fairest; a helen/paris mythfic
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is another in my series of "mythfics", to borrow the term from my darling etzyofi. In order to fully appreciate these, be sure to look at the casting picspams.)
CAST:
fairest, a helen/paris mythfic, pg-13
(written for cate)
aphrodite discovers she has some competition for 'woman of the year', and isn't above encouraging some immoral behavior in order to win. helen sparta is a woman who seems to have it all -- but knows something is missing. paris alexander is the hottest columnist in town, and doesn't hesitate to use his charm to get what he wants. one of the world's most infamous affairs may lead to future havoc...
Looking at her, as she tried to make herself smaller, tried vainly to dim the light and pain that were so plainly obvious to his eye, made his hands itch. His body said it knew her, knew the warmth of her skin and the soft curves beneath the modest dress and shawl. He shifted his legs beneath the table, his knee bumping hers, and he saw the way she instantly stiffened, the shiver that crossed her face. (7,867 words)
“Hmmm, what do you think, Myrtle?” Aphrodite tapped the end of her pen against her dark lips. The glossy prints from the day’s shoot were laid out before them across the back-lit table. “Should we do the spread in black and white or full color?”
“I see the merits in the black and white-lends a definite smoky, noir sensibility. But the color of her eyes… They’re so magnetic and compelling. It would be a shame to dull them. And the red of this dress against her skin. Absolutely stunning. We definitely want this campaign to stand out.”
“You never cease to impress me,” Aphrodite smiled. “Brilliant work as always, Myrtle. This Helen Sparta you’ve uncovered is the perfect face for the campaign-”
“And the fact that her husband is the owner of La Femme-”
“Is simply icing on the cake. I would have gladly paid Menelaus for a ten-page spread; the fact that it’ll come gratis-oh, damn, is that the time?”
“Dinner date?” Myrtle asked as she dashed about the room, snatching up her emerald jacket and Prada handbag.
“Not quite. Interview with that columnist everyone’s been swooning over. Apparently I’ve been nominated for Woman of the Year.” She said it casually, as one would say they were a lawyer or had family in California, but there was a flash of fierce pride and vanity in her smile.
“Paris Alexander? From the Herald?” The dark brown eyes flashed above a giddy smile. “God, he’s a dreamboat.”
“Yes, I suppose he is rather attractive,” Aphrodite mused before shaking her head. “Too young for my tastes.”
“Well, you’ve got a hunkster at home already,” Myrtle teased. “And I know you’re the most gorgeous woman alive, but you’ve gotta let the rest of us have a chance.”
“Myrtle, you are a peach,” she said fondly, pausing to squeeze the girl’s arm. “I won’t ask you if you’ve got this under control-I know you do. Get the final choices sent down to Cady before you leave so the ad department can get started early. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the meeting. And if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll slip Paris your number.” She winked and disappeared down the hall to the musical beat of her heels tip-tapping against the wooden floor.
A half hour was simply tastefully late; and the man couldn’t blame the Woman of the Year for being busy, could he? Her schedule was crammed full of demands. The fact that she had managed to clear an hour for a late dinner at Faim spoke to the brightness of his rising star and the fond glow she got from an intimate interview in such grand surroundings. Iris cultivated her gossip websites the way some tended gardens, and the entire family reaped the benefits from that sort of adulation and worship. But for Aphrodite, true power lay in the immediate and personal. Covetous glances, mooncalf smiles, longing sighs, the light of admiration in staring, widened eyes-the Goddess of Beauty’s domain was the physical and the visible, and she would never cease to enjoy such tangible rewards.
As she swayed through the press in Faim’s entranceway-the dozens of would-be diners hoping to catch one of the few prized tables before the kitchen closed for the evening-she felt their eyes follow her and could almost hear the jaws drop. Immediately her step became quicker, lighter, as she straightened her shoulders and felt the day’s hassles and efforts melt away. There was nothing like blind and lusty love to soothe the nerves and relax the muscles, except for perhaps a long and very hot bath. As the maître d’ waved her in with an elegant sweep of his arm, she paused to flash a dazzling smile back at the whispering gapers. A phone was lifted, the camera flashed, and she knew her graceful entrance would be splashed across the Internet by the time the main course was served.
“Your party is back in a private alcove, Madame,” the polished man in the pressed gray suit said, leading the way deftly around the small silver tables. “Mr. Alexander’s request.”
Hmm, she mused. I hope this golden boy isn’t hoping for more than a Q&A. It can be so hard to let them down gently…
They turned a corner, rounded a spiral column, and there they were. The tall man in the red jacket stood quickly, stepping forward with a crooked smile and a hand outstretched for hers. And over his shoulder two very different-but oh so familiar-pairs of eyes stared at Aphrodite with the sharpness of falcons on the verge of diving for the kill.
“Ms. Venus, thank you for making time for this,” Paris said in honeyed tones. He drew out her chair and bowed her into it very elegantly before reclaiming his, smoothing down his jacket as he sat. His cream slacks were tailored perfectly to his slim, long legs, the crimson of his jacket and Windsor-knotted tie a vibrant splash that would set him apart from any crowd. The sharp curve of his jaw was dark with a week’s worth of stubble, but with his immaculate clothes and black hair slicked back in an artful crest he would hardly be thought of as slovenly. The ghost of a beard and the sharp brows above glittering, observant eyes gave him an edge of danger-the sense that he was a clean-cut man only pretending at respectability.
“I hadn’t realized this was to be a group interview,” Aphrodite said pointedly, glancing to the pair across from them.
“I apologize,” he said, almost too sincerely. “I thought I had made it clear-Ms. Pallas and Mrs. Olympian were also nominated. And, as time is a premium for all of us, I thought it would be most prudent to do simultaneous interviews.”
“May I ask a question?” Hera said, lifting her wine glass to pale lips. She had chosen the Ice Queen look tonight, her short blonde hair swept up into a gleaming and stiff swirl, her silver dress dotted in geometric patterns picked out in thick snow white thread. There were diamonds and pearls at her throat and hanging from her earlobes, the palest brush of pink gloss over her lips and powder at her cheeks. She looked imperious, regal, and unapproachable: cold glamour in a statuesque form.
“Absolutely, madame,” the reporter said smoothly.
“Exactly what did this poll gauge? I mean, what standards were the nominees held to? Is this meant to honor someone for their influences, talents, and work-or is it merely a crass popularity contest?”
Aphrodite felt her hackles raise at the thinly veiled taunt, but tamped down the urge to lash with venomous tongue and simply smiled as she waved the closest waiter over. “Excuse me, but what wine is Mrs. Olympian drinking?”
“The ’81 Clarion, miss.”
“A bit too vulgar for my tastes. I’ll be ordering the lobster tonight-would you ask the chef to recommend something to offset that?”
“Right away, miss.”
Paris sipped quickly at his own glass, outwardly unruffled. “It was a very heated round of voting that narrowed the field to three-in fact, all of you are very nearly perfectly tied as of the last count. We polled people in a variety of fields and venues: renowned thinkers, politicos, entertainers, average people leading average lives. It will be a very close call when all is said and done.”
“So this interview will decide things?” Athena asked, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs. She was dressed entirely in red, her suit fitted to her hourglass curves like a glove, the glossy pumps flashing in the light as she re-crossed her legs. There was a gold watch fob dangling from her breast pocket, and a thin chain around her neck that terminated in a small charm; Aphrodite couldn’t be certain from this angle, but it looked suspiciously like an airplane. That pet pilot of hers must be something else. “Tip the scales to favor one over the others?”
“That was the intention. I want to give the world the clearest, most unbiased view of each of you in turn. Put it out on the table, so to speak. Then let them make the final call.”
“A wise choice,” Athena said. “I’ve always believed that words can lead to just and fair decisions. I’ve been following your career with some interest, Mr. Alexander. You have an interesting flair-dramatic, but never melodramatic. You know just how to choose the appropriate phrases to make yourself understood without resorting to pandering or, conversely, speaking over the heads of your audience. A rare gift.”
“Flattery, Ms. Pallas, will get you just about anywhere,” Paris said with a coy eyebrow waggle. “But I happen to know you’ve got a fellow back home who I could hardly hope to compete with. Something of a wunderkind, isn’t he? A hot-shot, high-flying maverick?”
“It was a simple compliment,” she said coolly. “Not a come-on. I can appreciate someone’s work without wanting to become a more intimate part of it.”
“Yes, I believe that’s more in your line of experience, isn’t it, Aphrodite?” Hera interjected smoothly, barely fluttering an eyelash, face as smooth as marble.
Aphrodite clamped her teeth on her tongue lest it unleash a particularly cutting barb. She knew it was stress that made the Queen so catty-in the past, the blame could be laid entirely at Zeus’ sandaled feet. It had been easy to gauge the level and frequency of the King’s discretions simply by asking Hera the lightest question; the sharpness and abruptness of the reply was all the barometer the family needed. But now it was not Zeus. At least, not entirely. It was the trap that still lay straining in their path, perhaps minutes away from being sprung. It was the looming pallor of approaching war, the threat of bloodshed and mortal pain. The Lito itself was convulsing with the tension they were under, the rooms struggling to maintain normal dimensions, the appliances going haywire from the discharge of energy. Little wonder that the Queen was venting her nerves at every possible opportunity.
With that in mind-and the knowledge that rising to Hera’s bait would hardly help her bid for the title-Aphrodite drew in a calming breath, slid a smile across her lips, and assumed her professional businesswoman air. “I think we should order dinner now and dive straight into the questions. I’m positively famished, and I want to make sure we fit everything in before we leave.”
