smile and end up gasping. “Yes, sir.”

“What did it say?”

“Not to touch myself.” I tilt my head so that I’m looking straight into his eyes. My skin is burning, my dress clinging to me from the sheen of sweat our heat has generated. “You said that was your privilege.”

“And why is it my privilege?”

I’m so desperate for him I can barely speak. “Because I’m yours.”

“That’s right.” Slowly, he thrusts two fingers inside of me. I bite my lip so as not to cry out, silently begging him to just fuck me right then.

He doesn’t. Instead he pulls out, then gently takes both our hands away, sliding out from under my skirt. I actually whimper. “You broke the rules, Ms. Fairchild. What happens to girls who break the rules?”

I shift my hips, letting the pearls continue the work that our hands were doing. “They’re punished.”

He casts his eyes down toward my crotch. “I think you better sit still, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Justin,” I beg.

He bends over and slides his hands down into the bodice of my dress. His fingers find my very erect, very sensitive nipples, and twists them. Not hard enough to hurt—but just barely. I gasp as a fresh wave of pleasure breaks through me.

“Do you like that?”

“Oh, yes.”

He keeps one hand on my breast. With the other, he pulls out the lacquered chopstick I’d used to hold up my hair. It falls in loose curls to my shoulders. He runs the strands through his hands and breathes in the scent of my shampoo.

“I’m crazy about your hair,” he says, then takes a handful and tugs my head back so that I’m looking up at him. His mouth brushes over mine. My lips are parted, ready for his kiss, but he’s only teasing me. Torturing me.

“You’re so cruel,” I say.

“Oh, but I’m not,” he says, his lips brushing over my cheek, my temple as he speaks. “Tell me, Ms. Fairchild. What should your punishment be? What should I do to a naughty girl who touches herself when she’s not supposed to?”

I think about what he whispered to me the last time I was in this limo. About how he might have to punish me. About how if he was there, maybe he’d have to spank me. He’d been teasing—playing—but I’d heard real desire in his voice—and that had made me even wetter.

I lick my lips and turn my head so that I’m looking right at his face. “Maybe you ought to spank me.”

His eyes grow so dark I think I could get lost in them. “Jesus, Selena.”

I wriggle off the seat and lay myself over his legs, my hips on his thighs. Slowly—deliberately—I raise my skirt. The pearls of the thong are tight between my ass cheeks, and the lace of the garters is pulled down tight to my stockings. But my ass is otherwise bare.

“Go ahead,” I whisper. “Punish me.”

I’m even wetter now, my cunt pulsing in anticipation. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

His palm strokes my rear, and I close my eyes. His touch feels amazing.

“Selena,” he says. “Is this what you need?”

I open my eyes and see the slightest hint of worry beneath the desire. I think of my scars. Of my promise to him that I no longer need the pain.

“No,” I say. “But it is what I want.”

I watch as the worry fades to pure, erotic heat. “You’ve been a bad girl, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, his voice sending shockwaves through me.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stark.”

His palm strokes my ass, then I feel a quick flash of cool air before his hand stings my rear. I cry out, more from surprise than from pain. He rubs me again, his fingers sliding down between my cheeks to find where I’m slick and wet for him. I hear his groan as my vagina clenches around him when he roughly thrusts two fingers inside me. “Oh, baby,” he says, then withdraws his hand and lands another smack on my ass.

This time, I don’t jump, but I do gasp, sucking in air while I keep my eyes closed, imagining the white of my rear turning slightly pink from the punishment he’s delivering.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes,” I confess.

“Hardly a punishment if you like it.” Smack. “But I like it, too.” Smack, smack.

I am in serious distress now, not from pain, but from such intense arousal that if Justin doesn’t fuck me right then and there, I’m probably going to lose my mind.

One more smack and I cry out for him to stop. He hesitates, probably not certain if I meant to call out our safeword, but I use the break to shift my position until I’m straddling him and my fingers are on the fly of his tux. “Fuck me,” I demand. “Fuck me now or don’t ever think of fucking me again.”

He laughs, then pulls me close and kisses me hard. I have his cock out and the pearls shoved to one side and I don’t wait for him because I am truly, totally, completely shameless at this point. I lower myself on him, taking him in, pressing my palms to the roof of the limo so that I can take him harder and deeper. He holds my waist and I ride him, everything disappearing around me except the sensation of pleasure and the feel of Justin’s cock filling me and my sore ass rubbing against the fine material of his tux.

