Threads of Control

by ResidentStraightGirl

Summary:

In the high-stakes world of fashion, Caitlyn Kiramman leads a double life: by day, she's the poised CEO of CK a luxurious lingerie company. By night, she's Matilda—the anonymous, masked muse behind the brand’s most iconic campaigns.

She thought she had everything under control. Then Vi walked in.

A viral TikTok model with charm, chaos, and abs for days, Vi turns Caitlyn’s campaign—and her carefully curated world—on its head. As public curiosity grows and sparks fly both in front of and behind the camera, Caitlyn must navigate her mother’s expectations, a media firestorm, and the very real possibility that her greatest creation is also her greatest vulnerability.

Notes:

This turned out way, way longer than it was supposed to. I just wanted Caitlyn Kiramman to own a lingerie company called CK and it got out of hand.

Chapter 1: CK

Caitlyn scrolled one-handed, espresso in the other, her thumb dragging across screen after screen of fashion clickbait. Ten Summer Trends You’ll Regret by Fall. Lace Corsets Are Back (Unfortunately). Model Trips on Runway—Somehow Still Hot. The headlines all blurred into a stream of puffed-up nothing.

Until one caught her eye.

"The Mystery Behind CK: How Caitlyn Kiramman Quietly Revolutionized Lingerie."
By Charlotte Hensley, Fashion Weekly.

Caitlyn sighed—long and theatrical—before even tapping it open.

God help her, it was going to be another fluff piece. Another overcooked ode to her “mysterious persona” and “trailblazing ethos.” Someone, somewhere, had probably called her enigmatic again. That word followed her around like an ex who couldn’t take a hint.

She opened the article anyway.
For research purposes.
Obviously.

"Caitlyn Kiramman—better known by the sleek initials CK—has managed to do what few designers dare: make lingerie not just inclusive, but desirable across all genders. Launched in 2020 under the radar, CK exploded in popularity thanks to its signature blend of minimalist cuts, diverse casting, and the now-iconic model ‘Matilda,’ whose masked anonymity only adds to the brand’s mystique."

She rolled her eyes. Matilda. That stupid, brilliant alias. A wig, strategic lighting, some careful camera angles, and a hard no on ever showing her face. That’s all it was. That’s all she was. And yet the internet had turned her into some lingerie-wrapped demigod—a symbol.

It was flattering, in the way being stalked by your own creation could be. It was also exhausting.

"CK’s success has been credited to Kiramman’s ‘visionary commitment to authenticity and representation,’ though Kiramman herself remains elusive—rarely giving interviews and often working behind the scenes."

“Visionary commitment,” she repeated, dragging a finger around the rim of her espresso cup. “I just wanted people to stop wearing hideous lace with bows on it.”

What the article didn’t mention—what none of them ever mentioned—was that CK had come from necessity, not vision. From the strangled, wild panic of someone trying to escape a life already mapped out for her. Her mother had wanted a political wife, a legacy donor, a walking string of pearls who could make an entrance and hold her tongue.

Not a CEO.
Definitely not this CEO.
And absolutely not one who occasionally slipped into her own creations and modeled them for the masses in secret.

“Industry rumors suggest Matilda may return for CK’s upcoming campaign, rumored to be their most inclusive line yet.”

Her stomach turned.

Because Matilda hadn’t agreed to any such thing. And more press meant more questions, more scrutiny, and—most pressingly—more models.

Which brought her back to today’s disaster.

The lead for the campaign—Amber, professional, poised, and tragically graceful—had fractured her tibia two nights ago after an aggressive collision with a bubble gun and a runway heel that was never meant for dancing.

Two weeks until the shoot.

And no lead model.

Her espresso cup hit the desk a little harder than intended.

She didn’t want a placeholder. CK wasn’t about aesthetic for aesthetic’s sake. It was personal. Every stitch, every photo shoot, every casting decision—it had to matter. She needed someone who understood that. Who didn’t just wear the brand, but embodied it.

Bold. Raw. Real. With just enough edge to make her PR team sweat.

God help her.

By the time her core staff filed into her office, she was halfway through espresso number two and toying with the idea of a third. The office lighting had shifted to a warm gold glow, casting long shadows across her modern gothic décor. Steel and velvet. Clean lines, no frills. Very her.

Mel from PR entered first, her heels whispering across the floor. Jayce from casting brought a tablet and a faint sense of doom. And Viktor from marketing followed silently, wearing an expression that suggested existential disappointment and coffee withdrawal.

They all looked… cautious. Good. They knew.

“Okay,” Caitlyn said, staying on her feet while gesturing for them to sit. “We have a problem.”

Mel lifted a perfectly manicured hand. “Do we need to raise motions?”

“Nope,” Caitlyn said, deadpan. “This is a dictatorship. Amber’s out—fractured tibia, courtesy of our ill-advised foam party moment. The shoot is in two weeks. We need a new face.”

Jayce winced. “Replacement timeline?”

“As soon as humanly possible,” she said. “And not just anyone. Someone who fits. Someone who doesn’t make me consider lighting myself on fire. Suggestions?”

“Open casting?” Viktor offered.

“No,” Caitlyn said immediately. “Last time we tried that, someone walked in wearing platform Crocs and asked if we were a collab with Hot Topic.”

“She had a massive following,” Jayce mumbled.

“She also said ‘lingerie’ like it rhymed with tangerine. We’re not doing that again.”

Mel cleared her throat, her lips twitching into a small, calculated smile. “Unconventional idea. But I think it has legs.”

“I’m listening,” Caitlyn said, though her tone suggested skepticism was already doing push-ups in the background.

“There’s this girl. Not a model—at least not officially. But she’s gone viral.”

Caitlyn narrowed her gaze. “Viral how?”

“She’s been wearing CK. Tagging us. Talking about how the designs make her feel like herself. It’s getting traction. She’s raw, but the authenticity’s got bite. And the comments are overwhelmingly positive.”

“Influencer?” Caitlyn asked warily.

“Not exactly. More like—” Mel hesitated.

“Feral sapphic icon,” Viktor said dryly, still staring at his tablet.

Caitlyn blinked. “That’s a category now?”

“Apparently,” Jayce said, flipping his tablet to show her a paused frame. “Name’s Vi. Real name might be Violet. Or possibly Violence. She doesn’t specify.”

The image was simple: Vi, in CK-branded boxer briefs and a black sports bra, leaning casually into a mirror. The background was nothing—plain wall, soft natural light. No filter. No production value. And yet… her gaze hooked something just behind Caitlyn’s ribcage.

“She’s got presence,” Jayce said. “It’s not polished, but there’s a kind of swagger to her. Like she doesn’t care if you’re watching. Or maybe she wants you to watch and just doesn’t care what you think.”

Caitlyn stared. Vi didn’t pose. She existed. Loudly. Effortlessly. Like confidence was her default setting.

“I don’t like her,” Caitlyn said automatically.

Mel’s smile widened. “Which means she’s perfect.”

Caitlyn tapped the screen. Once. Twice. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to summon clarity or beat back whatever heat had started crawling up the back of her neck.

“Fine,” she said, exhaling. “Find her. Bring her in. Test shoot only. And if she starts talking about astrology or says ‘slay’ unironically, she’s out.”

“Slay is inevitable,” Viktor said. “It’s in her bio.”

Caitlyn groaned. “Get her in here before I change my mind.”

 

Elsewhere, in a much messier room…

Vi adjusted the camera perched on her dresser—a setup held together by two shoeboxes and a copy of The Feminine Mystique that she’d never read but refused to throw away because it looked cool in the background.

The lighting? Trash.
The backdrop? Realistically lived in.
But the fit? Absolute fire.

She smirked at her reflection as she adjusted the waistband of her boxer briefs and let the hem of her CK sports bra ride up just enough to flash the logo. The camera counted down.

Three. Two. One.

Vi hit it with a wink, a roll of her hips, and a lean that was definitely practiced even if she’d never admit it.

Pose. Smirk. Twist. One arm flexed, one eyebrow raised.

She knew her angles. Knew her power. And every post was a silent act of rebellion—against the weirdos who misgendered her, the girls who once said she’d be hot if she tried, and the algorithms that seemed allergic to butch energy.

She flopped onto the bed and uploaded the video without a second thought.

“You don’t have to look a certain way to wear CK. You just have to exist. 💅🏽🖤 #CK #notasponsoryet #fightme #masc #WLW”

 

She was halfway through microwaving her third bag of chicken nuggets that week when her phone buzzed.

Notification.

Not a comment. Not her cousin hawking another shady side hustle. Not a thirst DM.

An email.

FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Professional Modeling Inquiry

Vi blinked. “No fucking way.”

She opened it.

Read the words.

Then read them again.

And screamed into a couch pillow loud enough to scare her downstairs neighbor’s cat.

 

Back at CK HQ…

Caitlyn sat in the dark, the glow of her tablet the only illumination in the room aside from the soft glint of city lights through her office windows. Her espresso sat cold and forgotten. Her posture was perfect.

She had watched all of Vi’s TikToks.

Twice.

…Some of them three times.

“This is the girl,” Jayce’s message had said.

She pressed play on the latest one again.

Vi in CK boxer briefs and a sports bra. No ring light. No edits. Just that crooked smirk and the posture of someone who knew they were being watched and had no problem with it.

“She’s… confident,” Caitlyn murmured.

Mel, who was going over promo layouts across the room, didn’t even glance up. “You mean hot.”

“I mean she’s very present. In the frame. Very… visible.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“She’s untrained. Her captions are borderline war crimes. She uses hashtags like weapons.”

“She’s reaching more of your demo than most ad campaigns,” Mel said. “And she’s doing it for free.”

Caitlyn stood, pacing. “She’s too loud. She’d overshadow the product.”

“She is the product,” Mel said, standing to leave.

“She’s not even our type.”

Mel turned at the door. “Your type?”

“I mean she’s too—” Caitlyn gestured vaguely, struggling to land on a word that wasn’t hot, sexy, or devastating in boxer briefs.

“Too what?”

Caitlyn’s fingers curled into her sleeves.

“Too intense,” she finally said. “She would pull focus.”

Mel grinned. “Say it. You’re obsessed.”

“I am not—”

“You’re watching her TikToks in the dark like you’re studying for the gay SATs.”

“I am not into women like that.”

“Like what?”

Caitlyn paused.

“…Confident.”

Mel laughed all the way out the door.

