3 - Hostess with the Mostest
Cordelia
Shit. Merde. Merda.
Why did I bite back, you ask? Why did I not keep my foolish mouth shut?
Because that arrogant jerk made fun of my name.
So, I had to prove I could stand up for myself.
My pet hate is men who think it’s their god given right to proposition women.
That we should be thankful for allowing them to suck their dicks.
Logan and Clarke are chauvinistic pigs. Not to mention categorically insane.
Why are they even studying psychology? They’re the very reason the subject exists!
For the rest of the day, I’m wound up like a jack-in-the-box.
That other guy? Ezio. Turns out he’s in my Maths class.
Luckily, he has no reason to talk to me, and I sure as hell have no reason to make friendly conversation with him.
I sit on the opposite side of the room, as far away as humanly possible.
He doesn’t strike me as a murderer, not that I have a clue what characteristics murderers wield beneath their masks of morality. But a kid in his twenties with shaggy hair and a scruffy beard isn’t what I imagined. The way he interacts with his classmates, laughing and joking, seems; well, normal.
By the end of class, the pads of my fingers are practically raw from grinding them together for a full hour.
But I’ve managed to survive my first day at Knightsbridge Academy.
It’s vastly different from university in France.
The students get away with murder here (ahem) and barely spend any actual time in lectures.
When I was studying for my Bachelor of Arts back home, my lectures would regularly stretch over three whole hours. Here, the focus is more on socialising and attending society clubs. I’d passed at least four separate posters on my way in today, everything from drama to debate groups.
‘Clubs’ aren’t really my thing. I would much rather meet for coffee at a quirky cafe or restaurant. There’s only one problem with that: I have no friends here.
My hands shake as I pack my books and stride from the room, faking confidence into my steps.
“Oye, Orphan.”
Seriously? I’ve been at Knightsbridge one day and already gained another spiteful nickname to add to the list.
I recognise the musical rhythm of his accent before I spot him.
Leaning casually against a display of colourful pie charts, arms and legs crossed as if his names engraved on a gold plaque on the wall.
The intensity of his gaze cuts through me as he practically peers into my soul, rummaging around and delving beneath the secrets and lies I keep stashed from the rest of the world.
There’s something about those dead eyes that sound the alarm bells in my head.
Or it could be the fact that I witnessed him mutilating a man’s genitals last night.
“Je.ne.te.comprends.pas,” I say, raising both palms and bobbing my shoulders dismissively.
Clarke uncrosses his legs and takes a single step to reach me in the narrow hallway. The curve of his lips combined with a thick, arched brow has my knees threatening to buckle.
“C’est bon, je sais parler francais,” he replies with near-perfect pronunciation. And a shit-eating grin to top it all off.
Of course, the guy can speak French…
My nose wrinkles, and a scowl breaks onto my lips. “What do you want?”
“Party tonight. At mine. If you’re wanting an out from that fancy little gallery get-together.” His eyes shine like polished onyx, black and impossible to read.
“How do you even— “
He cuts me off with a look.
“One thing you’ll learn quickly about me, Orphan? I have eyes and ears everywhere.”
Well, that’s fucking creepy.
“You hassling the newbie, amico?” Ezio jogs up behind us, dark curls bouncing, scanning the scene sceptically.
“Just being hospitable, right?” He smirks, then gives me a very slow, very deliberate wink. “I’ll ping over the address,” he adds, before they both disappear into the sea of students.
Leaving me wondering how exactly he’s going to do that, when I’ve not even given him my telephone number…
As I stand in front of the full-length mirror at Gallerie Rousseau, I can’t help thinking that tonight will be a shitshow of epic proportion.
Being born into this lifestyle of glamour and opulence has taught me one thing: true happiness is a fallacy.
A fictitious tale carefully woven together with lies and deceit.
An illusion in every sense of the word. Behind the sparkling champagne flutes and crystal glasses ensnares a web of costly expectations.
Behind each fake smile; a performance. In this world, the currency isn’t money—it’s compliance. And how well you can play the game.
Mama ordered the dress, and it arrived promptly in the post, hand-delivered by a personal courier.