“The fashion world can be a destructive and dangerous one,” she admitted freely. “The unrealistic expectations that force women-and men-into unhealthy lifestyles and habits; the constant societal pressure and exorbitant costs; the mental and emotional toll; and then of course there’s the pollution, animal cruelty, and production processes that lead to inhuman treatment and the abuse of workers across the globe. Believe me, Mr. Alexander: I am all too aware of how bloody my world can be beneath the gold and glitter. And I readily confess that in the past I cared very little about such problems. I have made my share of utterly selfish and bad choices. But now, with help from several quarters, I am making a proactive effort to address those issues. My company is officially a cruelty-free organization. I contract only with designers that are in line with my new earth-friendly policies. The newest branch of my business is devoted entirely to funneling resources into organizations that are working to shut down sweatshops and employ those exploited workers in fields they are better suited to, with better pay and better working conditions. And I’ve sponsored several fashion shows and telethons to raise money and awareness for pollution clean-up and nature conservation. Because, ultimately, what does it matter how beautiful we are if we make the world an uglier place in the process?”
Paris’ smile deepened into a delighted grin. “Eloquently phrased, Ms. Venus. Thank you. Thank you all for coming tonight, and speaking so passionately about your work. I have a feeling my readers will be even more conflicted over their votes now-not to sound too cheesy, but you’re all incredible women. It’s been a rare privilege.”
“I think I speak for all of us when I say the pleasure was ours,” Athena said as he waved the waiter over. “I look forward to reading the finished interviews. As I said, I enjoy your prose.”
“Let us cover the-” Hera began as he took the check from the waiter. His hand rose sharply while his lips twisted into a satisfied smirk.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of letting you pick up the tab-especially when it falls under the company’s charge account. Please. Allow me.”
“I hate to eat and run,” Athena said, picking up her ruby-sparkled clutch and pushing out her chair. “But I have another date waiting. Good evening.”
“And you, Aphrodite?” Hera said coolly, sculpted eyebrows rising slowly. “Did you need a ride home? Back to the office? Or to a rendezvous, perhaps?”
They had never been on the most cordial of terms. From the moment Aphrodite had arrived at Olympus, rosy pink with the salty spray of the sea still damp on her glowing skin, the Queen had marked her for what she was: a chord of strife. Singly, she had almost started a cataclysmic fight between the gods-only Zeus’ intervention and the constrictive marriage arrangement with Hephaestus had forestalled that. And in her millennia-long dalliance with Ares there had been further friction that had echoed throughout the marble halls. In the last war, with the God of War firmly ensconced at the Nazi dictator’s right hand and Zeus just as resolutely standing at the back of the Allied President, she had balanced on the tripwire strung between the two, occasionally stepping off onto one side or the other before nimbly springing back. The others labeled her a mole, a double agent, a sympathizer and a spy. Such titles were not far from the truth, and Hera had always given her the most suspicious of looks every time she wavered on that invisible line. Beauty could be dangerous, could be deadly, could be cruel, and could be treacherous. Many times she had been all of the above. In hundreds of small and large ways, she had challenged the Queen’s throne and peace, and had threatened to topple everything important that was so fiercely fought for and protected-yet always so fragile in the face of their passions and power.
Now, with the balance once again precarious and war seemingly imminent, it was little wonder that Aphrodite was again under scrutiny; a fitting scapegoat for Hera’s anger. All night she had peppered the conversation with tiny barbs and subtle snares, painting a subtle but eloquent portrait of the Goddess of Beauty. The charming Paris had maintained a practiced and steady expression throughout, but Aphrodite had caught the quick glances, the minor shifting of his gaze each time. He had noted all, and while he promised an unbiased perspective, she knew some of Hera’s venom would inevitably slip into his writing. After all, what would make the juiciest story for his rapacious audience? A reformed model committed to heal the world, or the promiscuous former beauty queen turned cutthroat businesswoman?
She had changed through sheer dint of effort and force of will, working to rebuild herself into something substantial and lasting-but Aphrodite still had it within her to be petty and spiteful. As she smiled across the table at Hera, utterly dazzling and assured, the mind behind the bright eyes had resolved to win this shallow contest at any cost. She could not bear to allow the Queen one more victory to flaunt over her, one more insignificant triumph to draw out during squabbles. Aphrodite would have this crown, if only to keep it from her.
Now to simply find the right leverage…
“A lovely offer, Hera, but I think I’ll manage. In fact, I may just linger a while longer-I’m suddenly in the mood for dessert.”
“As you wish. Thank you again for the meal and the conversation, Mr. Alexander. My husband is likely waiting up for me, so I’m afraid I must follow Athena’s example. Goodbye.” The waiters darting around the tables all parted as Hera passed, each gently inclining their heads in respect whether they realized it or not. When the Queen felt regal, the entire world acknowledged it.
“Don’t think that I’m trying to sway your position,” Aphrodite said lightly, as a man wheeled the dessert cart towards them. “I know your duty is to report the facts as an impartial observer. But between you and me, Hera can lay it on a bit thick. I’m hardly the-oh, pardon me!”
She had bent to pick up the large purse resting beside her chair; in her haste, the strap slipped through her fingers, spilling the contents across the floor. A golden tube of lipstick rolled away, only to jam beneath the wheels of the cart.
“Please, allow me,” Paris said quickly, slipping from his chair and kneeling to gather up the cosmetics and scattered papers. “I do believe you’re prepared for just about anything, with a purse like that. You don’t happen to keep…”
He had frozen, eyes fixed on a glossy sheet of paper he held gingerly in one hand. The sentence hung half-finished and forgotten as his eyes widened and lips gaped, face reddening with an unmistakable heat. Aphrodite recognized that glazed look all too well and couldn’t resist the smile that stole upon her. Jackpot.
“Thank you so much,” she said firmly, reaching out with a steady hand to reclaim her bag. “Such a gentleman.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, startling. “Of course…”
“What do you have there?” she asked innocently, tilting her head. “Oh, that’s my newest model for my Eco Project-just signed her contract last week. Her name is Helen. Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“The most breathtaking woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, before realizing he’d spoken aloud. “God, I’m sorry-no slight meant to you, Ms. Venus.”
“We all have our specific tastes,” she said smoothly, still smiling. “You know, I’m supposed to have lunch with her tomorrow. But with the new ad campaign and the inevitable meetings, I have the feeling I’ll have to cancel. …Say, while you’re here, this is the perfect opportunity!”
“For?”
“Well, with the launch of the new line, I’m looking to secure plenty of ad space and publicity. Would it be possible to commission you for a piece? On Helen and the Eco Project? I’ll be sending a request to your editor formally tomorrow, but since we’re sitting here right now, there’s no reason not to run the idea past you personally. And if you’re not too busy tomorrow, since I’ll have to cancel anyway, perhaps we could rearrange things so you two could do lunch and get an interview in-”
“Absolutely,” he said eagerly with a quick nod. “What time and where?”
“Do you have an extra business card on you? I know I’ve got your number somewhere but-”
“Of course.” The tips of his fingers dove into the breast pocket of his jacket, emerging with a razor-edged black square covered in gold gilt.
“Thank you. The reservations were at Adagio for noon. I’ll let Helen know about the change in plans, so she’ll be expecting you. I’m sure you’ll get on splendidly. Well, it’s rather late, and I don’t have any right to claim more of your time. This was a lovely evening-we’ll have to do dinner again sometime.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’m really looking forward to your piece. It’s been difficult, trying to convince the world that I’m a different woman. I have the utmost faith that you’ll be able to show my efforts in the light they deserve. The success of my new line may depend heavily on the public opinion of the company-and me.”
“Ms.Venus, I can say with the utmost confidence that my readers will fall in love with you. That is, if they haven’t already. You’ve certainly got the gift for making an impression.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Alexander.”
“Please-call me Paris.”
“Only if you call me Aphrodite. Well, I’m off! Have a wonderful evening, Paris. And have fun at lunch tomorrow!”
So Helen was married? She was also young, and passionate; and her husband Menelaus Sparta was impressive, yes, but also distant and forbidding-like some icy mountain range. Aphrodite knew instant lust when she saw it, and now knew just how charming and persuasive the handsome Paris Alexander could be when he exerted himself. It wasn’t that she was condoning any illicit behavior-absolutely not. It was just that…
Two such magnetic individuals may fit together very nicely, if given half the chance to act on that attraction.
“Would you like me to pick you up later?”
Helen flinched. Not out of fear; she had simply become so accustomed to silence between them that the slightest sound startled her. She glanced over at her husband in his stern gray jacket, large hands tight around the steering wheel. Looking at him, she could still see the handsome face that had drawn her in, the intensity and dignified bearing that had once transfixed her. She had been adrift, lost and confused, and he had been the sheltering harbor that offered refuge and peace. But now, after four years of marriage, she was not the woman she had been then. And he had not changed, not even in millimeters of degrees.
“No,” she said, stifling a sigh. “I might do some shopping, afterwards. I’ll catch a cab.”
She turned back to the window, to stare at the flashing cars and blurred faces that passed, and wished she could be a better person. If she were truly good, she would be able to appreciate everything she had. A reliable husband who treasured her in his own distant way. Money, luxuries-a new job that promised her the world on a silver platter. But even with everything spread out before her like some sumptuous buffet, she was still wanting. Still hoping and searching for that missing spark, the piece that would fix everything together into a solid and shining whole.
