Noir

C'est Toute la Poudre Aux Yeux (It's all smoke and mirrors)

Bryson Fox, Los Angeles Lakers' star power forward, owned a fourteen million-dollar mansion in Malibu. Chelsea had made the final decision; the massive beach-side home was where they'd live in wedded bliss, raise children, and grow old together.

But of course, they had to get married, first. That contemporary, coastal home was the current, chaotic scene of Chelsea's bridal shower. Chelsea darted around in six-inch Louboutins, wearing only her bra and underwear underneath a silk baby pink robe, her soon-to-be last name embroidered across the back.

Maddox admired the girl's gusto, tossing a look over her shoulder as Chelsea yelled about cake deliveries and masseuses, things just about as unnecessary as Chelsea's custom robe, but hell. It was her money now, too, to spend as frivolously as she pleased. Chelsea stared in horror at her phone, shoulders falling, recently-dyed fire-engine red locks flying as she took off again.

"Ava! The massage people are apparently too stupid to use GPS! Code red, 911!" she shrieked as she rounded a corner, nearly barreling into her fiancé, who watched her go with amusement. He laughed and shook his head, pulling a gym bag onto his shoulder.

Bryson was six feet, eight inches tall and towered over his future wife's five feet, eight inches. Shortly after being drafted into the league, he'd cut his long hair, which he now wore in low waves. Pair that with his smooth brown skin and contagious smile and Chelsea had her work cut out for her. Lots of women wanted her man.

"Thank God I'm outta here. She's on the rampage," he said. Then he smiled upon sight of Chelsea's friends, happy that she'd managed to make some these days. Some real ones, hopefully. "Good afternoon, ladies."

"Good afternoon, Bryson," the women, including the help hired for the day, chorused, and Maddox swore she saw heart eyes all around. She laughed to herself, waved hello, and resumed hanging the banner. It read 'Same Penis Forever' and the theme was mostly Tori's idea, an idea Chelsea loved and ran with. With phallic-shaped confetti, cupcake toppers that boasted unnervingly accurate anatomic detail, candles, straws, balloons, headbands... it'd make for good TV.

The segment would be filmed, in continuation with Chelsea's role on Ball is Life: Los Angeles. The reality TV show was America's guilty pleasure; they tuned in weekly to watch the rich and famous partners of professional athletes go about their seemingly fabulous lives. Maddox had even tuned in a few times herself.

On the guest list were people Maddox didn't really know, folks she'd only seen on TV and gossip sites (her own deeply guilty pleasure). The show's film crew hadn't yet arrived. Which was well enough, as they needed to finish preparing. Then there'd be release forms and waivers to sign. Producers coordinating, directors directing. Maddox wasn't sure how she felt about being on television, even in the background. But if she was running from fame, she wasn't running quickly enough.

A group of Harry's fans had sniffed her out on Instagram, then Twitter – which she still couldn't figure out how they'd managed to do – and while it was all very interesting, occasionally disrespectful, it wasn't enough to scare her. She liked Harry, genuinely, and he liked her, too. And though he was somewhere overseas, they talked nearly every day. He seemed to give a damn about her. And the feeling was mutual.

"Relax, I see the van outside," Ava said to her older sister, shaking her head as she checked the decoration crew's progress. After closely surveying, she nodded and stepped outside to meet the arriving vendors. She'd coordinated the party, and given her efficiency, Chelsea had chosen wisely. Maddox had never seen anything run so smoothly. Too bad it wouldn't last.

"Classy as fuck," Tori said, standing back after the last balloon was hung. Penises aside, it was indeed sophisticated. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors had been retracted to open the dining room, which expanded out onto the wide, elevated deck, where imported designer furniture and sunlight awaited. The crisp blue Pacific lie just beyond the sand. Nicki Minaj blasted from the home's sound system, 'fun, party girl music' as Chelsea had stated.