Caitlyn sat back down. Composed. Professional.
Absolutely not gay.

She turned the screen back on.

And hit play.

Again.

Chapter 2: Testing

The CK studio smelled like eucalyptus, clean concrete, and muted panic.

Everything was prepped. Lights softened just right. Backgrounds adjusted to highlight body lines. Steamers hissed in corners like overworked assistants. Caitlyn stood near the camera setup, arms crossed, lips pursed, in an outfit that said “CEO” but screamed “do not make eye contact unless you want to be vaporized.”

She had chosen not to wear heels today. A tactical decision. Flats made her feel grounded. Less likely to commit a homicide when Vi inevitably showed up and—

The door swung open.

Speak of the actual devil.

Vi stepped in like she’d been invited to a rooftop party and not a high-pressure professional test shoot. Hair artfully tousled, CK tank clinging to her frame, and those goddamn boxer briefs again—black, classic, sinful. She wore them like she had copyright over the aesthetic.

“Yo,” Vi said, grinning like they were old friends.

Caitlyn blinked once. Slowly.

“Miss Kiramman,” Mel said from across the room, too brightly. “This is Vi.”

“I deduced that,” Caitlyn said, voice like silk cut with razors.

Vi sauntered forward and stuck out a hand.

Caitlyn stared at it like it was a live rat.

Vi wiggled her fingers. “I don’t bite. Unless it’s a whole thing, and there’s a safe word.”

Caitlyn’s jaw clenched. “Charming.”

“Thanks,” Vi said, clearly not taking the hint to remove her hand. “You’re a lot taller than I thought you’d be.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer. She just walked past her, shoulders stiff. If she acknowledged the compliment—if you could even call it that—then this spiral would only go deeper.

Mel followed close behind, stage-whispering, “Be nice, she’s already iconic.”

“She is a menace,” Caitlyn whispered back. “I’ve met raccoons with better impulse control.”

“Still hot though,” Mel sing-songed.

Vi raised an eyebrow. “Are you whispering about me? You know I can hear you, right?”

Caitlyn turned with the kind of expression that usually preceded a very polite lawsuit.

“Let’s begin,” she said sharply. “Jayce, camera setup?”

“Ready when you are,” Jayce said, already circling with a light meter.

Vi gave the camera a lazy once-over. “You want me to do, like, normal modeling? Or Vi-style modeling?”

Caitlyn frowned. “Is there a difference?”

“Well, one’s, like, cool and candid,” Vi said, gesturing vaguely. “And the other’s—what you make boring people do for cologne ads.”

“I prefer elegant,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Sure. That’s one word.”

Before Caitlyn could banish her to a void dimension, Vi was already moving to the backdrop.

And Caitlyn had to admit—silently, bitterly—that there was something to watch. The way Vi stood. The way she moved. There was no pose to it. No practiced angles. She just… was. She belonged in the frame like smoke belonged in the air.

Unpolished. Undisciplined.

Infuriating.

Caitlyn folded her arms tighter across her chest. “She slouches.”

“She smolders,” Mel said.

“She has no posture, no poise, no grace—”

“She’s winking at you.”

Caitlyn snapped her eyes up.

Vi was, indeed, winking.

At her.

Specifically.

The wink turned into a smirk, the smirk into a flex, the flex into a sin against fabric as Vi’s tank rode up just enough to show her stomach and the top of the waistband—CK, bold and clean—resting against her hipbones like a designer sin.

Caitlyn’s throat made a small noise that she immediately pretended didn’t happen.

“She’s a marketing nightmare,” Caitlyn said flatly. “And we are not keeping that clip.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet,” Jayce called.

“I’ve seen enough,” she snapped.

Vi, still mid-pose, glanced over with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You always this complimentary, or just when I look like I slept with your ex and didn’t text back?”

“I don’t have an ex,” Caitlyn said icily.

“Tragic,” Vi muttered. “Bet they’d cry about it forever if you did.”

Mel coughed into her hand. Jayce snorted. Viktor raised one very judgmental eyebrow.

Caitlyn turned to the monitor and focused on adjusting the contrast sliders with unnecessary aggression.

It didn’t help.

Because Vi kept moving.

And worse, improving.

A slight turn here. A step forward there. Every second she was in frame, Caitlyn’s pristine, perfectly curated campaign started to reshape itself around her. Not just the product. The feeling. The spark.

“Try the cobalt set,” Mel said, tossing Vi a box from the rack.

Vi caught it one-handed, ripped it open with her teeth, and wiggled her brows. “You want me to change here orrrr…”

“In the dressing room,” Caitlyn snapped. “This is a studio, not amateur hour.”

Vi held up her hands. “Relax, boss lady. I was joking. Unless...?”

“No.”

“Still joking.”

Caitlyn resisted the urge to pray.

Ten minutes later, Vi emerged in the cobalt set. It was borderline unfair. The color kissed her skin. The sports bra hugged her like a scandal. And Caitlyn had to physically restrain herself from pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Your opinions on this one?” Mel asked innocently.

Caitlyn did not answer. She just stared at the monitor and pretended she was made of stone.

Vi, for her part, took this silence as encouragement.

“You know,” she said between shots, “I’ve had some first dates that were less intense than this.”

“This is not a date.”

Vi tilted her head. “Could be.”

“It could not.”

“Wow, you’re really good at flirting. You should teach a masterclass.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes and took a slow, measured breath. “Jayce,” she said tightly. “Are we done here?”

Jayce gave her a thumbs up. “Plenty of material.”

“Wonderful,” Caitlyn said. “Then Miss Vi can go.”

“Sure,” Vi said, grabbing her bag. “Want me to DM you my availability? Or should I just slide into your inbox again later tonight?”

Caitlyn did not answer.

Vi smirked, and on her way out, she turned back—just once.

“Y’know,” she said, “for someone who says she doesn’t like me, you sure watched my entire TikTok profile. Twice.”

The door shut behind her with a soft click.

Mel waited a beat. “So…”

“No,” Caitlyn said immediately.

“No what?”

“No anything. She is not staying. She’s untrained, unfiltered, inappropriate—”

“Electric,” Viktor said from the corner, still scrolling through the footage. “And we’d be idiots not to use her.”

Caitlyn turned away.

“She’s not the brand,” she said. “She’s too much. Too intense. Too loud. Too—”

Too compelling. Too magnetic. Too everything I’ve spent a decade pretending I don’t want.

“Too much,” she said again, quieter this time.

Mel, standing beside her now, gave her a long, knowing look.

“So we’re calling her back, right?”

Caitlyn didn’t respond.

But she didn’t delete the footage either.

Chapter 3: Not a Crush a Color Pallet

The CK design studio was quiet, which was always a dangerous sign.

Normally, there was a hum—of sewing machines, of whispered French profanity, of someone arguing over whether mesh was empowering or overplayed. But today, the team moved with the reverent hush usually reserved for religious sites and high-security vaults.

Because Caitlyn was sketching.

That alone wasn’t rare. But today she’d been sketching in silence for two and a half hours, only speaking to request fabric swatches by name—never by number—and only frowning when the wrong texture touched her fingers.

Dominique, seated across from her, was trying very hard not to look directly at the open laptop beside the drafting tablet. The one paused on a very high-resolution still of Vi’s test shoot. Mid-turn. Mid-smirk. Cobalt clinging like it had been born on her skin.

Dominique cleared her throat.

“You know, most of us use mannequins.”

Caitlyn didn’t look up. “Mannequins don’t slouch.”

“Neither does she.”

“She absolutely does,” Caitlyn muttered. “She perches. Like a delinquent hawk.”

Dominique pressed a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “A fashionable hawk. A powerful bird. Of… sapphic prey.”

Caitlyn paused. Slowly set her pencil down.

“Do you want to be reassigned to the sock department?”

“I would design the most sensual socks you’ve ever seen,” Dominique said, utterly unfazed. “But no, I’m good. This is better. This is entertaining.”

She leaned forward, pretending to casually glance at Caitlyn’s current sketch. Then gasped—audibly.

“Caitlyn. Are you designing her a custom set?”

“No,” Caitlyn said too quickly.

“Oh my god,” Dominique whispered. “That is Vi’s exact shoulder shape. You’ve been referencing her build.”

“I’m adjusting the cut for a more athletic frame.”

“Mm. And the plunge neckline?”

“Market research.”

“And this color—” Dominique reached over and swiped a swatch from the pile. Deep red. Not a girlish cherry or innocent rose. No. This was blood-warm, slow-burn red. Like silk over sin.

“You don’t even use red,” she said, breathless. “You said red was too ‘obvious.’ That it screams for attention.”

Caitlyn sighed. “She is obvious. She’s all hard lines and hungry looks and obnoxious bravado and…”

Her eyes drifted to the photo again.

“And it suits her,” she finished quietly. “Unfortunately.”

Dominique gave a delighted little squeal. “Oh you’re so doomed. You’re gone. She’s in your head, crawling around like a hot little design parasite, rebranding your color theory.”

“She is not in my head,” Caitlyn said, voice tight. “She’s just very… present.”

“Present like a gift.”

Caitlyn picked up her stylus and pointed it directly at Dominique’s face. “One more pun and you’re designing ankle socks until retirement.”

Before Dominique could escalate, Viktor appeared in the doorway, holding a tablet like it contained national secrets.

“She posted again,” he said.

“Don’t care,” Caitlyn said automatically.

“She’s wearing the cobalt again.”

Caitlyn’s head snapped up.

Dominique actually cackled.

Viktor walked in slowly, like someone approaching a very attractive, very volatile bear. He tapped his screen and handed it over.

There she was.

Vi, in Caitlyn’s signature cobalt. Standing barefoot in a sunbeam. One hip cocked, one eyebrow raised. The caption read:

> “Put me in, coach. I promise to ruin everything and look hot doing it. 💙 #CK #boxerbriefenergy #thirsttrapfriday”

 

Caitlyn stared at the screen like it owed her money.

“She’s doing this on purpose,” she muttered.

“I hope so,” Dominique said. “Otherwise the sheer power of her existence is a health hazard.”

“It’s not even good lighting,” Caitlyn argued weakly.

“No,” Viktor agreed. “Just vibes. And exceptional muscle tone.”

Caitlyn set the tablet down face-first.

“She is not going in the final campaign,” she said. “Not unless she learns to stand up straight, stop biting lip balm on camera, and stop wearing my brand like a post-coital declaration.”

Dominique raised both brows. “Bit specific there, chief.”