In the past weeks she had found herself lying awake at night, removed from Menelaus, who slept as silently and immovable as he was in the waking day. She would lie in those soft sheets and stare up at the tiled ceiling above their grand bed and feel the edges of the painful hole that was only growing in her chest, hidden beneath the skin and red strands of sinew, pressing sharply against her frantic, bird-like heart. Tears had burned the corners of her eyes, but she had refused them. She may be inconstant and weak, but she would not allow that frailty to show.
The car pulled up to the restaurant: small, exclusive, and by reservation only.
“Have a good time,” Menelaus said.
She hesitated, hand on the handle of her door, and glanced over at him. Kiss me, she thought. Touch my hand. Do something. But he simply met her gaze, offering only a faint smile of encouragement.
“Good luck with your meetings today,” she said in a very small, quiet voice, before slipping out and slamming the door shut. She stood on the sidewalk, grasping the edges of her beaded shawl, and watched as the black BMW slipped back into the stream of traffic, disappearing around the next corner.
What even am I to you? she thought, hating herself for the traitorous bent of such questions. A pretty bauble to admire? A rescued animal to occasionally pet? Charity and distracted affection? It wasn’t fair to Menelaus, who had never offered her harm or anger. His only crime was in his detachment; her blood sang too hot and loud to be content with such cold attention. Perhaps it was their disparate ages, or conflicting backgrounds, or wildly differing dreams for the future, or everything at once. A part of her had known, even on the wedding day, that such a marriage was not destined for smooth and pleasant waters. That there would be strife, even if only in her heart. It was likely that Menelaus was utterly oblivious to this; he was always so present and pragmatic, unable to see beyond that day’s demands. And she had always been a consummate actress, able to school her expression to hide a multitude of emotions. Chances were he had not noticed how cold their bed had become of late, how unhappy his beautiful young wife truly was-
A warm hand at her shoulder made her jump just as the deep voice, so close to her ear, said, “Pardon me, but are you Helen?” She twisted sharply, shawl slipping down her arm, the movement of her dark curls obstructing her view for one heart-thudding second before her eyes fixed on his face.
Words caught in her throat and would go no further; her heart refused to settle into a quieter rhythm; she was so unbalanced she was sure her sandals would slide beneath her and send her crashing to the ground. Something of her panic must have slipped beyond her mask, for his hands swiftly caught at her arms, righting her and offering their steady strength until she was stable again.
“I truly beg your pardon,” he said, stumbling over the words in his haste, face flushing with embarrassment and guilt. “I didn’t intend to frighten you. Or intrude on your thoughts.”
“They needed interrupting,” she said finally. “They were becoming a nightmare. Thank you for waking me, Mr…”
“Paris Alexander. But please-call me Paris.”
“And you can call me Helen.”
“I’m sure Ms. Venus told you-”
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
“Our table is ready, if you’re hungry.”
“Yes. Thank you. Please, lead the way.”
He was more than happy to, holding open the door for her before slipping past, his sleeve brushing her bare arm. Her eyes traced the line of his neck where it met his shoulder, the dark fringe of hair that met the blue collar of his shirt. There was something indefinably familiar about him, in his profile or the way he walked, the sharp slope of his nose or the shape of his hands as they gestured her forward. It was the oddest sense of déjà vu and she struggled to place him-had she known him at the orphanage? But no, she shook that idea aside as quickly as it appeared; she had heard something about him having an older brother somewhere, some sort of family legacy that had helped pave the way for his current success.
As they took their seats, his eye caught hers. There was a gleam there, something that could only be described as a roguish twinkle. “Am I that fascinating?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re staring at me. I haven’t got something stuck in my teeth, do I?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, unable to hide the flush that brightened her cheeks. “Sorry, you just… seem so familiar somehow. I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
“Well, if you read the Herald, you’ve no doubt seen my picture. I’ve done a few interviews on TV, too.”
“No, nothing like that. I just… Never mind.” Her flush deepened and she looked down into her lap, away from the haunting face with its sharp angles and handsome eyes.
“But you know,” he said softly, as she picked up a menu. “When I saw your picture last night, I was sure I knew you already, too.”
“I’ve been told I have a memorable face,” she said. It was the only gift she had, her means of securing the comfortable life she now led. Menelaus was a decent man, but she knew he never would have married a nobody like her if it wasn’t for her beauty.
“No. Well, yes. But it was more than that. I was almost positive I knew you. Maybe in a past life?”
She said nothing, her eyes resolutely focused on the list of entrees. The harmonics of his voice echoed straight into the marrow of her bones; she shifted in her chair, re-crossed her legs, and still could not relax. The waiter paused at their table, took their orders, and promptly departed for the kitchen. When she finally set her menu aside and looked up, it was to immediately meet his gaze.
The way he sat in his chair it might as well be a throne. One hand lay on the table, beside his empty plate, the long fingers uncurling to tap a quiet rhythm against the linen cloth. She could almost see the coiled tension in him, the sense of a hunter about to strike; and yet it did not frighten her. On the contrary: she found herself excited by his piercing, knowing gaze. The sense of strength and passion barely caged. It had been years since a man had looked at her with such pointed hunger-it was a rare occasion with Menelaus, and with his ring around her finger most men shied away. But not this one. Not Paris.
“Well?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to ask me questions?”
“You’re very wounded,” he said, taking her by surprise. “Who hurt you?”
“No one,” she said shortly. “I was expecting a typical interview: favorite designer, career goals, that sort of thing.”
“What’s your signature fashion statement?”
“Smoky eyes and simple, classic lines,” she said as if reading from a script, straightening her shawl. “Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly are my icons-they knew how to be beautiful and classy. Alluring but never cheap or gaudy.”
“Preferred season?”
“Summer. I like sundresses and bikinis. Spaghetti straps and halter tops. Sandals rather than high heels.”
“Why do you wear a mask? What are you so determined to hide?”
“Those aren’t real questions, and you’re not making any sense,” she retorted, hands clenching together in her lap.
God, but she was stunning. Like some dark gem carved into the shape of a woman, the light of a star captured in her hazel eyes. Not as leggy or delicate as most of the models strutting the catwalks, but all the more magnetic for her singular grace. He hadn’t lied when he said he felt as if he knew her; had only been somewhat joking when he’d suggested they’d known one another in a previous life. There was something so, so… Looking at her, as she tried to make herself smaller, tried vainly to dim the light and pain that were so plainly obvious to his eye, made his hands itch. His body said it knew her, knew the warmth of her skin and the soft curves beneath the modest dress and shawl. He shifted his legs beneath the table, his knee bumping hers, and he saw the way she instantly stiffened, the shiver that crossed her face.
“Staring is impolite,” she said brusquely, to cover her reaction. “Even if I’m paid to be an object, to be looked at-”
“You’re not an object,” he interrupted. “You’re flesh and blood. A woman who should be heard as well as seen. I apologize, if I’ve offended. It’s just a devil of a thing: I’m sure we know each other. It’s so hard to place where or how.”
“I promise you-we’ve never met before. We don’t live in the same circles.”
“Of course we do. You work for Aphrodite Venus-”
“A very recent development.”
“Your husband owns the premier women’s magazine in Europe.”
“We’ve been married for four years. Before that, I was a waitress. At a nightclub. And before that I lived at the Swann Home for Girls and Boys. In the council estate. Hardly the area someone of wealth and breeding would visit; it’s not exactly a tourist destination.”
“…Do you remember your family at all?”
He leaned closer, brow creasing. Her heart fluttered as if with tremulous wings-when was the last time anyone had shown any concern over her sorry past? It had been a single night’s conversation with Menelaus, something promptly pushed aside and forgotten. And now this handsome young man looked at her so ardently…
“No. They tell me a woman brought me to the Home; that she looked ill and desperate but refused to give her name before she disappeared back into the night. That she was beautiful beneath the sheen of sickness. Maybe she was my mother. I never tried to find her. Or my father. Most likely he abandoned us both before I was even born.”
“I’m truly sorry. That you never knew them, that they had to give you up-”
“That they abandoned me?”
“No. They did not abandon; that’s impossible. Something happened that forced them to leave you at that place. Something beyond their control or will.”
“You speak with such conviction. Why?”
“Because it’s unfathomable that they did not want you. That anyone could abandon you.”
She felt it crack, peel away: the façade she had cultivated over most of her life. His words, the voice that breathed them, the confidence in his passionate eyes. She was struck straight through her unsatisfied heart. Her emptiness, her loneliness, laid bare as the waiter set their dishes down unaware of the silent communication burning across the table.
With staggering clarity she saw it all: the way the buttons of his shirt would part beneath her fingers; how the cloth would glide across his bronzed, supple shoulders; the soft hiss the belt would make as it slid through the loops of his slacks. He would be statuesque over her in the darkness, hands as gentle as his hips were forceful, lips as firm as hers would be yielding.
In that moment she was lost. Or perhaps found.
Weeks that felt like years. And yet it all passed in the blink of an eye; the next time she opened them it was to look at a man who should be nothing but a stranger but instead was dearer to her than the one she went home to each night. In a matter of days Paris knew her as no other soul ever had, could read her every thought and desire in a single glance. Being with him was like finding an oasis in the heart of a killing desert, a fire in the coldest pit of midwinter, and she drank and warmed herself greedily.
But every touch came with a price.