“Oh, God, Selena, those pearls,” he says, and even through the haze of passion, I have to laugh. He’s getting an interesting stroking, too. And I smile as I explode, my muscles clenching, milking him, making him come, too, until I collapse forward, my arms around his shoulders, and we breathe together, spent and sated.

“Serves you right,” I whisper, and Justin, now soft inside me, laughs.

Justin pushes the button for the intercom and tells Edward to circle the block until he says otherwise. Apparently we’d arrived at the party.

Funny how I hadn’t noticed.

Once he and I have adjusted our clothes and otherwise tried to make it look like we haven’t been having sex in the back of a limo, Justin gives the order to return.

“Your lipstick is smeared,” he says, sounding amused.

“Gee. I wonder why?” I have a compact and a lipstick in my purse, and I use some of the bar napkins to do a quick removal before I reapply. I’m about to twist my hair back up when Justin takes my wrist.

“Leave it,” he says. “The way it falls on your shoulders is incredibly sexy.”

I toss the chopstick aside and fluff my hair. I peer out the window at the tony Beverly Hills hotel that is hosting the event. “So no skipping out, huh?”

“I’m afraid not.”

A valet opens the doors, but Justin helps me out. He presses his hand lightly to the small of my back and guides me inside.

The hotel is amazing. It’s nestled in the hills and so exclusive that I’ve never even heard of it. The reception desk is in its own building, and we walk across the Saltillo tiles to a set of French doors open in the back. There’s a tricked-up golf cart waiting for us. We get in and are whisked toward the event building. I spend the ride gaping in wonder at the grounds. Private bungalows are nestled away from the public areas but still close enough that guests can walk to the pool, the hiking trails, or any of the five-star restaurants that dot the premises.

The stucco event center sits beside a tennis court. It’s surrounded by birds of paradise and palm trees and suggests California in the twenties. The inside is less California traditional and more Beverly Hills money. The walls are light wood, the floor a polished stone. An inviting bar dominates one entire wall, and two others are lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that open out onto a stone patio with a massive fire pit. Gambling stations fill the space. From where we stand near the entrance, I can see roulette, craps, and blackjack.

Waiters mingle with trays of finger foods and drinks. Every corner is filled with clusters of people laughing, talking, gambling, and generally having a good time. A banner over the entrance reads: S.E.F.—FIVE YEARS, FIVE MILLION CHILDREN. AND GROWING.

“What is S.E.F.?” I ask Justin, but we’re moving again and he doesn’t hear me.

“Do you want to play?” he asks, stopping a woman in a Vegas-style outfit with a money changer.

“Sure. How does it work?”

“We buy the tokens and play for prizes. All the cash goes to the educational foundation.”

I glance up at him—I’m pretty sure I just figured out what the “S” stands for. “Stark Educational Foundation?”

“You’re a very bright woman, Ms. Fairchild.” He hands the girl two hundred dollar bills and she trades them out for tokens.

“I have a twenty in my purse.”

“And I won’t object if you spend it. It’s a very good cause. But we can start with these.” He hands me half the tokens. “Where to?”

Since I am terrible at blackjack and never learned how to play craps, I head to the roulette table.

“The lady feels lucky,” Justin says to the operator, a petite redheaded woman who looks to be barely sixteen.

“On your arm, Mr. Stark? I guess she is.”

As it turns out, it’s Justin who’s lucky. After half an hour, he’s quadrupled our money, despite the fact that I keep losing it. “I give up,” I say, taking a drink from a passing waitress. “Do you want to mingle?”

“Of course.” He takes my arm and we move away from the table and into the crowd.

“I think our dealer—is she called a dealer?”

“In the States, yes,” Justin says. “If we were in Paris, you could call her a croupier. What about her?”

“I think she has a bit of a crush on you.”

He pauses to look at me. “Does she? And why do you think that?”

“She kept looking at you. But don’t get any ideas. She’s far too young for you.”

“Actually, she’s older than she looks.”

I look up at him, surprised. “You really do know her?”

“Hell yes. She’s one of our most successful foundation recipients,” he says. “She grew up in a shithole of a town in Nevada with a mom who used the child-support check to buy meth. Now Debbie’s a freshman at UCLA majoring in chemistry.”