Fashioned from black lace and the finest silk, the material hugs my body in all the right places.
It’s the kind of style that commands attention.
With a plunging neckline so deep, I run the risk of showing more than just my cleavage tonight, and a skirt that cascades in a shimmering waterfall around my sparkly heels.
The bodice is encrusted with thousands of hand-sewn Swarovski crystals, designed to catch the light; and anyone’s gaze who dares to follow it.
“Ma puce! Are you ready?”
I cringe. Please God, don’t let her call me that in public.
“Yes, Mama!”
Liar. I am not. But fake it till you make it, right?
I pop on a layer of pink gloss, inhale a deep breath, and strut to the door. And nearly crash straight into Papa.
“Whoa there.” He steadies me with large but gentle hands on my shoulders.
I beam at him. “Papa, you came!”
He mirrors my smile. “I guess I did.” He holds me at arm’s length. “Let me take a look at you.”
Papa looks me over, frowning when his eyes reach the low-cut neckline. Can’t blame him. No father wants their daughter to look like a walking invitation.
He’s, of course, suited and booted. Looking sharp in a Hugo Boss three-piece. Blond hair slicked back, clean-shaven and downright handsome.
“You look beautiful, Buttercup,” he tells me, eyes gleaming with quiet pride.
I giggle. It sounds childish, but I don’t care.
When I was a little girl, I had a fascination with those pretty yellow flowers.
We would lie in the farmer’s field together, holding them under each other’s chins.
No matter how many times we did it, my chubby face would light up when the golden reflection appeared.
Rich and vibrant against his smooth skin.
‘You’re just like the buttercups,’ he’d say. And the name stuck.
“And you are dashing as always, Pappy.”
For a moment we lose ourselves, taking each other in, basking in one another’s calming auras. But Mama’s shrill voice soon shatters our tender connection.
“Cordelia! Come and meet our guests!”
“Coming,” I groan back, and Papa shoots me a look that says, ‘play nice.’
I force a smile onto my lips and stride out into the foyer.
Heels clacking against the marble, ready to stage an Oscar winning performance, be the perfect host. But when I spot who Mama is welcoming through the front door, I change tactics and pray for a sinkhole to open.
Or any other type of natural disaster that can whisk me away from this embarrassing ordeal.
Preferably to an alternative dimension where these two men don’t exist. Logan Cox and Clarke Winters, that is, who happen to look delectably dangerous this evening.
Both have dressed to impress in tailored suits.
With their hair styled sharp and precise, as if they’ve just walked off a fashion runway.
Every fibre of my being tells me to turn and run the way I came. That’s what I desperately want to do, but instead, I find myself planting my feet to the floor, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Our eyes lock and my heart attempts to leap from my throat.
Clarkes got his arms crossed, chin held high with a smile ghosting his lips, because he knows how much I wish I could curl up and die right now.
And Logan? His expression is identical to Papa’s, when he first spotted my boobs waving hello.
But his laser-focused gaze is different somehow: fierce, bordering on aggressive.
Behind them, a couple of men lurk in the shadows, like spectres of the night in dark suits.
The younger one is a mirror-image of Logan, no doubt his father.
The other? He bears very little resemblance to Clarke.
The older of the two clearly has Italian roots, judging by his olive-toned skin, salt and pepper hair, and straight Roman nose.
They both acknowledge me with a nod and an apathetic smile.
“Cordelia,” Mama singsongs, and thank the lord she used my actual name. Because that would just be the icing on top of the cake. “I’d like you to meet Clarke, Logan, Mr Luciano, and Mr Cox. Mr Luciano is the generous gentleman who’s invested in our future.”
Oh shit.
The gallery is funded by blood money. How many innocent men have had their genitalia removed in the name of mama’s artistic recreation? And it is recreational, this whole sideline. Dad brings enough home to fund a small army. Well, he would if he ever returned home…
We all watch in silence. The tension in the room, thick, like mud. With all eyes on me, I’m likely the colour of the London telephone box depicted on the canvas hanging directly behind the boys.
Clarke steps forward to save my skin—sort of.
I get the feeling this man does nothing for anyone, unless there’s some kind of benefit on the table for him.