The moment his skin caressed hers, she saw things. Strange flashes of impossible memories; visions of darkness and death and betrayal. Blood staining golden sands a gleaming crimson. Sunlight turning a sea of swords into a blinding, cutting wave. A treasure hoard piled beside an immense pyre of bodies. Sometimes there was even sound to accompany the nightmarish parade: the shrieking of horses, the clanging of blades against shields, the wailing of women, the dying groans of men.
The first time it happened she thought she was going mad. Pulled away from his arms with a scream of terror. The second time, she decided it was a punishment for her sins. The visions were reminders of her wicked unfaithfulness. But if this was the price, she would pay it: she could not keep away from him. He was the sun to her, she a mere moon caught in his orbit, and nothing on this earth could keep them apart now. And in the throes, when passion met passion with all the force of lightning searing the sky, the images faded away to leave only him behind.
The north to her compass. The Lancelot to her Guinevere. And the snake to her Eve, too: her own personal damnation.
And she loved him: body, heart, and soul.
It was the big night: the launch party to commemorate the official unveiling of Aphrodite Venus’ Eco Project. The banquet hall of the city’s finest, largest hotel had been transformed into a woodland grotto, leaves and vines affixed to the pillars, tables overflowing with platters of fruit and flowers. Helen was placed front and center as the face of the campaign, poised atop the golden dais in a sapphire dress and silver circlet. The harshest fashion critics were already singing the line’s praises, uncharacteristically unanimous in their impressed delight, and mingled amidst the models, reporters, and wealthy elite drunk on wine and beauty. Menelaus was somewhere below, using the opportunity to network. Business, as usual, was at the forefront of his thoughts.
“If I could have your attention for just one moment,” Aphrodite’s voice rang through the room, amplified by the dozen speakers attached to the spiral columns. She smiled behind the gleaming microphone stand, viciously gorgeous in red silk, a perfect contrast beside Helen on her mock throne: pale skin to dark, honeyed hair to black, red dress to blue. Everything about this night was calculated to impress, to stamp an indelible image of beautiful perfection on the memories of the attendees. “Thank you all for coming out to admire my new line, where high fashion meets the green mindset. This is only the beginning of drastic changes to Venus Fashion: from this moment on, every new item developed under my company’s umbrella will be 100% eco-friendly and cruelty-free.”
The applause was enthusiastic and interspersed with several wolf-whistles and shouts of, “Here, here!”
“Thank you to everyone who worked so diligently to achieve this dream, from the earliest stages of production to the ad department and retailers. And I want to thank Helen Sparta for her outstanding work in introducing the Eco Project to the world-only the most beautiful woman could have done justice to such a line.”
“You’re only being gracious because you’re the Woman of the Year!” someone shouted from the crowd, audible over the second round of applause. Helen barely heard it, so focused on finding his face in the crowd. Aphrodite merely smiled coyly.
“And now let’s celebrate properly! Drink, eat, and be merry! We’ve earned this!” She waved with a musical laugh as the camera bulbs flashed like fireworks. When the photographers had had their fill, she turned to Helen. “Thank you, dear. Feel free to mingle. Myrtle will be in touch in the next few days about the next stage-but until then, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned a break.”
“Thank you, Ms. Venus,” Helen said, rising quickly to her feet. She had finally picked out his face from the swirling, glittering finery below, fixed so intently on hers even as a dozen other models sashayed past. She didn’t see the knowing look on Aphrodite’s face as she hurried down the steps, skirt in her hands and heart already in her throat.
“Upstairs,” he whispered as soon as she reached him, careful to keep his hands from her until they had slipped discretely through a side door, until they were away from any prying eyes. They were too impatient to wait for the elevator, currently sitting at the uppermost floor; instead, they hurried into the empty stairwell. She hiked up her dress to run, flashing smooth legs that only made him quicken his pace. They were both breathless when they burst into the hall on the sixth floor. He pulled the key card for the room from his jacket pocket and held the door open for her.
“I thought it would never end,” she gasped, as he drew down the zipper of her dress, mouth nipping at her neck, as the incongruous image of a giant wooden horse flashed across her mind’s eye. “So many speeches, so much talking-”
His suit jacket dropped to the floor, promptly followed by his tie, waistcoat, and shirt. Her dress pooled around her feet, the shining blue fabric almost liquid against the white pile of the carpet. She saw waves lapping at a bleached sandy beach, could almost taste the salt spray on her lips. But no, all she tasted was him: the bitter tang of alcohol on his tongue and breath, the ghost of his champagne, the indefinable flavor that was his skin. His hands slid across her body, cupping and caressing in all the right places. He held her, touched her, as no man ever had before, with an assured knowledge Menelaus had never managed.
Paris found pleasure in pleasuring her-he was not selfish with love, demanding satisfaction before giving it in return. And for all of his haste in pulling her away into private places, impatient in being alone with her, he never rushed. How he could manage to be urgent even while drawing each movement out into tantalizing slowness defied reason. But when she was with him, Helen cared very little about reason.
Hands tight around her thighs, drawing her legs up around his waist, he carried her to the bed. As she fell to the sheets he fell into her, driving his length inside her in a way that made her sob for breath. She hooked her ankles together and slid her fingers into his hair, flexing and tugging with each thrust of his hips.
“Tell me,” he said, kissing the hollow of her throat. “Tell me you love me.”
“I-” She looked out over a stony parapet, over an ocean covered by black sails. Hipbone clashed against hipbone, reasserting the tangible over the imagined. The sheets bunched up around her shoulders, the smooth friction of fabric against her skin echoing the slick friction of his body plunging into hers.
“Do you love me, Helen?” he whispered. His mouth was at her breast, he was drawing the sharp peak of her nipple between his teeth…
“I-” Smoke burned her eyes, left ashes on her tongue. She bit her nails into his shoulder, clinging to him with a feverish desperation, back arching between him and the bed. She was about to melt, about to burst into flames, about to fly apart into mere atoms.
“Will you always love me?” his voice cracked around his need, rhythm faltering.
“I will! I swear it!” A gem-studded crown rolled from the tips of her fingers, to fall into dust and dirt, abandoned as everything died around her. She screamed in both pleasure and pain, body shuddering beneath the onslaught, the world dissolving behind clenched eyelids. She felt him come in the next instant, body bucking wildly, her name wrenched from his lips in a low keen.
They lay silently as their bodies shivered and cooled, his cheek hot against her shoulder. In the cacophony of hearts and gasped breaths, Helen felt the deep guilt in her breast stir. Her husband stood only a few floors below, content in his blind ignorance, while she fucked another man on silk hotel sheets. She was like an addict, Paris the sweetest of drugs-she was always eager for her next fix.
And yet… Only with Paris did she know satisfaction. Know what it was to feel truly needed and wanted and loved beyond mere desire. It was lustful and wrong, but there was more to it than that. He saw her as no one else did, beyond the face that launched a hundred adverts. He listened, and he always wanted more; neither of them could be content for long. Only together was there any sort of peace. Though to have that peace, it seemed there must always be a war. A moral versus mortal conflict, desire over duty, needing over having.
“Come away with me,” he said into the hot silence, voice muffled by her skin.
“What?”
“Come away with me,” he repeated, voice firmer and more insistent. He lifted his head to meet her eyes, one languid hand stretching up to twist one of her dark curls around his index finger. His hair was still damp with sweat, spiked and peaked chaotically. “We’ll run away from here. Go someplace where no one knows our names. Never look back. Be together-always.”
She stared in turbulent silence, tracing the planes of his face. The sharp cheekbones, the stubbled curve of his jaw, the full lips and the slope of his nose. He watched her with naked, raw need, amber eyes luminous over her, almost hypnotic in their focus. So beautiful, so strong: she was utterly ensnared by him, trapped by his magnetic power. She knew that she could not resist him. Could not refuse him anything.
It struck painfully, viciously, and crushed the breath from her chest: the terrible knowledge that he would be her destruction. That together, they would only be a force of pain and betrayal. This love was not pure or healing; it was rooted in corruption and lies, and if it grew further it would strangle the life out of them and everyone they touched. Just as Guinevere’s love for her noble knight tolled the death knoll for Arthur and all of Camelot, so too would Paris and Helen be the end of entire empires.
There were tears in her eyes when she kissed him. As she hooked her leg over his, flipped him onto his back and straddled his hips, she struggled to breathe past the suffocating pain in her throat. When she guided him, hard and firm and ready again, into the still-aching crux between her legs, she bit down on a sob. And as she took up the well-known rhythm that made him moan and quake beneath her, she cried in a way that had little to do with the friction and pleasure crashing between them. She wept for the cold but good husband whose heart would break when he discovered the truth-and for the terrible chain reaction that would follow like dominoes crashing over one by one. Because she knew now what the impossible visions had meant; they had been the warning signs only half-heeded, and now they were all crashing over the edge of the cliff.
His fingertips dimpled her thighs, leaving plum-colored bruises no excuse could cover up. She raked her nails down his chest, breaking the skin in dark furrows. The smallest beads of blood welled up, unheeded by either. Sore, aching, the pressure became almost unbearable-a part of her even wished for death. To die now, here, before the worst could happen, would be so simple… But no, there could be no simple escape or answer: he came with a sharp twist, triggering her own climax as she tightened around him with a sob, and the sudden release was still a welcomed blessing. She was too weak to do the right thing, and too cowardly to truly want death. Inconstant, sinful woman that she was, she was glad even as she despaired, quick to bend and kiss her lover’s warm lips as the aftershocks left her limp and giddy. And while they still rode the wave of euphoria, she made her decision: she would not live a half life any longer, split between two poles, between lies and truth. She would commit wholly-and if it led to damnation, so be it.
