The Biggest Lie 1/12
Title: The Biggest Lie
Characters: Jack/Kate, ...
Rating: Varies. It's up to R/M at the moment.
Word Count: Many, many, many.
Summary: AU, very escapist, lots of sex. There's nothing literary or sofisticated about this fic.
Notes: So...I'm sort of out of my element posting this here, and to be honest, I'm sort of self-conscious in doing so. Six chapters are posted thus far, and the seventh will be posted on Thursday or Friday. I'd be interested in posting here as well, but uh, it's a bit of work, to be honest, and really I only do it now for about one person. But, uh, if anyone is interested in reading it here, I'd very much like to make this a better fic.
* * *
Cowes Week, Britain’s largest and oldest boat racing event, was typically an eight-day excuse for the socially elite to rub elbows with each other, spending as much money as possible during the first week of August to distinguish themselves for Fall’s social season. And yet-for all of the galas, the lunches, and the ceremonial boating, no family ever established itself beyond the Humes. Wealthy enough to own several third-world countries (and there was rumor they did), their empire touched practically everything, and it was no little-known fact that many key political and entertainment figures were heavily indebted to their favor.
On that Saturday afternoon in early August, the Humes were hosting their annual Hume-Widmore Polo Match and Luncheon, and it was predictably attended by almost 150 of the most well-known faces the Western Hemisphere had to offer. In the middle of the throng was as always Christian Shephard, accompanied this time by his new wife Nikki. An attractive man even in his late sixties, Christian's gray hair and sharp eyes nevertheless defended his intelligence and cut-throat mentality.
Obviously, Christian was not a Hume by name, as his own father had tried to abandon his famous inheritance over the course of his lifetime, committing himself instead to a life of good deeds and medicine. Christian had adopted this tradition, as he had made his own son, though by the time old man Shephard had died, Christian was practically salivating to reclaim his Hume entitlement. In shady corners, people often speculated as to the coincidental death of Christian’s only competition (his own cousin), some going so far as to imply that Christian was in the vicinity when William Hume the II accidentally drowned twenty miles off the coast of Cape Verde.
However his having got there, Christian considered himself a force to be reckoned with (and in most cases, people didn’t). He created a standing example, especially when compared to the last living Hume by royal standards, the young Desmond, who rarely went a month without splashing some drunken scandal across the front page of every tabloid known to people who could read. It had been written into the dead old Hume’s will, however, that Desmond was to reclaim the entire empire by the time he turned 35, a mere two years away-a fact that when mentioned, made Christian very, very irritable.
But on this particular Saturday, amid the pleasant gardens outside the Ryde Castle, a woman stood alone, unusual in the way she was observing the crowd rather than mingling within it. Her wavy brown hair was tied in a conservative knot at the nape of her neck, light make-up applied to a heart-shaped face and pale green eyes. Other guests were too busy rubbing noses or watching the two old families compete on the polo field to acknowledge the single girl, though admittedly, many a man’s eye dragged away from their wives and daughters to look the young woman up and down.
Kate tried to look casual as she took a slow sip from the crystal flute of Champagne. The bubbles tickled her throat, and she had to swallow a cough painfully in an effort to save the satin of her dress. She tried to look unaffected as she touched her throat tenderly, though a heady wave of relief wasn't far behind. Kate had spent the last penny she owned on what she was wearing, and she would rather die now than let that rental return money slip away.
It was a nice dress: pale yellow, slim to her curves, the straps twisted casually over one shoulder. It was a dress she could spend an entire day just touching to feel the silkiness slip over her fingers. A dress that was appropriate for the famous Hume-Widmore Polo Match at Cowes.
Which is how she had crashed it so easily.
* * *
More here... Thanks for reading!