Cannes | H.S

Champagne

The bold red lip they painted and glossed across my mouth won't replenish the confidence missing from my self esteem this very moment. Surely, the designer dress I'm wearing is absolutely gorgeous, but my heart is no longer in this very event. I feel utterly empty, sensing the idea that I just lost someone so near and dear to me when in reality, that's far from the truth. So, I fake a smile when needed, laugh at words that hold no true humor. All in all to get me through the now dreaded evening. The after party doesn't provide much promise either as Ethan clings to my waist, far too indulgent in his number of glasses of whiskey. I smell it upon his breath as his lips hastily meet my own every single time a camera flashes its presence in the room. I have to wipe the taste away from my mouth with a napkin, far too embarrassed by it all and far too disgusted with his behavior.

He doesn't care, desiring and craving the attention of the limelight. And to think I ever thought this PR relationship could ever do me any good. Add another two glasses of whiskey and I've found myself in the hallway, quietly trying to get Ethan's desperately sweaty hands off me. He doesn't seem to take no for an answer as his lips trail around my neck, stealing kiss after kiss. After a few minutes, I've grown rather irritated that to the obvious eye, we appear to be a couple enjoying a blissful moment.

"Layla, come on, don't be like that," he whispers, cupping my chin in his fingertips, pressing his mouth to mine.

He attempts to lace his tongue with my own, and despite me turning my face to the side numerous times, he doesn't quite get the hint that I'm in no mood. "Ethan, enough."

"Baby, you're so damn gorgeous tonight. Come on, let me fuck you in the coat closet."

He takes my hand in his, ushering me along like a puppet waiting to be directed. I resist, this time rather agitated that he won't take no for an answer. Leaning back against the door, his mouth finds mine once again, kissing me again and again as if trying to find a source of passion that isn't there in the first place. And life would be so much easier if I did love Ethan and this relationship was actually real. Then again, it's times like this why I remember that could never actually happen. Groaning as he kisses all over my face, I feel his rather excited bulge through his trousers as he presses himself against me tightly. 

"Ethan, stop..."

"Shhh, baby, come on..."

He tries to attempt the door to the coat closet despite my resistance, holding no true compassion for my own feelings and what I want. A few men from the after party do venture into the hallway to find the bathroom and despite seeing us, say nothing but chuckle amongst themselves as they consider this a rather enjoyable moment. I'm fucking angry at this point, realizing that no man between taking a leak and seeing the uncomfortable state I appear in, have bothered to stop and ask if I'm okay. Why would they anyways? I'm supposed to stand there and look pretty, isn't that what they pay me for here in Hollywood? America's sweetheart? Hmm?

Clammy and hungry hands venture underneath my extravagant dress as he thinks toying with me for a little pleasure will quieten my voice. "Stop it Ethan, I'm not in the mood. I mean it..."

He muffles me with his mouth, kissing me until I feel like I can't breath, gasping for air the second he provides a little distance. However, as he finally opens the closet door, I'm cornered into the dimly lit space as he shuts it behind him. I'm rather scared seeing him like this, never staying longer past his third drink to see this frantically hungry side of him.

"You're so beautiful baby," he comments, reaching for my hand again.

"Ethan, you're really drunk. I want to leave. I'm not joking, move."