“Where shall we go?” she whispered, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.
CAST:
fairest, a helen/paris mythfic, pg-13
(written for cate)
aphrodite discovers she has some competition for 'woman of the year', and isn't above encouraging some immoral behavior in order to win. helen sparta is a woman who seems to have it all -- but knows something is missing. paris alexander is the hottest columnist in town, and doesn't hesitate to use his charm to get what he wants. one of the world's most infamous affairs may lead to future havoc...
Looking at her, as she tried to make herself smaller, tried vainly to dim the light and pain that were so plainly obvious to his eye, made his hands itch. His body said it knew her, knew the warmth of her skin and the soft curves beneath the modest dress and shawl. He shifted his legs beneath the table, his knee bumping hers, and he saw the way she instantly stiffened, the shiver that crossed her face. (7,867 words)
“Hmmm, what do you think, Myrtle?” Aphrodite tapped the end of her pen against her dark lips. The glossy prints from the day’s shoot were laid out before them across the back-lit table. “Should we do the spread in black and white or full color?”
“I see the merits in the black and white-lends a definite smoky, noir sensibility. But the color of her eyes… They’re so magnetic and compelling. It would be a shame to dull them. And the red of this dress against her skin. Absolutely stunning. We definitely want this campaign to stand out.”
“You never cease to impress me,” Aphrodite smiled. “Brilliant work as always, Myrtle. This Helen Sparta you’ve uncovered is the perfect face for the campaign-”
“And the fact that her husband is the owner of La Femme-”
“Is simply icing on the cake. I would have gladly paid Menelaus for a ten-page spread; the fact that it’ll come gratis-oh, damn, is that the time?”
“Dinner date?” Myrtle asked as she dashed about the room, snatching up her emerald jacket and Prada handbag.
“Not quite. Interview with that columnist everyone’s been swooning over. Apparently I’ve been nominated for Woman of the Year.” She said it casually, as one would say they were a lawyer or had family in California, but there was a flash of fierce pride and vanity in her smile.
“Paris Alexander? From the Herald?” The dark brown eyes flashed above a giddy smile. “God, he’s a dreamboat.”
“Yes, I suppose he is rather attractive,” Aphrodite mused before shaking her head. “Too young for my tastes.”
“Well, you’ve got a hunkster at home already,” Myrtle teased. “And I know you’re the most gorgeous woman alive, but you’ve gotta let the rest of us have a chance.”
“Myrtle, you are a peach,” she said fondly, pausing to squeeze the girl’s arm. “I won’t ask you if you’ve got this under control-I know you do. Get the final choices sent down to Cady before you leave so the ad department can get started early. I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the meeting. And if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll slip Paris your number.” She winked and disappeared down the hall to the musical beat of her heels tip-tapping against the wooden floor.
A half hour was simply tastefully late; and the man couldn’t blame the Woman of the Year for being busy, could he? Her schedule was crammed full of demands. The fact that she had managed to clear an hour for a late dinner at Faim spoke to the brightness of his rising star and the fond glow she got from an intimate interview in such grand surroundings. Iris cultivated her gossip websites the way some tended gardens, and the entire family reaped the benefits from that sort of adulation and worship. But for Aphrodite, true power lay in the immediate and personal. Covetous glances, mooncalf smiles, longing sighs, the light of admiration in staring, widened eyes-the Goddess of Beauty’s domain was the physical and the visible, and she would never cease to enjoy such tangible rewards.
As she swayed through the press in Faim’s entranceway-the dozens of would-be diners hoping to catch one of the few prized tables before the kitchen closed for the evening-she felt their eyes follow her and could almost hear the jaws drop. Immediately her step became quicker, lighter, as she straightened her shoulders and felt the day’s hassles and efforts melt away. There was nothing like blind and lusty love to soothe the nerves and relax the muscles, except for perhaps a long and very hot bath. As the maître d’ waved her in with an elegant sweep of his arm, she paused to flash a dazzling smile back at the whispering gapers. A phone was lifted, the camera flashed, and she knew her graceful entrance would be splashed across the Internet by the time the main course was served.
“Your party is back in a private alcove, Madame,” the polished man in the pressed gray suit said, leading the way deftly around the small silver tables. “Mr. Alexander’s request.”
Hmm, she mused. I hope this golden boy isn’t hoping for more than a Q&A. It can be so hard to let them down gently…
They turned a corner, rounded a spiral column, and there they were. The tall man in the red jacket stood quickly, stepping forward with a crooked smile and a hand outstretched for hers. And over his shoulder two very different-but oh so familiar-pairs of eyes stared at Aphrodite with the sharpness of falcons on the verge of diving for the kill.
“Ms. Venus, thank you for making time for this,” Paris said in honeyed tones. He drew out her chair and bowed her into it very elegantly before reclaiming his, smoothing down his jacket as he sat. His cream slacks were tailored perfectly to his slim, long legs, the crimson of his jacket and Windsor-knotted tie a vibrant splash that would set him apart from any crowd. The sharp curve of his jaw was dark with a week’s worth of stubble, but with his immaculate clothes and black hair slicked back in an artful crest he would hardly be thought of as slovenly. The ghost of a beard and the sharp brows above glittering, observant eyes gave him an edge of danger-the sense that he was a clean-cut man only pretending at respectability.
“I hadn’t realized this was to be a group interview,” Aphrodite said pointedly, glancing to the pair across from them.
“I apologize,” he said, almost too sincerely. “I thought I had made it clear-Ms. Pallas and Mrs. Olympian were also nominated. And, as time is a premium for all of us, I thought it would be most prudent to do simultaneous interviews.”
“May I ask a question?” Hera said, lifting her wine glass to pale lips. She had chosen the Ice Queen look tonight, her short blonde hair swept up into a gleaming and stiff swirl, her silver dress dotted in geometric patterns picked out in thick snow white thread. There were diamonds and pearls at her throat and hanging from her earlobes, the palest brush of pink gloss over her lips and powder at her cheeks. She looked imperious, regal, and unapproachable: cold glamour in a statuesque form.
“Absolutely, madame,” the reporter said smoothly.
“Exactly what did this poll gauge? I mean, what standards were the nominees held to? Is this meant to honor someone for their influences, talents, and work-or is it merely a crass popularity contest?”
Aphrodite felt her hackles raise at the thinly veiled taunt, but tamped down the urge to lash with venomous tongue and simply smiled as she waved the closest waiter over. “Excuse me, but what wine is Mrs. Olympian drinking?”
“The ’81 Clarion, miss.”
“A bit too vulgar for my tastes. I’ll be ordering the lobster tonight-would you ask the chef to recommend something to offset that?”
“Right away, miss.”
Paris sipped quickly at his own glass, outwardly unruffled. “It was a very heated round of voting that narrowed the field to three-in fact, all of you are very nearly perfectly tied as of the last count. We polled people in a variety of fields and venues: renowned thinkers, politicos, entertainers, average people leading average lives. It will be a very close call when all is said and done.”
“So this interview will decide things?” Athena asked, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs. She was dressed entirely in red, her suit fitted to her hourglass curves like a glove, the glossy pumps flashing in the light as she re-crossed her legs. There was a gold watch fob dangling from her breast pocket, and a thin chain around her neck that terminated in a small charm; Aphrodite couldn’t be certain from this angle, but it looked suspiciously like an airplane. That pet pilot of hers must be something else. “Tip the scales to favor one over the others?”
“That was the intention. I want to give the world the clearest, most unbiased view of each of you in turn. Put it out on the table, so to speak. Then let them make the final call.”
“A wise choice,” Athena said. “I’ve always believed that words can lead to just and fair decisions. I’ve been following your career with some interest, Mr. Alexander. You have an interesting flair-dramatic, but never melodramatic. You know just how to choose the appropriate phrases to make yourself understood without resorting to pandering or, conversely, speaking over the heads of your audience. A rare gift.”
“Flattery, Ms. Pallas, will get you just about anywhere,” Paris said with a coy eyebrow waggle. “But I happen to know you’ve got a fellow back home who I could hardly hope to compete with. Something of a wunderkind, isn’t he? A hot-shot, high-flying maverick?”
“It was a simple compliment,” she said coolly. “Not a come-on. I can appreciate someone’s work without wanting to become a more intimate part of it.”
“Yes, I believe that’s more in your line of experience, isn’t it, Aphrodite?” Hera interjected smoothly, barely fluttering an eyelash, face as smooth as marble.
Aphrodite clamped her teeth on her tongue lest it unleash a particularly cutting barb. She knew it was stress that made the Queen so catty-in the past, the blame could be laid entirely at Zeus’ sandaled feet. It had been easy to gauge the level and frequency of the King’s discretions simply by asking Hera the lightest question; the sharpness and abruptness of the reply was all the barometer the family needed. But now it was not Zeus. At least, not entirely. It was the trap that still lay straining in their path, perhaps minutes away from being sprung. It was the looming pallor of approaching war, the threat of bloodshed and mortal pain. The Lito itself was convulsing with the tension they were under, the rooms struggling to maintain normal dimensions, the appliances going haywire from the discharge of energy. Little wonder that the Queen was venting her nerves at every possible opportunity.
With that in mind-and the knowledge that rising to Hera’s bait would hardly help her bid for the title-Aphrodite drew in a calming breath, slid a smile across her lips, and assumed her professional businesswoman air. “I think we should order dinner now and dive straight into the questions. I’m positively famished, and I want to make sure we fit everything in before we leave.”
