The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

ONESHOT FT. Paris (collab with Rattywriter)

A.N.: This is in collaboration with my absolute Wattpad bestie Rattywriter (ilysm girly<3) and her OC Paris Grambs. Paris is part of a fic called "Riches" that inspired me to write. Please go and check it out!!! For context, this takes place right after the will reading. Also, go to "Riches" to see another part from Paris's pov.
<333!

I look up and see her. Paris Riley Grambs, sister of the girl who just inherited my family fortune.
She looks up. "More fancy rich people?"

I laugh. "I'm Trinity." I say as I extend my arm.

"You're not going to introduce yourself with your full, long, elegant name and a bunch of rude questions?"

My lips curl up again, "No, but if you wanted me to I'm Trinity Kallistrate Hawthorne and where did you say you came from again?"

It's her turn to laugh. "New Castle, Connecticut." She tells me. She turns away from the window to face me.

"You all look rich." She says in a dry voice, crossing her arms over her body.

I smile tightly, feeling, as usual a little self conscious about being called 'rich'.  I turn my eyes to the window that Paris's had just torn from. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

She looks at me oddly, like she can't believe I'd appreciate my surroundings.

"Yes," she replies in a bit of a faraway voice, "yes, its just gorgeous."

She fidgets a bit with the hem of her thin cheer leading shirt. It's not too cold in winter in Texas, but it would feel breezy for someone in a paper thin polyester crop top.

"Look, it might be a while before your sister leaves. My family will interrogate her for a while. Why don't I get you something warmer to wear?"

"I don't need rich people taking pity on me." She seems ruffled.

"It's not pity. It's giving. I have too many clothes anyways." I try and joke.

"I know. I saw your closet in Vogue."

I'd forgotten that interview. Everything seems to have disappeared in my mind since granddad passed. It makes me feel numb. "Please Paris. Let me give you something."

She considers it for a moment then rolls her tongue around her mouth. "Sure. I'll raid Trinity Hawthorne's closet." She teases.

I slip through as many short cuts as I can until I reach my room, or more accurately, the painting that guards my room.

"Respectfully, what the hell?"

I laugh. Ah, I love confusing people. "Watch." I slide back the panel on the bottom of the frame, opening up the wall to reveal the lift that leads to my room.

"Woah." Paris breathes.

I smile as I hit the button for the third floor.

"Thanks." I love it when people find my wing/ room interesting, even though I understand how lucky I am to have access to these resources.

We step into my room and Paris stops. "This. This is your room?"

"Yes. I'm so fortunate to be able to have this." I say as humbly as I can, practising what granddad drilled into me, humility, empathy, gratitude, and compassion.

I lead her towards my closet, a core like room in the middle of the tower structure of my room, seemingly hidden from view. I unlock the door and step inside.
Paris stands by the door, dumbstruck. It's as if she can't bring herself to enter.

"Hey, it's ok. You can come in."

"I'm not scared." She meanders in, circling the base of the staircase. "I'm in awe."

I'm flattered yet again. "Thanks." an awkward silence fills the space of two almost strangers. "What do you want to wear?"

"Whatever you don't want." She jokes with the kind of edge I've started to see in her - mocking and defiant.

I climb one of the staircases to the second floor and find it: a cream sweater with a black stripe on the V-neck.  Walking around a bit more, I find fleece lined tights and a school girl skirt - only in black leather. Thinking it might be a while before she has access to her clothes, I pull a pair of jeans, a pair of Adidas sport pants, a sweatshirt, a pink t-shirt, and a pair of pjs, stuffing them in a Hawthorne House laundry bag. Glancing down the rail, I see her worn sneakers and pull out a fresh pair of ankle boots.

"Here, try this," I hold out the skirt, sweater, tights, and boots. "I hope they fit."

She looks at them.

"Dressing room's behind the stairs."

"You really didn't have to - "

"Just try them on. Please."

She gives me a skeptical look, then walks behind the stairs. While she changes, I scrawl out a quick note and put it in the bag, as well as a comb and tube of lip balm.
Stress dries out my lips. I'm starting to like Paris. Her sense of humor is fresh and she seems to have a soft heart and sharp mind under her tough exterior.

She also seems to share my fondness for not take other peoples crap.

Paris steps hesitantly from behind the stairs. "Does it fit?" I call out.

"Like a glove." She replies dryly as she walks towards me, bunched up cheer outfit in hand.

The sweater hangs perfectly off her frame and the skirt looks like it was made for her. She's taken her hair out of the high ponytail and with the hair framing her face, it gives her a new found softness.

"You look amazing." I beam at her.

"Well," she says, loosely folding up her uniform "if my life is about to be turned upside down, might as well do it in clothes that cost more than my monthly salary. But seriously," her eyes soften, becoming sincere ",thank you so much."

"You're welcome. I was glad to help. Do you want me to get your uniform cleaned and give it back when you move in?"

"What's the point?" She looks part angry, part sad.

Having your entire world torn apart, being changed in an instant, it can help to have something to hold on to, a fragment of normality. I get it. "Here," I try to partially change the subject "take this." I hand her the bag of clothes.

"No. I can't take more." She pushes it away.

I press my crimson lips. A Hawthorne never takes the first answer. "Yes. It's a gift. There's no need to return it. Take it to help you. It might be a while before you can get your clothes."

She hesitates, then presses her cheer uniform into my arms. "I can't thank you enough."

"Then don't." I look her in the eyes. "You don't need to."

"I-I think my sisters might need me."

"Let's get back then."

We get back to Great hall and Avery embraces Paris. "God, I was worried." She steps back. "What are you wearing?"

"Oh, I lent Paris some clothes to stay warm." I speak up.

"You look fantastic Paris!" Libby says kindly.

"We were discussing the paparazzi." Oren fills me in.

"Oh, be careful Paris," I say with a smile "look out, the whole world's going to want a piece of your sister... and you."

At that moment, Avery bolts from the room, leaving my angered aunt and confused mother.

"Looks like I should go." Paris smiles at me.

I slip a cookie in her hand. "I'll see you soon."

"Thank you. I'll see you too."