He extends a hand, complete with a flashy Omega watch adorning his wrist. My eyes gravitate towards the head of a snake poking out from beneath his pressed shirt. Intricate ink and vibrant colours.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rousseau,” he drawls with a lazy, lopsided smirk. This guy is as slimy as the reptile staining his skin.
Still, I play along like a good girl. Best not to embarrass Mommy Dearest. Placing my hand gingerly in his palm, I part my lips, but before I can get a word out, his fingers close around mine, he bends at the waist and presses his lips to my skin. A warm tingle lingers even after the kiss.
I’m speechless, with the overwhelming urge to slap him. But does kissing the back of a lady's hand warrant a smack? Probably not.
“Son. Pick your jaw up off the damn floor and introduce yourself to the lady,” Logan’s father swats at his son, growling down at him.
I almost burst into a fit of laughter. If the situation weren’t already woefully awkward, I would have. Logan scowls but obeys without question. Looks like someone else is trying to appease their parents.
What a good boy.
He steps forward, schooling his expression into something slightly less surly.
“Cordelia,” he grinds through shark’s teeth, sticking his palm out in a reluctant offering. This surely can’t be the cocky kid I met at Knightsbridge earlier today?
My tentative fingers brush against his skin, igniting sudden sparks of wired electricity that give us both a start.
I seize his hand, if anything, to hide the butterflies swarming around my tummy as if they’re trying to flee a particularly violent storm.
The warmth beneath my fingertips provides a pleasant welcome.
Judging by his harsh exterior shell, I expected his hands to be cold, too.
The weathered skin is rough, and my eyes are promptly drawn to his jagged, uneven fingernails. Ick.
“Same to you,” I nod, mesmerised by his bright blue eyes. I never noticed how vibrant they were. He must be wearing coloured contacts. That’s not natural beauty.
“Cordelia! We mustn’t be rude.” Mama’s voice shakes me back to grim reality faster than a caffeine-induced squirrel. “Get these gentlemen some refreshments.”
I drop his hand in a fluster. I hadn’t realised our fingers were still entwined, whilst I was gazing into his eyes like a lovesick teenager crushing over the latest pop idol.
My legs pick up speed, practically running, straight past Papa and back to the sanctity of the kitchen.
Just as I’m closing the door, Logan’s father’s deep baritone slices through the quiet.
“What the fuck was that, boy?”
I bend over the sink, clutching my throat with one hand and gripping the edge of the marble with the other, trying desperately to ground myself to something solid.
When he touched me, I froze. The world around us stilled, and everyone else momentarily ceased to exist. He didn’t smell like motor oil; he smelt like fresh linen mixed with something aromatic and woodsy.
A forbidden temptation. And those freaking eyes.
So vivid, so blue, so enrapturing. The heat flooded to my core, faster than the first rain after an extensive drought.
Get a grip, Cordelia. He was looking at you like you were a piece of shit on the bottom of his slick Italian shoes. What’s he going to do to you if, God forbid, he catches you off guard with a smile? I might as well just apologise to my ovaries right now.
With a theatrical sigh, I pluck a champagne flute from the silver serving tray resting on the counter, downing the bubbly fizz in a single gulp. Then I take another, because I’m not surviving this evening without some Dutch courage.
I’m composing myself to go back out and face the music when my phone lights up with a private message.
Theo: Good luck tonight, Dee. You’re going to need it.
A sombre smile finds its way to my lips.
Theo and I met midway through our primary years.
He transferred from another school, and with no other friends, I quickly took pity on him and introduced him to our group.
From that day, we became close. It wasn’t long before our friendship extended outside of academics.
Beach walks, coffee shops, and then eventually meeting at each other’s houses.
It didn’t grow into anything more, in the sense that there was never any romance, just two people navigating the world together.
Me: I don’t need luck. I’ve got champagne, baby!
Theo: You always were a cheap date! *Laughing emoji*
I chuckle to myself, already feeling the effect of the bubbles in my system. My phone alerts me to another message. Only, there’s no name to indicate who it is. I frown, swiping my thumb over the notification. It’s a house address. Signed at the bottom by nothing more than a single letter.
C.