“That’s wonderful. What exactly does the foundation do?”

“We identify kids with an aptitude for science who, for whatever reason, aren’t able to access the opportunities. Most come from families like Debbie’s, but we have a few who are bound by their own circumstances. One young man is a quadriplegic. He thought his dream of college was over after the accident that left him paralyzed. He’s working on his Ph.D. from MIT now.”

I feel tears prick my eyes, and I lean over to kiss his cheek. “Excuse me,” I say, then slip away from him to one of the girls in the Vegas outfits and change my twenty dollars. It’s not much, but right then it’s everything.

Justin is smiling when I return. He says nothing, but he does take my hand and squeeze it.

We do the mingling party thing for a while, but then he pauses. “I see someone I’d like to speak with. Are you okay on your own for a few minutes?”

“I think I can tough it out,” I say. He brushes a kiss over my lips and I am left alone. I don’t mind, except that I don’t really know anybody. I glance around, searching for a familiar face, and am rewarded when I actually see one. Ollie. I take a step in that direction, only to see that he’s being intercepted by Justin.

A little knot of fear forms in my stomach. Why on earth would Justin want to talk to Ollie? I can think of no reason other than Ollie’s repeated mentions to me of his fear that Justin isn’t good for me and his hints that Justin has some serious skeletons in his closet. But I’ve never let on that Ollie’s mentioned that kind of stuff. Have I?

Suddenly I’m very afraid that I talk in my sleep.

I consider interrupting them, but that would be too neurotic, and so I force myself to turn in the opposite direction. I do, and am thankful to see another familiar face—Blaine. He sees me at the same time and holds out his arms. I slide into them and accept his vigorous hug.

“There she is, my favorite model.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d be here.” I tilt my head and glare. “Is Evelyn here? Is that why you looked so coy when I mentioned getting together with her?”

“Busted,” he says. He raises his hand and waves, and a moment later, Evelyn is by our side.

“I see her all the time,” Blaine says as he takes his leave of us. He winks at me. “All of her. You two talk.” He gives Evelyn a passionate kiss and, from the way she squeals, a little bit of a grope, too. Then he saunters off, Evelyn watching him go.

I start to speak, but Evelyn holds up her hand. “Hang on, Texas. I want to watch the view.” After a moment, his formal-wear-covered tush disappears in the crowd, and she turns to me with a sigh. “I’m almost sixty years old, and I’m only just now getting the best sex of my life. I swear, the universe isn’t fair.”

“Then again, maybe the universe is very good to you,” I say, and she laughs.

“Well, look who’s a glass-half-full kinda gal. You’re right, Texas. I like the way you think.”

I’ve never considered myself particularly optimistic, but maybe I am. Honestly, I really like this woman.

“I’ve been hearing nothing but good things about you, young lady,” she says. “Guess it was a rom-com, after all. Or are we talking NC-17?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Could be,” I admit.

“Good for you. Hell, good for you both. That boy …” She shakes her head in an almost grandmotherly fashion.

“What?” I want to sit her down and demand she tell me everything she knows about Justin. Unfortunately, that kind of interrogation is generally considered uncool.

“I saw the way he kissed you just now. Gentle, but I swear he looked like he could eat you up.”

Her words are like cotton candy to me, sweet and delicious.

“He’s usually so closed off. It’s wonderful to see him opening up to you.”

“It is,” I say, even though I am completely clueless and desperately curious. Opening up to me? Hardly. I’m learning that Justin is closed even tighter than I’d thought. Considering how much I’ve exposed myself to him, I’m feeling a little bit sick to my stomach. I don’t show it though. Social Selena is in full form tonight. “He’s overcome so much,” I add, hoping she’ll respond with something that gives me a clue about the dark things in Justin’s past.

“Now you see what I meant by inscrutable.” She sighs. “It doesn’t matter that so much has been swept under the carpet. These things haunt you. How could they not?”

“I know,” I lie. What was swept away?

“See? That’s why I think you’re good for him. Hell, a year ago, you’d have to drag him to his own fund-raiser. Tonight he waltzed in here with you on his arm looking like he owns the world.”

“Well,” I say, “he pretty much does.”

“True. Shit, I’m not anywhere near drunk enough for tonight. Let’s go find one of those skinny bitches with the trays of drinks.”

si��/

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