“The fashion world can be a destructive and dangerous one,” she admitted freely. “The unrealistic expectations that force women-and men-into unhealthy lifestyles and habits; the constant societal pressure and exorbitant costs; the mental and emotional toll; and then of course there’s the pollution, animal cruelty, and production processes that lead to inhuman treatment and the abuse of workers across the globe. Believe me, Mr. Alexander: I am all too aware of how bloody my world can be beneath the gold and glitter. And I readily confess that in the past I cared very little about such problems. I have made my share of utterly selfish and bad choices. But now, with help from several quarters, I am making a proactive effort to address those issues. My company is officially a cruelty-free organization. I contract only with designers that are in line with my new earth-friendly policies. The newest branch of my business is devoted entirely to funneling resources into organizations that are working to shut down sweatshops and employ those exploited workers in fields they are better suited to, with better pay and better working conditions. And I’ve sponsored several fashion shows and telethons to raise money and awareness for pollution clean-up and nature conservation. Because, ultimately, what does it matter how beautiful we are if we make the world an uglier place in the process?”
Paris’ smile deepened into a delighted grin. “Eloquently phrased, Ms. Venus. Thank you. Thank you all for coming tonight, and speaking so passionately about your work. I have a feeling my readers will be even more conflicted over their votes now-not to sound too cheesy, but you’re all incredible women. It’s been a rare privilege.”
“I think I speak for all of us when I say the pleasure was ours,” Athena said as he waved the waiter over. “I look forward to reading the finished interviews. As I said, I enjoy your prose.”
“Let us cover the-” Hera began as he took the check from the waiter. His hand rose sharply while his lips twisted into a satisfied smirk.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of letting you pick up the tab-especially when it falls under the company’s charge account. Please. Allow me.”
“I hate to eat and run,” Athena said, picking up her ruby-sparkled clutch and pushing out her chair. “But I have another date waiting. Good evening.”
“And you, Aphrodite?” Hera said coolly, sculpted eyebrows rising slowly. “Did you need a ride home? Back to the office? Or to a rendezvous, perhaps?”
They had never been on the most cordial of terms. From the moment Aphrodite had arrived at Olympus, rosy pink with the salty spray of the sea still damp on her glowing skin, the Queen had marked her for what she was: a chord of strife. Singly, she had almost started a cataclysmic fight between the gods-only Zeus’ intervention and the constrictive marriage arrangement with Hephaestus had forestalled that. And in her millennia-long dalliance with Ares there had been further friction that had echoed throughout the marble halls. In the last war, with the God of War firmly ensconced at the Nazi dictator’s right hand and Zeus just as resolutely standing at the back of the Allied President, she had balanced on the tripwire strung between the two, occasionally stepping off onto one side or the other before nimbly springing back. The others labeled her a mole, a double agent, a sympathizer and a spy. Such titles were not far from the truth, and Hera had always given her the most suspicious of looks every time she wavered on that invisible line. Beauty could be dangerous, could be deadly, could be cruel, and could be treacherous. Many times she had been all of the above. In hundreds of small and large ways, she had challenged the Queen’s throne and peace, and had threatened to topple everything important that was so fiercely fought for and protected-yet always so fragile in the face of their passions and power.
Now, with the balance once again precarious and war seemingly imminent, it was little wonder that Aphrodite was again under scrutiny; a fitting scapegoat for Hera’s anger. All night she had peppered the conversation with tiny barbs and subtle snares, painting a subtle but eloquent portrait of the Goddess of Beauty. The charming Paris had maintained a practiced and steady expression throughout, but Aphrodite had caught the quick glances, the minor shifting of his gaze each time. He had noted all, and while he promised an unbiased perspective, she knew some of Hera’s venom would inevitably slip into his writing. After all, what would make the juiciest story for his rapacious audience? A reformed model committed to heal the world, or the promiscuous former beauty queen turned cutthroat businesswoman?
She had changed through sheer dint of effort and force of will, working to rebuild herself into something substantial and lasting-but Aphrodite still had it within her to be petty and spiteful. As she smiled across the table at Hera, utterly dazzling and assured, the mind behind the bright eyes had resolved to win this shallow contest at any cost. She could not bear to allow the Queen one more victory to flaunt over her, one more insignificant triumph to draw out during squabbles. Aphrodite would have this crown, if only to keep it from her.
Now to simply find the right leverage…
“A lovely offer, Hera, but I think I’ll manage. In fact, I may just linger a while longer-I’m suddenly in the mood for dessert.”
“As you wish. Thank you again for the meal and the conversation, Mr. Alexander. My husband is likely waiting up for me, so I’m afraid I must follow Athena’s example. Goodbye.” The waiters darting around the tables all parted as Hera passed, each gently inclining their heads in respect whether they realized it or not. When the Queen felt regal, the entire world acknowledged it.
“Don’t think that I’m trying to sway your position,” Aphrodite said lightly, as a man wheeled the dessert cart towards them. “I know your duty is to report the facts as an impartial observer. But between you and me, Hera can lay it on a bit thick. I’m hardly the-oh, pardon me!”
She had bent to pick up the large purse resting beside her chair; in her haste, the strap slipped through her fingers, spilling the contents across the floor. A golden tube of lipstick rolled away, only to jam beneath the wheels of the cart.
“Please, allow me,” Paris said quickly, slipping from his chair and kneeling to gather up the cosmetics and scattered papers. “I do believe you’re prepared for just about anything, with a purse like that. You don’t happen to keep…”
He had frozen, eyes fixed on a glossy sheet of paper he held gingerly in one hand. The sentence hung half-finished and forgotten as his eyes widened and lips gaped, face reddening with an unmistakable heat. Aphrodite recognized that glazed look all too well and couldn’t resist the smile that stole upon her. Jackpot.
“Thank you so much,” she said firmly, reaching out with a steady hand to reclaim her bag. “Such a gentleman.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, startling. “Of course…”
“What do you have there?” she asked innocently, tilting her head. “Oh, that’s my newest model for my Eco Project-just signed her contract last week. Her name is Helen. Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“The most breathtaking woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, before realizing he’d spoken aloud. “God, I’m sorry-no slight meant to you, Ms. Venus.”
“We all have our specific tastes,” she said smoothly, still smiling. “You know, I’m supposed to have lunch with her tomorrow. But with the new ad campaign and the inevitable meetings, I have the feeling I’ll have to cancel. …Say, while you’re here, this is the perfect opportunity!”
“For?”
“Well, with the launch of the new line, I’m looking to secure plenty of ad space and publicity. Would it be possible to commission you for a piece? On Helen and the Eco Project? I’ll be sending a request to your editor formally tomorrow, but since we’re sitting here right now, there’s no reason not to run the idea past you personally. And if you’re not too busy tomorrow, since I’ll have to cancel anyway, perhaps we could rearrange things so you two could do lunch and get an interview in-”
“Absolutely,” he said eagerly with a quick nod. “What time and where?”
“Do you have an extra business card on you? I know I’ve got your number somewhere but-”
“Of course.” The tips of his fingers dove into the breast pocket of his jacket, emerging with a razor-edged black square covered in gold gilt.
“Thank you. The reservations were at Adagio for noon. I’ll let Helen know about the change in plans, so she’ll be expecting you. I’m sure you’ll get on splendidly. Well, it’s rather late, and I don’t have any right to claim more of your time. This was a lovely evening-we’ll have to do dinner again sometime.”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’m really looking forward to your piece. It’s been difficult, trying to convince the world that I’m a different woman. I have the utmost faith that you’ll be able to show my efforts in the light they deserve. The success of my new line may depend heavily on the public opinion of the company-and me.”
“Ms.Venus, I can say with the utmost confidence that my readers will fall in love with you. That is, if they haven’t already. You’ve certainly got the gift for making an impression.”
“You’re very kind, Mr. Alexander.”
“Please-call me Paris.”
“Only if you call me Aphrodite. Well, I’m off! Have a wonderful evening, Paris. And have fun at lunch tomorrow!”
So Helen was married? She was also young, and passionate; and her husband Menelaus Sparta was impressive, yes, but also distant and forbidding-like some icy mountain range. Aphrodite knew instant lust when she saw it, and now knew just how charming and persuasive the handsome Paris Alexander could be when he exerted himself. It wasn’t that she was condoning any illicit behavior-absolutely not. It was just that…
Two such magnetic individuals may fit together very nicely, if given half the chance to act on that attraction.
“Would you like me to pick you up later?”
Helen flinched. Not out of fear; she had simply become so accustomed to silence between them that the slightest sound startled her. She glanced over at her husband in his stern gray jacket, large hands tight around the steering wheel. Looking at him, she could still see the handsome face that had drawn her in, the intensity and dignified bearing that had once transfixed her. She had been adrift, lost and confused, and he had been the sheltering harbor that offered refuge and peace. But now, after four years of marriage, she was not the woman she had been then. And he had not changed, not even in millimeters of degrees.
“No,” she said, stifling a sigh. “I might do some shopping, afterwards. I’ll catch a cab.”
She turned back to the window, to stare at the flashing cars and blurred faces that passed, and wished she could be a better person. If she were truly good, she would be able to appreciate everything she had. A reliable husband who treasured her in his own distant way. Money, luxuries-a new job that promised her the world on a silver platter. But even with everything spread out before her like some sumptuous buffet, she was still wanting. Still hoping and searching for that missing spark, the piece that would fix everything together into a solid and shining whole.
