Fashion Disaster

Chapter 8

(Adrian's P.O.V.)

I woke early the next morning despite all the events of yesterday. And I was not alone.

Snuggled into my bare chest was the new assistant from the fashion studio, her hairs astray and makeup smudged from a long night. I pried her arm off of me, which had been lazily laying across my body, and quietly attempted to stand. I winced as my feet brushed the cold wooden floor. She stirred in her sleep, mumbling some incoherent things I didn't care to attempt to understand.

I picked up my clothes, which had been messily scattered about, slipping into a robe to protect me from the early morning chill.

"Mr. Black...?"

I cursed beneath my breath. She had awoken. She started, standing upright in shock, blanket held close to conceal her naked frame.

I turned to look at her, almost pitying the shell-shocked, embarrassed woman who sat helplessly before me. Almost. "Good morning, Lilith."

"What happened, s-sir?" She stammered, eyes wide in what looked like fright.

"You know no better than I, Lilith," I muttered, a careless grin sweeping my face—enjoying the way she bristled whenever her name escaped my lips. "Get up. You had work about an hour ago."

Her mouth fell open, like a fish desperate for water. "I... oh, I forgot."

"What are you doing, then?" I snapped, tossing her clothes that I retrieved from the ground, "get dressed."

She nodded and I left the room, shutting the door behind me as I did so. I had some decency left.

I ran a hand through my hair in agitation as I glanced down at my phone, which I had managed to grab before leaving my bed, my phone which had exploded with a blaring new headline. I had apps that kept me all up to date on the latest news, but this, in particular, I would rather not see.

An image of Ms. Sinclair's daughter was the teaser for the article, her dress soaking and makeup in ruin. In the image, she looked frazzled, afraid, and not at all like the confident model she was supposed to portray.

I had had a feeling that they were going to go and make some sort of story about the incident last night... but not this exaggerated. Her dress was practically in tatters—the work of photoshop, no doubt—and her eyes wild, like that of a drunken madwoman. Yet I was confident not a drop of alcohol had touched her lips.

The assistant peeked her head from out the door. "Um, sir, how will I get to work?"

"I'll have Luis take you," I mumbled, waving her away carelessly. My mind was focused on others matters at the moment.

She looked as if she wanted to say something more, but stayed silent. She instead ambled away, her body swaying a little with tiredness, a limp in her step; a result of a late night.

***

"Are you stupid, Adrian?"

"No, sir. I made straight A's, sir."

Except for Calculus.

My manager looked as if he was using all the force he had in his stout little body to refrain from slapping me. His face was red, a vein as thick as a garden hose protruding angrily from his forehead. "I thought we'd talked about this," He muttered, his voice suddenly a much scarier slow, quiet tone. "We cannot have you running through women like this. What will the public think? Golden boy Adrian using women like objects? Pas bon, pas bon, Adrian!"

He slipped easily from English to French when agitated, sometimes not even noticing he did so.

"You are such a foolish client! Don't get me wrong, such potential, but in our time women's rights is big. So quit your disgusting habits!" He was close to me now, his breath feeling hot on my face, muggy like the air after rain. "When the public catches word of this... "