a group of orphaned girls, down on their luck, infiltrate high society in order to live the high life. but the socialites they're trying to trick may very well find a place in their hearts.
a riize apply fic | closed
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The girls had heard of after-parties, the exclusive for the exclusives, a way to prolong the fun of the night with only the best of guests. They'd never been to one, but they were familiar with the concept. What was new, on the other hand, were before-parties — or pre-parties, as Wonbin had called them, when he'd graciously invited them to one. As an ambassador of Sacai, he'd been busy attending event after event, some more fun than others, and his loyalty had rewarded him with the ability to invite as many friends as he wanted to this party. It was the last weekend before fashion week would finally start, and his schedule would be filled to the brim with shows and photoshoots and interviews. Better take advantage of the calm before the storm.
It was a little strange, for such a sleek and modern club to hide itself in the ground floor of a narrow, authentic Hausmann-style building. As soon as the girls had stepped inside, one thing had been made very clear: this was a party for the stylish, the fashionable, the tasteful. Solhwi had almost felt a little embarrassed by her far too comfortable clothes, until she'd noticed the buffet waiting in the back of the room.
Call it stereotype, she'd imagined the buffet of a fashion pre-party in a club to be just about decent. Some appetizers, fresh fruit perhaps, if only for the aesthetic, but with a larger focus on alcohol. After all, that was where the fun awaited for most. But when she'd come face to face with the selection of French hors d'oeuvres, all hailing from different regions, and presented like art pieces themselves, Solhwi had quickly changed her tune. She should not have underestimated the French's penchant for show.
She was on her second plate when Sohee joined her in the line to the buffet, his eyes just about as wide and sparkly as hers. Even the loud, stone-shaking music was easy to ignore, when her stomach was growling like she'd woken up from a century-long coma. Narrowing her eyes to take a better look at the food and its colors under the rainbow neons, Solhwi inspected each and every plate in search of her next victims. Her eyes landed on the pissaladière again, of which she'd probably already eaten half since she'd arrived. Pizza if it had class and style, she'd once seen it called in a book of recipes Ms. Jeon had lended her. Solhwi liked her pizza just fine, but the Provencial dish certainly was a change of pace she was fond of.