“I’m developing a neutral-tone line,” Caitlyn said, veering hard into professionalism. “Muted slate, carbon, clay—”

“With a single pop color,” Viktor supplied.

“Exactly. And it should be...”

Her hand hovered over the red swatch again.

“Not cobalt,” she whispered. “Too obvious.”

“But you love cobalt,” Dominique teased.

Caitlyn turned sharply. “Cobalt is mine. It’s my signature. I wear it. I built the brand around it.”

“And now it’s wrapping around a walking thirst trap who makes you short-circuit in staff meetings.”

“I do not short-circuit.”

“You made espresso in the water boiler yesterday.”

Caitlyn pinched the bridge of her nose. “I am so close to calling HR.”

Dominique just smiled and began laying out the pieces of the “non-Vi-specific” collection.

Racerbacks. Mid-cut briefs. An experimental sheer-paneled piece that Caitlyn absolutely hadn’t started sketching after watching Vi’s shoulder blades shift in a mirror. Deep red trim. Cobalt piping.

She’d said it was just a creative experiment.

But every fabric she touched now, every seam she drew—somehow Vi kept crawling back into the linework. Loud. Unapologetic. Magnetic.

And Caitlyn hated that she liked it.

 

Across town…

Vi lay sprawled on her unmade bed, one leg kicked over the other, lazily scrolling through the comments on her latest TikTok—the one with the cobalt boxer briefs and her “I ruin things on purpose” energy.

The replies were the usual blend of chaos and confession:

“Who let her be hot and emotionally unavailable???”

“Not me adding these briefs to cart while crying.”

“I just know the CK execs are feral over this one.”

And then—

A comment that made her snort aloud and sit up straighter.

“Caitlyn Kiramman is too powerful to fall for thirst traps.”

No emoji. No extra flair. Username: user_3487cxz.

Vi tilted her head.

That wasn’t a fan comment. That was suspiciously polished. No one in her comments talked like a disappointed headmistress at a finishing school.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “That’s her.”

She didn’t even need proof. She knew.

The only thing more obvious than the cobalt briefs hugging her hips in that last video was Caitlyn’s repressed longing in 12-point Helvetica.

Vi grinned like the chaos goblin she was, then flipped her camera to front-facing, hit record, and backed up until her whole torso was in frame.

The video started with her in profile, head down. A moody beat played—slow and heavy, the kind of bass you feel.

She dragged her hand from her hipbone slowly up her stomach, tank top rising just enough to reveal those sharp-cut abs and the telltale CK waistband.

She turned to the camera with that same raised brow, smirk cocked like a loaded weapon.

Then she spoke—just one line, like she was delivering a personal challenge:

“Too powerful? Cupcake, I land every shot.”

The video cut right after she winked.

Caption:

“@user_3487cxz don’t tempt me unless you’re ready to play. 💙 #CK #sapphicbait #whosfallingnow #definitelynotyouright??”

She hit post and cackled, tossing her phone aside and flopping back dramatically.

Meanwhile…

Caitlyn’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then eight more times in rapid succession.

She ignored the first five.

She should’ve ignored them all.

But when Dominique sent a email that just read:

“OPEN. TIKTOK. NOW.”

Caitlyn—against all better judgment, instinct, and decades of self-control—opened the app.

There was Vi.

There were the boxer briefs.

There was the hand. The abdominal curve. The shirt lift. The look.

Caitlyn’s soul tried to escape her body through her spine.

She watched the video in stunned silence, utterly paralyzed, hands frozen over her keyboard.

Mel burst through the door ten seconds later holding her phone aloft like a divine tablet.

“She tagged the burner,” she said, face glowing with malicious delight. “She tagged the burner.”

“I’m deleting it,” Caitlyn said, already fumbling for login settings.

“She posted it on every platform,” Mel added. “Oh my god. You’ve been baited in high definition.”

“I wasn’t baited,” Caitlyn hissed. “It’s brand engagement. Provocation. Performance art.”

“She lifted her shirt,” Mel said. “You whimpered.”

“I did not.”

“I was in the hallway. I heard the whimper.”

Caitlyn set her phone down, very slowly, like it might bite.

Then she stood up and took a deep breath.

“I’m banning red,” she announced to no one in particular. “Red is off the table.”

Mel laughed. “You’re putting her in red and you know it.”

Chapter 4: Red and Blue

The CK flagship studio was all polished cement and indirect lighting—intentionally minimalist, soothing, neutral. A sanctuary of discipline. It did not invite chaos.

Which made it the perfect place for Vi to commit crimes.

She walked in like she’d been born under a spotlight: ripped black jeans slung low on her hips, red CK waistband riding high and shameless over the top. Her biker jacket was worn leather, scuffed in the right places, the collar flipped up like rebellion made manifest. A chain hung from her belt loop with no apparent purpose except being hot.

Caitlyn was mid-meeting with Viktor and Mel when the door opened.

She didn’t look up right away. She didn’t need to. The air changed. Like static before a lightning strike.

Then came the voice:

“Hope I’m not late. Or overdressed.”

Caitlyn looked up.

She immediately wished she hadn’t.

Vi stood just inside the studio, leaning casually against the doorframe like she was posing for a cologne ad titled Regretfully Yours. Her shirt was cropped and careless, lifted just enough to show more of that unmistakable red waistband—the exact shade Caitlyn had explicitly banned twelve hours ago.

And Vi knew somehow. Her smirk said so. It was the smug, teasing kind that lived rent-free in dreams and disciplinary hearings.

“Miss Kiramman,” Vi added, drawing the syllables out with honey-slick sarcasm, “you look… tense.”

Caitlyn stood so fast her chair rolled backwards a full two feet.

Viktor didn’t even try to hide his grin.

Mel muttered, “I’d watch this as a ten-part miniseries.”

“You’re early,” Caitlyn said, voice clipped. “We weren’t expecting you for another—”

“Fifteen minutes?” Vi pulled out her phone and tapped the screen lazily. “I was bored. Figured I’d come disrupt your life a little.”

Caitlyn clenched her jaw.

“Your contract includes punctuality, not preemptive provocation.”

“Guess I’m just an overachiever,” Vi said, stepping fully into the room. The lighting caught on her cheekbones, her collarbones, the slight lift of her shirt hem as she shrugged off the jacket like it owed her money.

Caitlyn tried very hard not to notice the black sports bra underneath. Or the way the waistband hugged Vi’s hips like a designer sin.

“You wore red,” Caitlyn managed, like the color itself had committed a personal betrayal.

Vi looked down, mock-surprised. “Did I? Huh. Must’ve grabbed it by accident. You know how it is—wake up, throw on a pair of dangerously hot underwear, ruin a CEO’s week.”

Mel audibly choked on her coffee. Viktor made a strangled noise and walked away with purpose.

Caitlyn cleared her throat. “We’ll be starting with full-body portraits. Clean lines. Minimal movement. No… theatrics.”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “No theatrics? You wound me.”

“If I had my way,” Caitlyn said, turning briskly toward the camera setup, “you wouldn’t even be in the campaign. You’re undisciplined, inconsistent, and allergic to decorum.”

“And yet,” Vi said, following behind her like a shadow with great thighs, “here I am. Wearing your colors. Making you twitch.”

Caitlyn spun, face perfectly blank. “We are not using red.”

“Sure we’re not.”

“I'm serious.”

Vi stepped closer. She was still the shorter one—5’5” of mischief and magnetic charm—but she had the energy of someone seven feet tall and morally ambiguous.

“I’ll wear whatever color you want, boss,” she said low, with that wolfish smile. “But let’s not lie. You like how this looks on me.”

Caitlyn didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And then—

“Jayce!” she called, loud and sharp. “We’re starting with the structured set. Cobalt.”

Vi's grin grew wider. “Cobalt. You’re putting me in your color now? That’s intimate.”

Caitlyn shot her a glare that could have salted farmland. “It’s strategic. Cobalt reads clean on camera and directs attention away from less professional elements.”

“Like my smirk?”

“Like your entire existence.”

Vi laughed, low and delighted. “God, you are fun. I’m gonna get under that skin eventually.”

“You already are,” Caitlyn muttered under her breath, turning away too fast, too late.

Vi caught it. Of course she did.

But she said nothing.

She just followed the team toward wardrobe, that red waistband still flashing like a warning sign every few steps.

 

By the time Vi reappeared from wardrobe, Caitlyn had almost managed to convince herself she was composed again.

Almost.

Then Vi stepped into the light wearing Caitlyn’s signature cobalt.

And everything unraveled.

The look wasn’t dramatic—CK never was. But on Vi, the simple cobalt racerback and high-cut briefs became a declaration. The color hugged her skin like it missed her. The fabric curved with her frame just so, skimming her waist, dipping at her spine. It was structured. Streamlined.

Perfect.

And Caitlyn hated that it was perfect.

Mel stood to Caitlyn’s left, pretending to review lighting angles, but mostly just watching Caitlyn’s slow descent into corporate ruin.

“She cleans up nice,” Mel murmured.

“She hasn’t even done anything yet,” Caitlyn hissed.

“She breathed. With purpose.”

Jayce called for quiet on set, and Vi stepped onto the backdrop with all the reverence of a drunk on a catwalk. She didn’t pose—she existed. Hands in her hair, jaw tilted just slightly, that boxer brief waistband doing unspeakable things to the integrity of Caitlyn’s nervous system.

The photographer gave some vague direction. Vi ignored all of it. Instead, she looked directly into the camera and gave the lens that smirk—the one that started on her lips and spread like a secret she wasn’t planning to keep.

Click. Flash. Click.

Caitlyn folded her arms so tightly she might’ve fractured something.

“Is she incapable of standing up straight?” she muttered.

“She’s arching,” Jayce said helpfully.

“She’s lounging like a criminal,” Caitlyn snapped.

Mel tilted her head. “You don’t like how she holds herself?”

“She holds herself like she owns the studio.”

Mel smiled. “Maybe she does. For today, at least.”

Caitlyn ignored her. Mostly because her heart had just tried to climb out through her collarbone.

The next series of shots were worse.

Vi tilted her hips, tugged the waistband just slightly—barely a centimeter, but the implication was volcanic. Then she ran one hand through her hair and glanced off-camera like someone had whispered something filthy in her ear.

Caitlyn made a noise.

Mel leaned over. “Did you just whimper?”

“I choked.”

“On what, exactly?”

“My standards,” Caitlyn hissed.

“Oh good,” Mel said. “I thought it might be your composure.”

On the set, Vi leaned against the wall now, one knee bent, abs flexed, eyes half-lidded. She was short, sure, but she knew how to fill a frame. Every movement was intention disguised as ease. Effortless. Unrefined. Dangerously authentic.

Caitlyn’s fingers twitched against her bicep.

“She’s not model material,” she said weakly. “She doesn’t follow directions. She doesn’t hold tension in her limbs. She chews gum between takes.”

“She also photographs like lust personified,” Mel whispered. “Are you sure this wasn’t your best idea?”

Caitlyn said nothing.

Because Vi had just looked over her shoulder. At her. And winked.

Caitlyn’s face betrayed her. Just slightly. A flicker.

Mel saw it. So did Viktor.

Vi definitely saw it.

 

By the time the session wrapped, Vi was glowing with smug satisfaction and a light sheen of sweat. She slipped her jacket back on over the cobalt like a punchline and strolled off-set toward the water station, towel slung around her neck.

Caitlyn tried to retreat. She did. She made it three steps toward the hallway before Vi intercepted her.

“Leaving so soon?” Vi asked, voice low, teasing.

“I have meetings,” Caitlyn lied.

“Mm.” Vi leaned in a little, enough that Caitlyn had to tilt her head down to meet her eyes. Small. Terrifying.

“So…,” Vi said, resting one hand on her hip, “did your precious cobalt survive the day?”

Caitlyn’s mouth was dry.

“Barely,” she muttered.

Vi grinned. “Guess you’ll just have to ban that one too.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She was too busy calculating how fast she could get to her office and throw herself under her own desk.

But then—

Vi reached up.

Tucked a loose strand of Caitlyn’s hair back behind her ear.

Nothing dramatic. Just a graze of fingers. A whisper of touch.

Caitlyn forgot how language worked.

Vi leaned back, lips curved. “You’re fun to rattle, you know.”

And with that, she was gone. Back to wardrobe. Back to chaos.

Caitlyn stood frozen in the middle of her own studio.

Mel appeared behind her seconds later.

“You’re doomed,” she said sweetly, and handed Caitlyn a bottle of water.

Caitlyn didn’t drink it.

She was too busy reviewing her life choices—and considering whether it was technically legal to ghost someone you hadn’t even dated.

Chapter 5: Viral

The teaser dropped at 10:02 AM.

Just a single photo—black jeans, cropped tee, red waistband bold and deliberate. Vi's expression wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t soft. It was dangerous. Playful, yes, but sharp-edged. A spark behind her eyes that said, You know what I am.

The internet exploded.

Every platform flooded. Comments multiplied like rabbits with cell service. Fashion blogs reposted it within the hour. Fan edits spawned before the clock hit noon.

“CK’s campaign tease is giving carnivorous sapphic energy and I’m here for it.”

“Why does this woman look like she will both destroy me and call me 'babe' while doing it?”

“My last two brain cells fighting over whether to thirst or pray.”

 

Vi scrolled through the chaos on her couch, hair still wet from a half-assed shower. She smirked as the notifications rolled in. Her following spiked. DMs unread. One of her thirst traps from last week resurged with new traction—probably the cobalt one. She liked that one too. The camera had been kind. Her hips? Kinder.

She clicked open TikTok on autopilot.

First edit in her tag was nothing new—just someone adding dramatic music and glitchy transitions. Vi chuckled and kept scrolling. But the second one stopped her thumb cold.

The caption read:

“when lust and elegance collide ✨ #CK #Matilda #Vi #thiscampaignwillruinmeplease"

Vi blinked.

The video opened with her teaser shot. The red waistband. That look. And then—

A clean cut to a black-and-white photo of another model.

But not just any model.

Matilda.

She moved across the screen like smoke given hips. In one shot, she stood in profile, head tilted back, neck long, chest barely concealed by sheer fabric and clever shadows. Another cut showed her from behind, a delicate corset unlaced, spine a sinuous curve. Every angle was deliberate. Powerful. Untouchable.

Then the edit sliced to the shot—the one Vi would keep replaying for the rest of the night.

Matilda, seated low on her haunches, back arched, arms crossed just enough to hide what mattered. No bra. Just skin and shadows and the soft gleam of muted cobalt silk stretched across her hips.

It wasn’t pornographic. Not really.

But Vi’s whole body reacted like it had been whispered to.

She sat forward slowly, one hand curling against her thigh.

“Who the hell…” she whispered, breath catching, “…is that?”

The video ended with a slow fade between the two of them—Vi, all smug attitude and fire, and Matilda, faceless and curved like temptation sculpted in marble. The contrast should’ve been awkward.

It wasn’t.

It looked like chemistry.

Vi clicked on the username.

@softlesbianedits, of course.

Their pinned comment under the video:

“Matilda’s been CK’s ghost girl for years. She’s in like, 20% of campaigns, always masked. No one knows who she is but that back??? That’s a thesis.”

Vi opened a new tab.

Typed: “CK model Matilda”

Result after result came back with the same message: No last name. No appearances outside of CK. No tagged photos, no press, not even a runway clip. Just speculation.

Vi tilted her head.

No name. No face. No interviews.

Just body.

The intrigue hit fast and hard—like tripping over something beautiful and bruising.

She clicked deeper. Old catalog shots. Matilda in lace, in mesh, in silk. Always poised. Always perfect. Never vulgar. The kind of sensual that didn't ask for attention but demanded reverence.

And always—always—cut off just enough to remain mystery.

Vi zoomed in on one photo. A backless set. Matilda’s hair in a loose updo, head turned just enough that her chin and jaw caught the light—but not the rest. Arms crossed. Spine curved like a slow inhale. Hip bones framed by the faintest band of pale blue silk. CK.

Vi made a sound in her throat—low, involuntary. Her thumb brushed over the screen, following the curve of Matilda’s back. She shifted where she sat, one knee lifting, toes curling into the couch cushion.

The phone tilted slightly in her hand, the glow casting long shadows across her face.

Her other hand—restless, thoughtless—drifted down to the waistband of her sweatpants. Toyed there, fingers hooking beneath the elastic, pulling just enough to feel the contrast of cool air against warm skin.

She wasn’t thinking anymore. Not about edits, not about CK, not even about the absurd anonymity of it all.

Just Matilda.

Matilda, caught in stillness and softness, spine arched like a prayer, hips tilted just so. Quiet, wordless elegance. Daring without saying a word.

Vi’s breathing slowed.

The photo didn’t move.

But everything in her did.

Vi’s fingers slipped lower, teasing into the edge of her waistband. Her breathing had gone shallow, each inhale a little more desperate, a little less innocent. The heat low in her stomach had gone molten, and every nerve felt like it was tuned to the exact curve of that back. That waist. That soft triangle of barely-there blue fabric.

She tipped her head back against the couch, closed her eyes, and let her hand wander just a little further—

Buzz.

Her phone vibrated violently against her palm.

Vi let out a strangled, inhuman noise—something between a growl and a war crime—and jerked upright like she’d been electrocuted.

She blinked down at the screen.

One new message.

From: CEO Cupcake 👠🧊

She glared at the name like it might explode. Then opened the message.

Come in tomorrow morning. 9AM. I need full measurements.

Vi stared. Then dropped her head back against the couch cushion and let out a long, soul-deep groan.

Of course.

“Of course she messages now,” she hissed to no one, tossing her phone onto the floor like it personally betrayed her.

Still breathing hard.

Still annoyed.

Still aching.

She dragged a pillow over her face and screamed into it, muffled and dramatic. Then, after several seconds of despair, rolled over and retrieved her phone with the resigned exhaustion of someone who had once again lost a very personal war.

Caitlyn's name glared up at her like judgment itself.

She grumbled, but still tapped her calendar app.

Because apparently she had an appointment to be measured. Thoroughly. By a tall, terrifying woman who wore suits like a punishment and smelled like expensive restraint.

“Fine,” Vi muttered, shoving the phone under her pillow and letting her hand trail back down her stomach with a very petty sigh. “You win. For now.”

Calendar. 9AM. “Be felt up by hot boss with ice queen complex. Try not to climb her like a jungle gym.”

Vi did not sleep for a long time.

But she did pick out her outfit for the fitting—specifically, one that showed off the exact measurements Caitlyn would need hands on to find.

Chapter 6: Measurements

The CK design studio was quiet. Too quiet.

Caitlyn adjusted the neckline of the mannequin in front of her for the sixth time, then immediately undid it because it was wrong—wrong lines, wrong silhouette, wrong tension. Nothing looked right. Nothing fit.

Probably because she was arriving any second now.

Caitlyn exhaled through her nose, slow and even. The room was immaculate. The swatches were labeled. The measuring tape was laid out neatly, alongside a meticulously formatted spreadsheet on a tablet that did not need to exist but absolutely existed because Caitlyn needed order. Control.

And Vi —agent of chaos in biker boots—was about to walk in and burn it all down.

Speak of the devil.

The door creaked open.

“Morning, boss lady,” came the sing-song greeting. “Miss me?”

Caitlyn didn’t look up immediately. She couldn’t. She knew better than to look directly at solar flares.

But then Vi stepped in fully, and Caitlyn… looked.

Ripped jeans again. Loose tank. That signature CK waistband peeking out, red this time—again, despite the ban—like a taunt. And no makeup, except for that ridiculous, flawless skin and the smirk she wore like lip gloss.

Caitlyn swallowed a sound and pointed to the fitting platform.

“Shoes off. Clothes off. Up there,” she said crisply.

“Ooh,” Vi said, already toeing off her boots. “Didn’t realize I’d be stripping for science.”

“It’s not—” Caitlyn paused, pinched the bridge of her nose, and started again. “It’s for precision.”

“Same difference,” Vi chirped, stepping onto the platform.

Caitlyn was not prepared.

She thought she was. She had her clipboard. Her digital calipers. A full template marked out for every measurement she’d need to properly custom-fit lingerie across bust, waist, hips, rise, inseam, and anything else she deemed absolutely essential.

But that was before Vi kicked off her boots, stripped out of her tank, and asked sweetly, “You want the pants off now or are we doing this PG?”

Caitlyn’s stylus froze in mid-air.

“Off,” she said tightly. “Obviously.”

Vi grinned like a shark given permission to roam a public pool. She popped the button on her jeans and shimmied out of them in one fluid, far-too-graceful motion, revealing the CK briefs she’d been flashing all morning—black, with a red band, and hugging her hips like they’d been grown there.

She stepped out of the pile of denim and stood with her hands on her hips, still in her sports bra.

And that was the problem.

Caitlyn narrowed her eyes.

“I need an accurate bust measurement,” she said, clinically, professionally, like she wasn’t already visibly tense. “That bra compresses too much.”

Vi tilted her head, clearly enjoying this. “You saying you want me to take it off?”

“I’m saying I need proper fit data for lingerie design. Which requires a baseline bra size. Not compression wear.”

“Hot,” Vi said unhelpfully.

Caitlyn exhaled. “Do you have a more standard bra on you?”

“Define standard.”

“Underwire. Cups. Not engineered to flatten your chest into a polite suggestion.”

“Tragic,” Vi sighed, stretching her arms overhead just to be a menace. “I didn’t pack one. You got extras?”

Caitlyn’s eye twitched.

Of course they had extras. They were standing in the heart of Caitlyn Kiramman’s flagship underwear studio, surrounded by drawers and racks of lace and mesh and silk and stretch satin.

But the idea of choosing one for Vi—of picking out a bra that would touch her skin—felt suddenly obscene.

Still. She had standards. Protocol. A clipboard.

“What size?” she asked, flatly.

Vi smirked, slow and cruel. “Oh, you have to go find it? That’s cute.”

Caitlyn’s nostrils flared. “Size.”

“34B,” Vi said, with the smug confidence of someone who absolutely knew the effect it had. “But I’m flexible. If you want to eyeball it, be my guest.”

Caitlyn turned on her heel before she could say something regrettable.

She made it to the sample drawers without screaming. Barely. Her fingers twitched as she flipped through the options—too frilly, too sheer, definitely not the one with the little bow in the center, no, no—

She settled on a deep crimson balconette with subtle lace detailing and structure for days. Mature. Professional. Slightly evil.

She returned with it clutched like a weapon.

“Here,” she said, tossing it onto the platform.

Vi caught it mid-air, looked it over, and let out a low whistle. “Damn. You’ve got taste.”

Caitlyn did not respond.

Vi pulled up her sports bra right then and there. Caitlyn turned immediately, but not before catching the full arc of motion—shoulders rolling, arms back, torso taut.

“You’re going to cause an HR complaint,” Caitlyn muttered, staring directly at the nearest neutral wall.

Vi laughed. “Who’s gonna file it? You?”

A rustle. A strap click.

Then—

“How do I look?” Vi asked.

Caitlyn turned. Slowly.

Vi stood in the crimson bra and boxer briefs, an aesthetic contradiction that shouldn’t have worked. Soft lace over a strong chest. Curve and muscle. Red over warm skin.

It was beautiful.

And Caitlyn hated that it was beautiful.

“You’re fine,” she said tightly. “Let’s continue.”

Vi smiled like she’d won something.

Vi rolled her shoulders back. The motion pulled the bra snug across her chest, drawing Caitlyn’s gaze for half a second too long.

Caitlyn clicked the pen in her hand. “Arms out.”

Vi grinned. “You know if you wanted me to T-pose for dominance, you could’ve just said so.”

“I am measuring your wingspan,” Caitlyn snapped. “Not asserting territory.”

“Oh, but you could.” Vi tilted her head. “It’d be kinda hot.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer. She was too busy looping the measuring tape around Vi’s shoulder blades, brushing the skin just above the bra line. Her fingers paused, briefly, where the muscle curved inward. Vi’s skin was warm. Her breathing steady.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

“34.6,” Caitlyn murmured, writing it down with the grim precision of someone doing long division during a house fire.

She circled next, measuring across Vi’s clavicle.

Vi shifted slightly, letting the strap of her bra fall off one shoulder. “Whoops.”

Caitlyn did not blink. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“Sure it was.” Vi smirked. “Bet you needed a clearer view.”

“I need data, not… clavicle theatrics.”

“You say that,” Vi said, voice low and a little amused, “but you’re measuring me like I’m either a bomb or a wedding dress.”

Caitlyn’s hand paused. “Stand still.”

“Oh, I’m very still,” Vi said, as Caitlyn ran the tape down her side. “But you’re the one with shaky hands.”

“I do not have shaky hands,” Caitlyn snapped, though her grip did adjust—firm, clinical, definitely not flustered.

Vi hummed. “So. This Matilda woman.”

Caitlyn nearly dropped the tape.

“What?”

Vi smiled, slow and dangerous. “I saw an old CK post. Matilda. One of your exclusive models, right? She’s… wow. Kinda your brand in human form. Positively regal. Those hips? Chef’s kiss.”

Caitlyn’s ears went red.

“She’s… effective,” she said tightly, tugging the tape around Vi’s waist, probably tighter than necessary.

“She’s hot,” Vi corrected. “Elegant. Mysterious. That one shot where she’s on her knees with her arms crossed? Yeah, I may have stared at it for a while. Like, a while while.”

Caitlyn made a sound that could only be described as a sharp inhale through teeth.

“I—she’s not the focus right now,” she said, stepping back and jotting down another number with what could only be described as aggressive penmanship.

“She could be,” Vi offered, leaning slightly forward. “I mean, if you ever wanna bring her out of retirement. I’d volunteer to model with her. For, you know, the good of the brand.”

Caitlyn turned back around, face tight. “She doesn’t do duo shoots.”

“Shame,” Vi said again, softer this time. “I bet the two of us in frame would break the internet.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond. She was too busy not looking at Vi’s abs, or her mouth, or the way her entire body was a weaponized expression of sapphic intent.

When Caitlyn knelt to mark inseam length, Vi shifted just slightly—innocent in theory, obscene in practice.

“You gonna need me to take off the briefs too?” Vi asked sweetly.

Caitlyn dropped the tape measure.

“I am two seconds from sewing your mouth shut,” she muttered, snatching it back up.

“Promises, promises,” Vi said, leaning casually as Caitlyn stood again—flushed, glaring, a very polite disaster.

They finished in near silence after that—though “silence” was a stretch, considering Vi kept humming under her breath and occasionally murmuring things like “You’re good with your hands” and “This is practically a date.”

By the end, Caitlyn’s hair was out of place, her clipboard was bent, and she was mentally writing her own resignation letter in six languages.

Vi, still in the lace bra and boxer briefs, watched her gather supplies.

“So what’s next, Cupcake?” she asked, voice low and amused.

Caitlyn didn’t meet her gaze. “I have everything I need.”

Vi stepped closer. Just enough to invade personal space. The bra caught the light like a dare.

“Sure about that?” she murmured.

Caitlyn turned on her heel and left the room.

Vi waited until the door clicked shut behind her.

Then she looked down at herself, smoothed the waistband of the briefs, and muttered to no one in particular:

“God, I’d hit that like a freight train.”

She glanced around the studio, then down.

Her hand drifted—absently at first—toward her waistband.

Just a fidget. A pause.

But her eyes slid half-shut, and her thumb dipped a little lower.

Then—buzz.

Her phone lit up.

[CEO Cupcake🍰💀]: Be in the studio tomorrow at 8. No red.

Vi stared at it.

Then flopped backwards on the fitting couch, threw an arm over her eyes, and groaned into her own bicep.

“Fucking cockblock,” she whispered.

But she was smiling.

Chapter 7: Duos

The CK flagship studio wasn’t usually this crowded.

But campaign meetings had a certain rhythm—stylists, assistants, photographers, marketing heads, and in this particular case… one smug, feral gremlin who showed up ten minutes early, coffee in one hand and chaos in her eyes.

Vi kicked the conference room door open with her boot. “Morning, team! What are we ruining today?”

Jayce, bless him, visibly flinched. Mel just sipped her latte like it was popcorn.

Caitlyn was already seated at the head of the table—impeccable as ever in a slate-gray blazer and a blouse buttoned up like sin didn’t exist.

Her pen clicked twice.

“You’re on time,” she said, neutral.

“I try to be prompt when chaos is on the agenda,” Vi replied, flopping into the seat across from her and kicking one leg over the other in the universal position of watch this.

Caitlyn’s eye twitched.

Mel leaned in, stage-whispered, “Did you sleep last night?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer. But her coffee was black and her bun was tense.

Jayce started the slideshow. First image: Vi’s teaser photo.

Vi grinned like a villain presented with their own wanted poster. “Oh yeah. That’s a war crime waiting to happen.”

“It’s performing exceptionally well,” Mel noted. “Engagement’s through the roof. We're also seeing spikes in Matilda's old shoots," Mel added.

Vi cocked her head. "Matilda?"

Jayce clicked again. Matilda filled the screen in black and white. Lace, soft light, a line of thigh, the tilt of a chin.

Vi blinked. "Okay. Hello."

Caitlyn's hand tightened around her pen.

"We'd like to pair them," Mel said, gesturing between the slide and Vi. "Fire and ice. Modern and timeless. The contrast would be... compelling."

Vi exhaled slowly. “Damn. She looks expensive.”

“She is,” Caitlyn said crisply.

“Can I meet her?” Vi asked, way too casually.

Mel blinked. “Wait—you don’t know her?”

Vi shrugged. “Only met her spine. Big fan, though.”

Caitlyn visibly whitened.

“She’s exclusive,” Mel said. “CK’s legacy model. Appears in roughly 20% of our campaigns. Always masked. Never speaks.”

“Never?” Vi leaned forward. “That’s kind of hot.”

“She’s… private,” Caitlyn said through barely parted lips.

“And expensive,” Jayce added.

Vi grinned. “Worth it.”

Caitlyn was silent. Still. Dangerously still.

Jayce checked his notes. “First design meeting is today. Final test shoot next week.”

Vi kicked back in her chair, all easy smiles. “Hope she’s hot.”

The long design table was already a battlefield: a mess of sketches, fabric swatches, old campaign polaroids, and color palettes. Caitlyn sat like a queen at war — composed, blazer crisp, pen in hand, jaw locked. Dominique was mid-rant, arms sweeping as she tugged a roll of silk across the table. And Vi?

Vi was lounging like she was on a beach towel, one leg kicked over the other, chewing a stir stick from her iced coffee and absolutely not taking anything seriously.

"So," Dominique said, flipping to a clean page in her sketchbook, "let’s build the actual looks. Fire and Ice. Hard and soft. Vi, you’re keeping the boxer briefs. We all agree that’s signature.”

“Damn right,” Vi said, flexing just a little. “You’re not getting me in a thong unless there’s a seven-figure deal and a pizza afterward.”

Caitlyn sighed audibly. “Noted.”

“We pair the briefs with a racerback sports bra,” Dominique continued, sketching fast. “Dark red, structured. No sheer here — matte finish. Clean lines.”

Vi leaned in. “Can we do that super thick waistband? I want it to feel like armor.”

“Absolutely,” Dominique said. “We’ll double-stitched it, maybe emboss the CK logo on the back?”

“Bold as hell,” Vi grinned. “Love it.”

Caitlyn tapped her pen. “Keep the straps wide. Racerback style helps posture, and it plays well with her shoulders.”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “You checking out my shoulders, boss?”

Caitlyn didn’t look up. “I’m designing around your proportions. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. Already flattered. I feel objectified and validated.”

Dominique cackled.

Then she flipped to another page. “Okay — now Ice.”

Vi immediately leaned forward, eyes locked on the board of Matilda shots behind Caitlyn.

“So,” Dominique said, “we’re going sheer here. A pale, icy blue. Thin straps. I’m thinking a soft balconette — cups that lift without too much structure. Maybe a satin underband, just for contrast.”

“Wait,” Vi interrupted, pointing at one of the moodboard shots. “That one. That set where she’s got the lace edging down her ribs? That’s lethal. Put her in that. But, like, less lace, more skin.”

Caitlyn’s pen snapped audibly.

Dominique didn’t even flinch. “I like the balconette idea with sheer tulle panels,” she said smoothly. “Gives us transparency and structure.”

Vi whistled. “You’re gonna have her chest out in public in that? Are we sure this is legal?”

Caitlyn exhaled very slowly through her nose. “It is if we layer it correctly.”

“Right, right,” Vi nodded. “So I can stare without getting arrested. Good to know.”

Dominique moved on, sketching two simplified mannequins—Vi’s hard-edged silhouette beside Matilda’s long, elegant lines. “Bottoms for Matilda: high-cut mesh panties. Pale blue. Subtle shimmer under light. The waistband should ride high, contrast Vi’s low-slung briefs.”

“So we look like opposites even in how we wear the same brand,” Vi said, leaning on one elbow. “Smart.”

Caitlyn cleared her throat. “Do not suggest we match tattoos next.”

Vi grinned. “Oh, not tattoos. But I’d wear her lipstick marks. Tastefully.”

Caitlyn didn’t dignify that with a response.

Dominique rotated the sketchbook toward them. “Alright — concept one: Vi in full red, Matilda in blue. Back-to-back, turned away from camera, but arms linked. Juxtaposition. Heat and chill.”

Vi squinted at it. “Can we have her looking up, chin tilted like she’s too good for me?”

“She is,” Caitlyn muttered.

Vi laughed. “You wound me.”

Dominique sketched a new pose. “Concept two: Matilda seated, Vi behind her, hand on shoulder. Matilda’s face hidden as usual, head tilted back.”

Vi blinked. “Wait—like that one shot of her in the backless set?”

“Exactly,” Dominique said. “Let’s echo that. Create a visual motif.”

Vi stared at the drawing like it was art from the Louvre. “I volunteer my hands. For symmetry.”

Caitlyn pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I’m just saying,” Vi added with mock-innocence, “if Matilda’s gonna be damn near naked in sheer silk, it’s only polite someone keeps her warm.”

“She’ll manage,” Caitlyn snapped.

Vi sat back, smug. “You sure? Because I feel like you’re sweating just thinking about it.”

Dominique leaned back and smirked. “Matilda doesn’t sweat. That woman glides.”

“Like a haunted ice sculpture,” Vi said dreamily, still staring at the photos. “One I desperately want to kiss.”

“She doesn’t speak,” Caitlyn said tightly. “She doesn’t interact on set. Minimal movement. No dialogue.”

Vi raised an eyebrow. “No talking? Like, at all?”

Dominique nodded. “It’s part of her brand. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t break character. Not even off-camera.”

Vi’s eyes gleamed. “Okay, I’m in love.”

Caitlyn snapped her pen in half.

Dominique didn’t even blink. “We’ll keep most of Matilda’s shots framed at the side or back. Shadowplay. Silhouettes. The contrast between the two of you is the magic.”

Vi reached for the sketchpad. “Add one more pose — me reaching out, like I’m chasing her. But she’s just out of reach. That’s hot.”

Caitlyn stared at her.

Vi met her gaze, smirked, and said, “For the brand.”

Caitlyn got up from the table.

Vi turned to Dominique. “So… we can make sure the sheer fabric isn’t too sheer, right? Like, you know. Tasteful. But devastating.”

Dominique smiled. “I can promise heartbreak in chiffon.”

Vi sighed like she’d just been handed a romance novel with her name in it.

 

The door to Caitlyn’s office slammed shut with the force of an over-budget ad campaign imploding.

Mel barely flinched. She was already perched on the edge of the sofa with a coffee she hadn’t asked for but clearly needed. Jayce stood awkwardly by the window, clutching a tablet like it might deflect shrapnel.

Caitlyn stormed in behind them, blazer crisp, expression not. She rounded on them like a hurricane in heels.

“I want to know,” she said, voice ice-sharp, “who exactly thought it was acceptable to schedule Matilda for a duo campaign without consulting me first.”

Mel took a careful sip. “It was more of a group consensus—”

“Wrong answer.” Caitlyn’s pen landed on her desk with a clatter. “Matilda is not group property. She is not a mascot you trot out when engagement spikes.”

Jayce raised a tentative hand. “To be fair, the TikTok numbers—”

“To be fair,” Caitlyn cut in, turning that phrase into a scalpel, “Matilda is a brand. A controlled asset. A concept I curate. And I do not recall greenlighting a smoldering shoot with our resident chaos gremlin.”

“She’s popular,” Mel offered.

“She’s unfiltered,” Caitlyn snapped. “And Matilda doesn’t speak for a reason.”

Jayce blinked. “So… is that a no on the couple's photos?”

Caitlyn turned slowly, like a very classy shark. “Let me be absolutely clear. Matilda does not pose for PR whims. Matilda does not ‘pair off’ because some social media intern thinks we need a viral thirst trap. She exists on my schedule, under my terms, in pieces I design. And she most certainly does not appear in sheer blue tulle while Vi ‘freestyles’ six inches from her ass without my explicit say-so.”

The silence that followed was oppressive. Even Mel’s latte stopped steaming out of fear.

Caitlyn pressed her hands to the edge of her desk and inhaled sharply through her nose.

“This is not about exposure,” she said tightly. “This is about control. Matilda only exists because she is untouchable. She is curated. Anonymous. Not…” She gestured vaguely, frustrated. “Not some sapphic wet dream for viral engagement.”

Jayce, still hovering in the corner, tried a gentle, “We thought it was a good match. Fire and ice. Opposites attract. It’s… branding gold.”

“It’s reckless,” Caitlyn snapped. “Vi’s entire personality is chaos and cheekbones. She doesn’t know when to back off. She doesn’t even know who she’s flirting with. And she certainly doesn’t know when she’s pressing against a line I can’t afford to blur.”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “Is the line personal or professional?”

Caitlyn turned on her. “Yes.”

A beat passed.

Jayce cleared his throat. “So… we’re scrapping the shoot?”

“No,” Caitlyn bit out. “We’re going through with it. Because apparently the entire marketing team has already committed the concept to the budget gods.”

Mel tilted her head. “You could still pull out.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched. “She would notice.”

“She doesn’t even know who Matilda is,” Jayce pointed out.

“She knows enough,” Caitlyn murmured.

Another pause.

“Then,” Mel said slowly, “are you pissed because of the approval breach… or because you’ll have to let her touch you?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

She just opened her desk drawer, took out a second stylus, snapped it in half, and said, “This meeting is over.”

Chapter 8: Just a Character

The lights in the main studio were low. Everyone else had gone home hours ago.

But Caitlyn was still there—jacket off, sleeves rolled, hair half-falling from its bun as she stood over the drafting table like a woman possessed.

A half-finished sketch lay beneath her hand. Another beside it. Then three more scattered across the tabletop, each one more damning than the last.

She’d told them she needed final approval. That she would handle Matilda’s look personally.

Because she always did.

Because Matilda was hers.

But now she was designing silk armor for a ghost. And the ghost had Vi’s hands on her hips.

She picked up a pastel blue pencil and drew another soft curve across the bust of a balconette. Not sharp. Not angular. This was softness refined. A whisper of shape. The kind of lingerie meant to be seen in candlelight—and removed slowly.

Her jaw clenched.

The sheer mesh panels she'd added across the ribs were impractical. Almost translucent. She knew that. She also knew she wasn’t changing them.

She added a second underband—just thick enough to draw the eye. Matilda didn’t wear jewelry. The band would act as its own accent. One that framed her chest like a gift.

Caitlyn exhaled sharply and leaned back.

The mannequin beside the table was already half-dressed: sheer cobalt panties with a high cut and a barely-there shimmer under studio light. The bra still hung loose around the shoulders—an earlier draft in icy blue silk, scrapped for being too modest.

And then there was the mask.

She turned to the smaller table where her options were laid out: a delicate satin masquerade mask with pearl-threaded edges… and beside it, a soft tulle veil, hand-dyed to match the color story of “Frozen Devastation.”

She reached for the veil.

Held it between her fingers.

Imagined Vi’s eyes narrowing as she tried to see through it. Imagined her hand brushing the edge, mouth curved in that lazy smirk as she whispered something like you look expensive again—except this time, she’d be looking straight at her.

Caitlyn dropped the veil like it burned.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

Matilda didn’t break character. Matilda didn’t respond to flirtation. Matilda certainly didn’t arch her back under Vi’s hands, no matter how criminally good that pose might look in a campaign photo.

Still, her pencil found the sketchpad again. She added sheer opera gloves—blue, with a hint of sparkle. Then a matching garter belt. Then… she stopped.

This wasn’t a lingerie set. This was a confession.

She threw the pencil across the table and pressed her palms to the edge of the draft. Breathed.

“You are in control,” she told herself, as if saying it enough would make it true.

But her reflection in the studio mirror didn’t look controlled. It looked flushed. Just slightly.

She scowled at herself.

Then she picked up the veil again.

“I’ll make her untouchable,” she said aloud, trying to believe it. “And Vi can just suffer.”

But even as she clipped the veil to the mannequin’s hair, she knew exactly who was going to suffer more.

The veil settled across the mannequin’s head like a benediction.

Soft. Mysterious. Just opaque enough to hide a flush.

Caitlyn stepped back and surveyed the full image—Matilda, incarnate. A ghost in silk and tulle. A woman you reached for only to find your hands empty.

Perfect.

Except.

Her fingers itched.

She reached for the sketchbook again, flipping back three pages—Vi’s draft. The sports bra. The briefs. The smirk drawn right into the tilt of her spine.

God, the confidence in her linework alone made Caitlyn want to scream.

She turned the page.

Matilda, draped in ice.

Again.

And again.

She tried to sketch distance. Every time, she drew heat.

The poses weren’t helping.

One had Vi’s hand resting on Matilda’s waist, half-possessive, half-reverent. Another, their knees touching as they sat side by side, heads tilted in opposite directions, the tension strung like wire between them.

Caitlyn had scribbled a note beside it—Too close. Try angle adjustment.

But instead of adjusting the angle, she’d redrawn Matilda’s mouth. Fuller. Softer. Slightly parted.

She stared at the page. Then flipped it over with a growl and shoved it aside like it had insulted her ancestors.

Her eyes flicked to the mannequin again.

The veil swayed gently, catching the low light from the overhead bulbs. Beneath it, the silk balconette hugged the chest in a way that could only be called inviting.

Caitlyn folded her arms across her own chest like she could erase the echo.

“This is branding,” she said, glaring at the mannequin like it owed her rent. “This is concept design. This is not personal.”

The mannequin didn’t respond. Just stood there, veiled and bare and dripping with implications.

“This is not about me,” she hissed.

But it was her body the measurements were taken from.

It was her shoulder blades that would peek out under sheer silk.

Her stomach that would rise and fall with every controlled breath in front of the lens.

Her legs in those damn garters.

And Vi—

Vi would be there too. All boxer briefs and hands and heat. Vi, who’d already made several jokes about sheer fabric and the tragedy of not being allowed to look closer.

Vi, who had no idea she was already fantasizing about the woman Caitlyn had been becoming after hours for years.

She turned to her notes again. Tried to write something. Failed.

Tried again.

Matilda never initiates contact she scribbled, underlined three times.
always elegant. never overt. no smiling unless posed. no eye contact. especially not with vi.

She added a side note.
Maybe change the veil to a full hood? Too much?

Too much, yes.

Too revealing, also yes.

And yet—she couldn’t stop the images flashing through her brain. The way Vi’s eyes would go dark when Matilda stepped onto the set. The silence. The tension. That click of chemistry so sharp it could slice couture.

Vi would look at her and want her.
And Caitlyn would have to pretend it didn’t wreck her.

She stepped closer to the mannequin. Reached up. Adjusted the veil just slightly. Her fingers hovered near the neckline.

Deliberately, she added a final note in red pen.

Vi must not touch her. Ever.

Then, under her breath, voice cracked with something she couldn’t name:

“Because if she does... I don’t know who I’ll be.”

 

The moodboard was already halfway assembled when Caitlyn stepped into the conference room—iced coffee in hand, hair pinned back, blazer immaculate. But the jaw tension? That betrayed the night she’d had.

Jayce, Dominique, Mel, and Victor were already gathered, the lights dimmed for projection, a sleek profile open on the center screen.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Dominique said, gesturing with her pen. “We’re giving Vi just enough to connect. Not enough to recognize you. Eyes only, not identity.”

Caitlyn nodded stiffly. “Agreed. Keep it minimal. Just a model dossier.”

Jayce clicked to the first slide: Matilda. Height: 5’10. Build: slender. Hair: warm blonde with copper lowlights. Eyes: blue.

“She’s taller than Vi,” Victor murmured, smirking.

“By design,” Caitlyn muttered, already irritated.

Next slide: a photo of Matilda, backlit, face obscured beneath a sheer veil that stopped just below the nose. The mask was delicately cut satin, pearl-edged. Her jawline was visible. So were her eyes—pale, striking, undeniably hers.

Caitlyn’s throat tightened.

“And the photos?” Jayce asked. “These aren’t public.”

“No,” Caitlyn said. “They’re from the studio archives. I took most of them myself.”

Dominique clicked through: Matilda standing in the soft haze of window light, bare shoulders framed by opera gloves, high-cut bottoms, sheer fabrics like clouds wrapped in intention. In another, she was seated with her back to the camera, veil trailing down her spine like mist.

Mel tilted her head. “They feel… private.”

“They’re evocative,” Caitlyn corrected. “That’s the point.”

“Right,” Dominique said slyly. “For Vi to feel something.”

Caitlyn ignored her.

“Add a line about Matilda being selective with shoots,” she said instead. “Minimal public appearances. She prefers concept work. Editorial. No interviews.”

Jayce jotted notes.

“She doesn’t speak on set,” Caitlyn continued. “She maintains character at all times. No exceptions.”

Victor nodded. “So Vi doesn’t get close.”

“Exactly,” Caitlyn said.

The team paused.

Then Dominique leaned forward. “Okay. So we give her that mystery. Distance. A curated enigma. But if this is a duo shoot…”

“We’re not doing contact,” Caitlyn cut in, sharp. “Not physical. We can shoot them side by side, back to back—”

“You’re joking,” Mel said flatly.

Victor raised both brows. “You’ve seen the moodboard. The concept is intimacy. We’re selling contrast. Tension. Touch.”

“She doesn’t touch anyone,” Caitlyn insisted. “That’s not her brand.”

Dominique blinked at her. “Really? Because I’ve got four sketches from last night that say otherwise.”

Caitlyn froze.

Dominique reached into her folio and pulled them out one by one, spreading them across the table like tarot cards.

The first sketch showed Matilda turned slightly toward Vi, hips angled, Vi’s hand resting at the small of her back. Not lewd—just close. Intimate. Intentional.

The second: Matilda’s chin tilted toward Vi’s shoulder. Their arms entwined, barely touching, fingers hovering just short of a grasp.

The third: Matilda seated on the edge of a silk-draped chaise, Vi kneeling behind her to fasten a garter strap. The air between them practically vibrated.

The fourth…

Caitlyn stepped forward fast and slammed her hand over that one.

“No.”

Dominique lifted a brow. “It’s stunning.”

“It’s too much.”

Jayce leaned in around her hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“She’s not touching me,” Caitlyn snapped. “She’s touching Matilda.”

Mel blinked. “Sweetheart. You are Matilda.”

“No,” Caitlyn said firmly, like repetition would save her. “Matilda is a concept. I design her. I perform her. She’s not me.”

Victor leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “So let me get this straight. You create this ghost goddess of silk and mystery. You shoot her in sultry blue lighting. You draw Vi touching her like she’s a fever dream wrapped in lace. But you want to shoot a Fire and Ice lingerie campaign where the two of you don’t even graze fingertips?”

“I was designing,” Caitlyn hissed.

“Yeah,” Dominique said, dragging the sketchbook back toward her. “Designing scenes where Vi is basically worshipping her.”

Caitlyn’s jaw ticked.

“This is not about me,” she said again, quieter now.

“No,” Mel said, voice gentler. “But maybe it is about not wanting to feel anything while Vi touches a version of you you’re not allowed to be.”

That silenced the room.

Caitlyn looked down at her own sketch—Vi’s hand against Matilda’s ribs, just under the mesh. Just where a thumb would graze the softest skin.

She exhaled, slow.

“…Minimal contact,” she muttered.

Dominique grinned.

“Staged,” Caitlyn clarified, holding up a finger. “Structured. No improvisation.”

Mel smirked. “Of course. You’ll choreograph the longing.”

Victor chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to suffer.”

Caitlyn sat down, finally. And said nothing more.

But her hands curled around the sketchbook like a lifeline. Or a shield.

Chapter 9: Research

The studio air was cool, but Vi ran hot.

She’d shown up that morning with an extra-large iced coffee and enough energy to start a coup. But the moment she saw Delilah, Matilda's body double, standing under the soft white lights, draped in gauzy blue, something in her chest did a sharp little skip.

It wasn’t Matilda.

But damn, it was close enough to make her hands itch.

Caitlyn stood off to the side, arms folded like a fortress. Dominique, clipboard in hand, gave the rundown with theatrical flair.

“Alright, firecracker. These are test poses only, but we’re dressing them up a little. You’ll both be in full mock-ups. Hair, makeup, everything. Treat it like the real deal.”

Vi popped her jaw and rolled her neck. “You got it. I play nice.”

“Please don’t,” Dominique muttered, already adjusting Delilah’s veil.

They started with the basics—poses from Caitlyn’s sketchbook. Controlled. Elegant. But cold. Poses where Vi stood beside Delilah, hands at her sides, gazes averted. They looked like magazine mannequins. Beautiful. Distant. Dead.

“This isn’t selling seduction,” Vi said flatly after the third one. “It’s selling a tax bracket.”

Caitlyn’s voice snapped across the studio: “Stick to the brief.”

Vi smiled—too sweet. “Sure. Totally sticking to it.”

The next pose on the list had Vi behind Delilah, one hand resting lightly on her hip, the other brushing her shoulder. It was sensual on paper, but sterile in practice. Too posed. Too shallow.

So Vi broke it.

Her hand shifted—just a touch lower, her palm sliding across Delilah’s stomach. She brought her other hand around and up, fingers grazing the exposed collarbone, until her forearm was draped across Delilah’s clavicle in a loose, possessive grip. Her mouth hovered close to the shell of Delilah’s ear, but she didn’t speak.

She just breathed.

The tension in the room snapped taut.

Jayce muttered, “Oh, that’s the one,” before snapping off a dozen photos in rapid fire.

Caitlyn made a noise like she was about to spontaneously combust.

But Vi was only getting started.

Next pose.

Delilah seated, legs tucked beneath her, spine straight and elegant. Vi crouched at her side at first, but halfway through the setup, she adjusted herself, slow and deliberate, until she was kneeling in front of Delilah.

Then lower.

Kneeling at her feet, one hand on her thigh, the other resting against Delilah’s knee, head tilted upward as if waiting for permission to move. Her fingers curled into the hem of the delicate mesh fabric just enough to ruffle it. No groping. No disrespect.

Just a reverent kind of heat.

Caitlyn’s voice cut like a blade. “You were told to follow the poses.”

Vi didn’t look at her. “You were told to sell a fantasy.”

Delilah, goddess that she was, didn’t flinch. Just played the part—aloof and slightly above it all, hand lifted as though she might touch Vi’s chin, might not.

Jayce didn’t even breathe as he captured the moment.

Dominique hummed in satisfaction. “This one’s going on the billboard.”

Caitlyn’s heel clicked once. Vi finally glanced her way—Caitlyn looked like she wanted to throw the lighting rig.

Another pose.

Now Delilah stood, arms relaxed, the veil casting shadows over her cheekbones. Vi moved in behind her again, but this time she didn’t wait for instruction. She pressed closer, not quite touching—yet. Her right hand wrapped around Delilah’s waist, her left snaking up to rest flat beneath her bust, fingers splayed over silk and skin.

She didn’t grip. She anchored.

Delilah leaned back just slightly, head resting near Vi’s jaw. A breath apart. One more inch and they’d be scandalous.

One less, and they were art.

The lighting caught them perfectly. The contrast of Vi’s crimson mock-up against Delilah’s powder blue. Fire encircling ice, but never melting it.

Jayce whispered, “Matilda’s never looked more real.”

And Caitlyn said absolutely nothing.

Not a breath. Not a word. Just eyes like cracked glass and a jaw carved from marble.

Vi tilted her head, smiling lazily I'magainst the phantom shape of Matilda. “You want me to tone it down, boss?” she called out.

Caitlyn’s lips parted—like she had something to say. But Dominique got there first.

“She’s giving the campaign what it needs. You wanted tension and heat? You sketched cold elegance wrapped in restraint. She’s adding the part that sells.”

“She’s improvising,” Caitlyn snapped.

“She’s elevating,” Dominique countered, voice cool.

Vi held her pose another beat. Then dropped her hands and stepped back with a smirk.

“That’s what happens,” she said, “when you put a feral gremlin in couture. You get chaos and heat.”

And for the first time that day, Caitlyn didn’t argue.

She just watched. Silent. Like she was seeing something she couldn’t stop.

Something she wasn’t ready to touch.

The shoot wrapped.

Sort of.

Delilah slipped into her oversized robe like a silk ghost, murmured something polite to the crew, and stepped off set with the grace of a runway priestess. Vi watched her go, her smirk practically doing a cartwheel.

“I'll see you,” Vi called after her. “Tell Matilda I said hi. And that her stand-in’s got excellent taste in perfume.”

Delilah paused, just long enough to toss a glance over her shoulder—playful, unreadable, deadly. Vi gave her a mock salute and turned—

—straight into Caitlyn.

“Whoa.” Vi grinned, rocking back on her heels. “Didn’t hear you coming. You always sneak up on your models like that, or just the ones who make your eye twitch?”

Caitlyn looked like she was about to snap a clipboard in half.

Instead, she shoved a slim folder into Vi’s chest.

Hard.

“Your file,” Caitlyn said, all clipped professionalism and none of the headache she was clearly having. “Per your request. Matilda’s portfolio.”

Vi caught the folder easily, thumbs brushing the edges. The paper was high-quality. Minimalist. Embossed. Of course it was.

“She’s got a file?” Vi teased. “God, I love it here.”

Caitlyn’s jaw worked like she was chewing glass.

Vi cracked it open and flipped through. Sparse but elegant. Two full-body photos—one from the front, Matilda standing in pale blue with the veil barely obscuring the bottom half of her face, her posture serene, untouchable. The other from behind: a sculptural silhouette, long legs and that unmistakable sway in the curve of her hip. Eyes visible in both.

Ice blue.

Very familiar.

Vi whistled low. “You really don’t want me to sleep this week, huh?”

“She does not speak on set. She will not engage with you directly,” Caitlyn said, each word surgically chosen. “And you will not deviate from the approved poses.”

Vi looked up over the folder, cocked her head. “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”

Caitlyn didn’t respond. Her mouth was tight. Her hands were fists. Her whole body looked like it had been edited in post to remove the warmth.

Vi grinned wider. “You’re cute when you’re homicidal.”

“Read the file,” Caitlyn said. “Don’t get creative.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Vi leaned in, voice dropping. “I am creative.”

She didn’t wait for permission—just turned and sauntered off toward the dressing rooms, thumbing through the file as she walked.

Behind her, Caitlyn muttered something inaudible to no one in particular.

Vi didn’t catch the words.

But she felt the chaos she was leaving behind.

And she had plans for it.

 

Vi wasn’t sure when she’d started treating Matilda’s profile like a bedtime story.

But it was nearly 1 a.m., she hadn’t blinked in two minutes, and her phone was currently at 7% and burning through a deep rabbit hole of “sensual but artsy” couple poses on TikTok.

The file lay open on her bed, half-buried beneath a hoodie and an emergency bag of Doritos. She’d read it four times. Memorized the height (5'10", noticably taller than her). The build (lean, long lines, sculpted like art). The eyes (blue—of course they were blue). And then the pictures.

Full-body shots, unreleased to the public but still tastefully framed. Some with the veil, some with the masquerade mask, all hiding her face just enough to make Vi want to crawl out of her skin with curiosity.

She knew it was dumb. Knew she was reading way too much into the angle of a hip or the tension in a shoulder. But something about the way Matilda held herself in every photo—

Controlled.

Not stiff. Not delicate. Just… withheld. Like she was always two seconds from disappearing if you stared too hard.

Vi had never wanted to stare harder in her life.

So now here she was, cross-legged in bed, the room lit only by the glow of her phone as she thumbed through videos under the hashtag #LesbianCoupleShootInspo.

A sultry brunette dragged her hands down her partner’s back before twisting them around to grip her inner thigh.

Vi pointed at the screen. “That. That’s the vibe.”

Next video: a slow roll of someone being guided back by the chin until they were practically laying in their partner’s lap.

“Okay. Yep. Yep, that too.”

She saved it to a folder called For Science.

It wasn’t about sex. Not exactly.

It was about intimacy. About the moment before something happened. About fingertips grazing collarbones and mouths hovering near skin and control.

And Matilda was all about control.

Vi flopped back dramatically, phone pressed to her chest.

“I’m gonna die,” she announced to her ceiling. “I’m gonna combust on set. I’m gonna evaporate into a fine mist of gay longing.”

The ceiling offered no comfort.

She sat up again, tapping back to one of the more intense videos. A woman—elegant, unreadable—stood perfectly still while her partner wrapped an arm around her stomach from behind and kissed the space just under her jaw.

Vi had to pause it. She was pretty sure her soul left her body for a second.

“That one’s not even fair,” she whispered.

Another video. Someone kneeling at their partner’s feet, head bowed, hands resting on their thighs. Worship, plain and simple.

She didn’t even bother saving it. That one was already seared into her brain.

Vi looked down at the photo again—the one with the veil, the jawline, the hands folded so gently over silk-smooth thighs.

“I could do so much with you,” she whispered.

No answer, as always.

But in her head, the woman behind the veil shifted slightly. Stepped just a little closer. Let Vi reach out—almost.

She never touched. Not really.

But god, did she want to.

Chapter 10: Fire and Ice

CK’s flagship studio was quiet.

Too quiet.

Vi arrived first—or at least, she thought she did. The place was still in pre-production mode: lighting techs muttering to themselves, racks of pristine lingerie organized by aesthetic crime level, and the soft whir of a coffee machine that probably cost more than her first car.

She strolled in with sunglasses perched on her head, hoodie slung off one shoulder, and a duffel bag of chaos energy ready to unpack.

“Yo,” she called to no one in particular. “Where’s my Ice Queen?”

Jayce, already adjusting the camera rig, looked up with an apologetic wince.

“Caitlyn’s sick,” he said. “Didn’t want to delay the shoot, though. You know her.”

Vi paused mid-sip of her iced oat latte. “She’s what?”

“Sick,” Mel echoed, materializing from somewhere near the props wall. “Flu or something. She sent final approvals in, though. Everything’s prepped.”

Vi squinted. “She doesn’t strike me as the ‘stay home’ type.”

“She’s not,” Mel said blandly. She checked her clipboard, then muttered into her headset. “She’s here. Matilda’s next.”

 

Caitlyn stood perfectly still, hands braced against the sleek countertop of her office’s private vanity. The mirror showed a woman tightly wound: lips painted, mask in place, veil adjusted to stop just below her nose. Her jaw was sharp today. Intentional. Controlled.

A fragile line between character and catastrophe.

“She’s ready,” Mel said through the earpiece.

Caitlyn didn’t respond right away.

She just took one last deep breath and whispered to herself:
“She’s not touching me. She’s touching a concept. An illusion. A product.”

Then she turned, pulled on her silk robe, and walked to wardrobe.

Back on Set.

Vi was stretching. She claimed it was for mobility. Jayce suspected it was mostly for show. Especially when she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her boxer briefs and let the elastic snap dramatically.

Dominique gave her a slow clap from across the room.

“Don’t injure your ego, princess.”

Vi winked. “Gotta stay limber for my mystery muse.”

The lights shifted.

The door to the dressing area opened.

And Vi turned.

Her first thought: Oh, hell.

Because Matilda didn’t walk in. She arrived.

Wrapped in layers of pale blue silk and sheer tulle, her hair a soft storm of platinum and auburn, mask shining faintly under the lights—she looked like a daydream that might charge you interest for looking too long.

The veil was delicate, just long enough to hide the bridge of her nose, leaving her sharp jawline and eyes fully visible. And God, those eyes—ice blue, unreadable, and focused entirely on nothing.

She didn’t glance Vi’s way. Not even once.

Which meant Vi immediately needed her to look at her.

Jayce whispered a reverent, “Jesus.”

Vi didn’t breathe for five whole seconds.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice a little hoarse. “Yeah. I’m gonna be so professional about this.”

Dominique laughed under her breath. “You’re gonna combust like a romantic candle.”

Matilda moved to her mark like she was floating.

Vi followed—slower, deliberate. She could feel the heat rising behind her eyes, across her throat, down her arms. It wasn’t nerves.

It was want. Curiosity. Obsession.

This was the woman she’d been picturing at 1 a.m. in the glow of TikTok poses and whispered fantasy. And now she was real.

Matilda extended a hand—gloved, elegant, pre-posed. A silent offering.

Vi stared at it like it was a bomb.

Jayce adjusted his lens. “First setup is back-to-back.”

Vi finally exhaled.

“Copy that,” she said. