Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Cait/Eshe| Show me

Cait woke with the hard slash of morning sun slicing across her eyes. Despite a heavy head—weighed down more from fatigue than anything else, she levered up with a yawn and stretched. Last night had been wild and her body ached in the most delicious ways that said she'd had a killer night with an awesome dance floor.

Fueled by three hours of sleep and a double espresso, she showered and dressed for an exciting Day One of shooting. This was going to set the tone for the entire project. And if they didn't execute flawlessly then everything could be wiped off the table as fast as it had been laid out. Fashion was fickle and executives were mercurial beasts guarding the gates.

Today had to be perfection.

So of course life as she knew it was about to go straight to Hell.

Arriving on set at the gorgeous Paris Opera House, she was swept up in the grandeur. It was perfect backdrop, where the glory of the old would join with the elegance of the new. But she had only the barest moment to soak in the breathtaking splendor when the sound of raised voices sliced through her moment of awe and joy. Climbing the iconic staircase, Evan, Karl Yoren, the photographer and Tarnveer Pal, Iona's manager came into full view. The three of them almost nose to nose in varying stages of upset.

"—fault," Evan said, besieged by a snarling manager, after Tarnveer pressed his hands to his chest and shoved. "Maybe you should keep better track of your client."

"What's going on?" Cait spoke up, breaking apart the furious tableau. All eyes whipped to her and with a roar of frustration, Iona's manager bounded for her with short legs and swinging arms.

"You!" Tarnveer snapped. His finger jabbing the air inches from Cait's stunned face. "I'm holding you personally accountable for this fiasco."

"Tarnveer, please," Evan interjected, holding back the irate little man who bounced and bobbed like a yapping Pekingese terrier on a pogo stick.

"I have better things to do than waste my time waiting," Karl lamented, arms crossed and apathy giving way to resigned boredom.

"Yoren, please," Evan said, raising his hands. "See to your equipment while I sort this out."

"What is going on?" Cait cast her gaze around them, to the scattering of crew—lights were staged, props staged and, hair and makeup nearby with racks of wardrobe, but everything was at a grinding halt.

Lips pressed tight together, Evan released a heavy breath. "I have no choice but to cancel the shoot."

Cait's stomach bottomed out, ringing around her knees like a hula-hoop. "What do you mean cancel? Why?"

"Because Iona refuses to come to set," Tarnveer added with a toss of his hands, almost crazed at this point. Cheeks splotched with barely leashed rage, he raised his phone and thrust so close to her face she had to rear back a step to make sense of what she was looking at: a picture from last night, showing her and Iona dancing near the DJ booth, arms raised and faces contorted with ecstasy.

"She's a hot f*cking mess, thanks to you. Hung over and jittery from the excess of cocaine—which she claims you gave her by the way."

"I did no such thing!" Cait defended, her voice rising an octave.

Wedging himself between her and Iona's frothing manager who reluctantly backed off to make a streaming of frantic call to god knows who, Evan took hold of her shoulders, pinned her with furious eyes. "Did you or did you not sneak Iona out to a club last night?"

"Yes, we went to a club, but there was no sneaking, Evan. She's a person not a relic from a museum."

Evan lifted his hand, took a calming breath and employed every last ounce of patience he had to keep his voice calm and composed. "Tell me what happened. Exactly, as it happened."