cannibal; kendall roy

3

She'd kept herself together- through her anger and spite, or her upset and disappointment until she got back to her apartment, tightly clutching onto handles for her bags. Counting each and every step until she was inside. The door was then promptly locked, and she collapsed onto the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest out of anxiety. The bag containing her new sweater tossed completely aside.

Marguerite hadn't expected on seeing any of them so soon, certainly not Shiv. It had thrown her off of schedule, now as she sat on her floor, silently letting her tears spill down her face, before she got up and stumbling over to her sofa and the nice bag sitting on the counter. Sure—she'd said she'd go to the wedding. But that was months away. It wasn't now. It was the future. An obligation she could treat like a joke, and probably skip.

But now she'd seen Shiv—and now she was dragging herself towards her own addictions. It was plump, practically brand new. Stuffed to the brim with her favorite white powder. It was a little flavorless, and more strong than what she had become accustomed to in Paris, but it kindly complimented her mental state. 

Shakily, she'd poured a lumpy amount out onto her table, licking her thumb and planting her thumb into it and then rubbing it into her lower gums, then the top row. Then, she picked up one of the small spoons she had littering her table and scooped up a small amount of the drug before sniffing it up into her nose. Feeling the slight burn, sighing a little.

This was what she liked. The world a little blurry.

As she sat there, her nose twitched a little and she thought about the encounter with Shiv Roy. It embarrassed her that she felt so fucked up about it in all honesty. The woman had practically embarrassed her, it felt like she had been chased out of the bar, and thrust out onto her knees, for the free will of Shiv Roy. Just like she'd been about ten years prior—bending at the mercy of a girl who was claiming to never have liked her.

Worst of all, she felt the urge to bite back at the girl and nip at her sides, like an untrained puppy would do. The urges that Marguerite felt in New York, or when she was placed back in the big wide arena that the Roy family feasted from, were large.

So she snorted more.

The crème colored ceiling seemed close enough for her to touch, as if she could reach up and stroke the paneled ceilings, her fingers loosely swinging through a strand of pearls connected to the chandelier.

This was how Marguerite preferred her life as of late.

It was more fulfilling this way. She couldn't be hurt. She couldn't think, and she certainly couldn't hear the words haunting her head.

It was peaceful.

Until she threw more liquor into the occasion.

Meanwhile, halfway across town, in a clear and tall building, pristine and put together, there sat Shiv Roy in the conference room of her father's building.

A place she liked to avoid unless she had a good reason to be there.

Usually, she would've been collecting the likes of her soon to be husband Tom, but today she had been pulled off of her normal schedule. During a brief lunch, she had spotted Marguerite Garnier—Her former best friend, and current acquaintance. A friend she couldn't ever fully drop because well, old habits tend to die hard, and Marguerite had been the first friend of hers to ever stick around for the long haul.

Or because Marguerite was a woman of status—status that wasn't so easily killed by rumors and affairs.

The woman had her own fortune and reputation. It looked better for her to have her as a friend, than for her to not. But this revelation hadn't stopped her from being angry from the woman's sudden appearance in New York City, or ditching all of her prior activities to inform her own brethren.