In the past weeks she had found herself lying awake at night, removed from Menelaus, who slept as silently and immovable as he was in the waking day. She would lie in those soft sheets and stare up at the tiled ceiling above their grand bed and feel the edges of the painful hole that was only growing in her chest, hidden beneath the skin and red strands of sinew, pressing sharply against her frantic, bird-like heart. Tears had burned the corners of her eyes, but she had refused them. She may be inconstant and weak, but she would not allow that frailty to show.
The car pulled up to the restaurant: small, exclusive, and by reservation only.
“Have a good time,” Menelaus said.
She hesitated, hand on the handle of her door, and glanced over at him. Kiss me, she thought. Touch my hand. Do something. But he simply met her gaze, offering only a faint smile of encouragement.
“Good luck with your meetings today,” she said in a very small, quiet voice, before slipping out and slamming the door shut. She stood on the sidewalk, grasping the edges of her beaded shawl, and watched as the black BMW slipped back into the stream of traffic, disappearing around the next corner.
What even am I to you? she thought, hating herself for the traitorous bent of such questions. A pretty bauble to admire? A rescued animal to occasionally pet? Charity and distracted affection? It wasn’t fair to Menelaus, who had never offered her harm or anger. His only crime was in his detachment; her blood sang too hot and loud to be content with such cold attention. Perhaps it was their disparate ages, or conflicting backgrounds, or wildly differing dreams for the future, or everything at once. A part of her had known, even on the wedding day, that such a marriage was not destined for smooth and pleasant waters. That there would be strife, even if only in her heart. It was likely that Menelaus was utterly oblivious to this; he was always so present and pragmatic, unable to see beyond that day’s demands. And she had always been a consummate actress, able to school her expression to hide a multitude of emotions. Chances were he had not noticed how cold their bed had become of late, how unhappy his beautiful young wife truly was-
A warm hand at her shoulder made her jump just as the deep voice, so close to her ear, said, “Pardon me, but are you Helen?” She twisted sharply, shawl slipping down her arm, the movement of her dark curls obstructing her view for one heart-thudding second before her eyes fixed on his face.
Words caught in her throat and would go no further; her heart refused to settle into a quieter rhythm; she was so unbalanced she was sure her sandals would slide beneath her and send her crashing to the ground. Something of her panic must have slipped beyond her mask, for his hands swiftly caught at her arms, righting her and offering their steady strength until she was stable again.
“I truly beg your pardon,” he said, stumbling over the words in his haste, face flushing with embarrassment and guilt. “I didn’t intend to frighten you. Or intrude on your thoughts.”
“They needed interrupting,” she said finally. “They were becoming a nightmare. Thank you for waking me, Mr…”
“Paris Alexander. But please-call me Paris.”
“And you can call me Helen.”
“I’m sure Ms. Venus told you-”
“Yes. Yes, she did.”
“Our table is ready, if you’re hungry.”
“Yes. Thank you. Please, lead the way.”
He was more than happy to, holding open the door for her before slipping past, his sleeve brushing her bare arm. Her eyes traced the line of his neck where it met his shoulder, the dark fringe of hair that met the blue collar of his shirt. There was something indefinably familiar about him, in his profile or the way he walked, the sharp slope of his nose or the shape of his hands as they gestured her forward. It was the oddest sense of déjà vu and she struggled to place him-had she known him at the orphanage? But no, she shook that idea aside as quickly as it appeared; she had heard something about him having an older brother somewhere, some sort of family legacy that had helped pave the way for his current success.
As they took their seats, his eye caught hers. There was a gleam there, something that could only be described as a roguish twinkle. “Am I that fascinating?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re staring at me. I haven’t got something stuck in my teeth, do I?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, unable to hide the flush that brightened her cheeks. “Sorry, you just… seem so familiar somehow. I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
“Well, if you read the Herald, you’ve no doubt seen my picture. I’ve done a few interviews on TV, too.”
“No, nothing like that. I just… Never mind.” Her flush deepened and she looked down into her lap, away from the haunting face with its sharp angles and handsome eyes.
“But you know,” he said softly, as she picked up a menu. “When I saw your picture last night, I was sure I knew you already, too.”
“I’ve been told I have a memorable face,” she said. It was the only gift she had, her means of securing the comfortable life she now led. Menelaus was a decent man, but she knew he never would have married a nobody like her if it wasn’t for her beauty.
“No. Well, yes. But it was more than that. I was almost positive I knew you. Maybe in a past life?”
She said nothing, her eyes resolutely focused on the list of entrees. The harmonics of his voice echoed straight into the marrow of her bones; she shifted in her chair, re-crossed her legs, and still could not relax. The waiter paused at their table, took their orders, and promptly departed for the kitchen. When she finally set her menu aside and looked up, it was to immediately meet his gaze.
The way he sat in his chair it might as well be a throne. One hand lay on the table, beside his empty plate, the long fingers uncurling to tap a quiet rhythm against the linen cloth. She could almost see the coiled tension in him, the sense of a hunter about to strike; and yet it did not frighten her. On the contrary: she found herself excited by his piercing, knowing gaze. The sense of strength and passion barely caged. It had been years since a man had looked at her with such pointed hunger-it was a rare occasion with Menelaus, and with his ring around her finger most men shied away. But not this one. Not Paris.
“Well?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to ask me questions?”
“You’re very wounded,” he said, taking her by surprise. “Who hurt you?”
“No one,” she said shortly. “I was expecting a typical interview: favorite designer, career goals, that sort of thing.”
“What’s your signature fashion statement?”
“Smoky eyes and simple, classic lines,” she said as if reading from a script, straightening her shawl. “Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly are my icons-they knew how to be beautiful and classy. Alluring but never cheap or gaudy.”
“Preferred season?”
“Summer. I like sundresses and bikinis. Spaghetti straps and halter tops. Sandals rather than high heels.”
“Why do you wear a mask? What are you so determined to hide?”
“Those aren’t real questions, and you’re not making any sense,” she retorted, hands clenching together in her lap.
God, but she was stunning. Like some dark gem carved into the shape of a woman, the light of a star captured in her hazel eyes. Not as leggy or delicate as most of the models strutting the catwalks, but all the more magnetic for her singular grace. He hadn’t lied when he said he felt as if he knew her; had only been somewhat joking when he’d suggested they’d known one another in a previous life. There was something so, so… Looking at her, as she tried to make herself smaller, tried vainly to dim the light and pain that were so plainly obvious to his eye, made his hands itch. His body said it knew her, knew the warmth of her skin and the soft curves beneath the modest dress and shawl. He shifted his legs beneath the table, his knee bumping hers, and he saw the way she instantly stiffened, the shiver that crossed her face.
“Staring is impolite,” she said brusquely, to cover her reaction. “Even if I’m paid to be an object, to be looked at-”
“You’re not an object,” he interrupted. “You’re flesh and blood. A woman who should be heard as well as seen. I apologize, if I’ve offended. It’s just a devil of a thing: I’m sure we know each other. It’s so hard to place where or how.”
“I promise you-we’ve never met before. We don’t live in the same circles.”
“Of course we do. You work for Aphrodite Venus-”
“A very recent development.”
“Your husband owns the premier women’s magazine in Europe.”
“We’ve been married for four years. Before that, I was a waitress. At a nightclub. And before that I lived at the Swann Home for Girls and Boys. In the council estate. Hardly the area someone of wealth and breeding would visit; it’s not exactly a tourist destination.”
“…Do you remember your family at all?”
He leaned closer, brow creasing. Her heart fluttered as if with tremulous wings-when was the last time anyone had shown any concern over her sorry past? It had been a single night’s conversation with Menelaus, something promptly pushed aside and forgotten. And now this handsome young man looked at her so ardently…
“No. They tell me a woman brought me to the Home; that she looked ill and desperate but refused to give her name before she disappeared back into the night. That she was beautiful beneath the sheen of sickness. Maybe she was my mother. I never tried to find her. Or my father. Most likely he abandoned us both before I was even born.”
“I’m truly sorry. That you never knew them, that they had to give you up-”
“That they abandoned me?”
“No. They did not abandon; that’s impossible. Something happened that forced them to leave you at that place. Something beyond their control or will.”
“You speak with such conviction. Why?”
“Because it’s unfathomable that they did not want you. That anyone could abandon you.”
She felt it crack, peel away: the façade she had cultivated over most of her life. His words, the voice that breathed them, the confidence in his passionate eyes. She was struck straight through her unsatisfied heart. Her emptiness, her loneliness, laid bare as the waiter set their dishes down unaware of the silent communication burning across the table.
With staggering clarity she saw it all: the way the buttons of his shirt would part beneath her fingers; how the cloth would glide across his bronzed, supple shoulders; the soft hiss the belt would make as it slid through the loops of his slacks. He would be statuesque over her in the darkness, hands as gentle as his hips were forceful, lips as firm as hers would be yielding.
In that moment she was lost. Or perhaps found.
Weeks that felt like years. And yet it all passed in the blink of an eye; the next time she opened them it was to look at a man who should be nothing but a stranger but instead was dearer to her than the one she went home to each night. In a matter of days Paris knew her as no other soul ever had, could read her every thought and desire in a single glance. Being with him was like finding an oasis in the heart of a killing desert, a fire in the coldest pit of midwinter, and she drank and warmed herself greedily.
But every touch came with a price.
The moment his skin caressed hers, she saw things. Strange flashes of impossible memories; visions of darkness and death and betrayal. Blood staining golden sands a gleaming crimson. Sunlight turning a sea of swords into a blinding, cutting wave. A treasure hoard piled beside an immense pyre of bodies. Sometimes there was even sound to accompany the nightmarish parade: the shrieking of horses, the clanging of blades against shields, the wailing of women, the dying groans of men.
The first time it happened she thought she was going mad. Pulled away from his arms with a scream of terror. The second time, she decided it was a punishment for her sins. The visions were reminders of her wicked unfaithfulness. But if this was the price, she would pay it: she could not keep away from him. He was the sun to her, she a mere moon caught in his orbit, and nothing on this earth could keep them apart now. And in the throes, when passion met passion with all the force of lightning searing the sky, the images faded away to leave only him behind.
The north to her compass. The Lancelot to her Guinevere. And the snake to her Eve, too: her own personal damnation.
And she loved him: body, heart, and soul.
It was the big night: the launch party to commemorate the official unveiling of Aphrodite Venus’ Eco Project. The banquet hall of the city’s finest, largest hotel had been transformed into a woodland grotto, leaves and vines affixed to the pillars, tables overflowing with platters of fruit and flowers. Helen was placed front and center as the face of the campaign, poised atop the golden dais in a sapphire dress and silver circlet. The harshest fashion critics were already singing the line’s praises, uncharacteristically unanimous in their impressed delight, and mingled amidst the models, reporters, and wealthy elite drunk on wine and beauty. Menelaus was somewhere below, using the opportunity to network. Business, as usual, was at the forefront of his thoughts.
“If I could have your attention for just one moment,” Aphrodite’s voice rang through the room, amplified by the dozen speakers attached to the spiral columns. She smiled behind the gleaming microphone stand, viciously gorgeous in red silk, a perfect contrast beside Helen on her mock throne: pale skin to dark, honeyed hair to black, red dress to blue. Everything about this night was calculated to impress, to stamp an indelible image of beautiful perfection on the memories of the attendees. “Thank you all for coming out to admire my new line, where high fashion meets the green mindset. This is only the beginning of drastic changes to Venus Fashion: from this moment on, every new item developed under my company’s umbrella will be 100% eco-friendly and cruelty-free.”
The applause was enthusiastic and interspersed with several wolf-whistles and shouts of, “Here, here!”
“Thank you to everyone who worked so diligently to achieve this dream, from the earliest stages of production to the ad department and retailers. And I want to thank Helen Sparta for her outstanding work in introducing the Eco Project to the world-only the most beautiful woman could have done justice to such a line.”
“You’re only being gracious because you’re the Woman of the Year!” someone shouted from the crowd, audible over the second round of applause. Helen barely heard it, so focused on finding his face in the crowd. Aphrodite merely smiled coyly.
“And now let’s celebrate properly! Drink, eat, and be merry! We’ve earned this!” She waved with a musical laugh as the camera bulbs flashed like fireworks. When the photographers had had their fill, she turned to Helen. “Thank you, dear. Feel free to mingle. Myrtle will be in touch in the next few days about the next stage-but until then, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned a break.”
“Thank you, Ms. Venus,” Helen said, rising quickly to her feet. She had finally picked out his face from the swirling, glittering finery below, fixed so intently on hers even as a dozen other models sashayed past. She didn’t see the knowing look on Aphrodite’s face as she hurried down the steps, skirt in her hands and heart already in her throat.
“Upstairs,” he whispered as soon as she reached him, careful to keep his hands from her until they had slipped discretely through a side door, until they were away from any prying eyes. They were too impatient to wait for the elevator, currently sitting at the uppermost floor; instead, they hurried into the empty stairwell. She hiked up her dress to run, flashing smooth legs that only made him quicken his pace. They were both breathless when they burst into the hall on the sixth floor. He pulled the key card for the room from his jacket pocket and held the door open for her.
“I thought it would never end,” she gasped, as he drew down the zipper of her dress, mouth nipping at her neck, as the incongruous image of a giant wooden horse flashed across her mind’s eye. “So many speeches, so much talking-”
His suit jacket dropped to the floor, promptly followed by his tie, waistcoat, and shirt. Her dress pooled around her feet, the shining blue fabric almost liquid against the white pile of the carpet. She saw waves lapping at a bleached sandy beach, could almost taste the salt spray on her lips. But no, all she tasted was him: the bitter tang of alcohol on his tongue and breath, the ghost of his champagne, the indefinable flavor that was his skin. His hands slid across her body, cupping and caressing in all the right places. He held her, touched her, as no man ever had before, with an assured knowledge Menelaus had never managed.
Paris found pleasure in pleasuring her-he was not selfish with love, demanding satisfaction before giving it in return. And for all of his haste in pulling her away into private places, impatient in being alone with her, he never rushed. How he could manage to be urgent even while drawing each movement out into tantalizing slowness defied reason. But when she was with him, Helen cared very little about reason.
Hands tight around her thighs, drawing her legs up around his waist, he carried her to the bed. As she fell to the sheets he fell into her, driving his length inside her in a way that made her sob for breath. She hooked her ankles together and slid her fingers into his hair, flexing and tugging with each thrust of his hips.
“Tell me,” he said, kissing the hollow of her throat. “Tell me you love me.”
“I-” She looked out over a stony parapet, over an ocean covered by black sails. Hipbone clashed against hipbone, reasserting the tangible over the imagined. The sheets bunched up around her shoulders, the smooth friction of fabric against her skin echoing the slick friction of his body plunging into hers.
“Do you love me, Helen?” he whispered. His mouth was at her breast, he was drawing the sharp peak of her nipple between his teeth…
“I-” Smoke burned her eyes, left ashes on her tongue. She bit her nails into his shoulder, clinging to him with a feverish desperation, back arching between him and the bed. She was about to melt, about to burst into flames, about to fly apart into mere atoms.
“Will you always love me?” his voice cracked around his need, rhythm faltering.
“I will! I swear it!” A gem-studded crown rolled from the tips of her fingers, to fall into dust and dirt, abandoned as everything died around her. She screamed in both pleasure and pain, body shuddering beneath the onslaught, the world dissolving behind clenched eyelids. She felt him come in the next instant, body bucking wildly, her name wrenched from his lips in a low keen.
They lay silently as their bodies shivered and cooled, his cheek hot against her shoulder. In the cacophony of hearts and gasped breaths, Helen felt the deep guilt in her breast stir. Her husband stood only a few floors below, content in his blind ignorance, while she fucked another man on silk hotel sheets. She was like an addict, Paris the sweetest of drugs-she was always eager for her next fix.
And yet… Only with Paris did she know satisfaction. Know what it was to feel truly needed and wanted and loved beyond mere desire. It was lustful and wrong, but there was more to it than that. He saw her as no one else did, beyond the face that launched a hundred adverts. He listened, and he always wanted more; neither of them could be content for long. Only together was there any sort of peace. Though to have that peace, it seemed there must always be a war. A moral versus mortal conflict, desire over duty, needing over having.
“Come away with me,” he said into the hot silence, voice muffled by her skin.
“What?”
“Come away with me,” he repeated, voice firmer and more insistent. He lifted his head to meet her eyes, one languid hand stretching up to twist one of her dark curls around his index finger. His hair was still damp with sweat, spiked and peaked chaotically. “We’ll run away from here. Go someplace where no one knows our names. Never look back. Be together-always.”
She stared in turbulent silence, tracing the planes of his face. The sharp cheekbones, the stubbled curve of his jaw, the full lips and the slope of his nose. He watched her with naked, raw need, amber eyes luminous over her, almost hypnotic in their focus. So beautiful, so strong: she was utterly ensnared by him, trapped by his magnetic power. She knew that she could not resist him. Could not refuse him anything.
It struck painfully, viciously, and crushed the breath from her chest: the terrible knowledge that he would be her destruction. That together, they would only be a force of pain and betrayal. This love was not pure or healing; it was rooted in corruption and lies, and if it grew further it would strangle the life out of them and everyone they touched. Just as Guinevere’s love for her noble knight tolled the death knoll for Arthur and all of Camelot, so too would Paris and Helen be the end of entire empires.
There were tears in her eyes when she kissed him. As she hooked her leg over his, flipped him onto his back and straddled his hips, she struggled to breathe past the suffocating pain in her throat. When she guided him, hard and firm and ready again, into the still-aching crux between her legs, she bit down on a sob. And as she took up the well-known rhythm that made him moan and quake beneath her, she cried in a way that had little to do with the friction and pleasure crashing between them. She wept for the cold but good husband whose heart would break when he discovered the truth-and for the terrible chain reaction that would follow like dominoes crashing over one by one. Because she knew now what the impossible visions had meant; they had been the warning signs only half-heeded, and now they were all crashing over the edge of the cliff.
His fingertips dimpled her thighs, leaving plum-colored bruises no excuse could cover up. She raked her nails down his chest, breaking the skin in dark furrows. The smallest beads of blood welled up, unheeded by either. Sore, aching, the pressure became almost unbearable-a part of her even wished for death. To die now, here, before the worst could happen, would be so simple… But no, there could be no simple escape or answer: he came with a sharp twist, triggering her own climax as she tightened around him with a sob, and the sudden release was still a welcomed blessing. She was too weak to do the right thing, and too cowardly to truly want death. Inconstant, sinful woman that she was, she was glad even as she despaired, quick to bend and kiss her lover’s warm lips as the aftershocks left her limp and giddy. And while they still rode the wave of euphoria, she made her decision: she would not live a half life any longer, split between two poles, between lies and truth. She would commit wholly-and if it led to damnation, so be it.
“Where shall we go?” she whispered, the tear tracks drying on her cheeks.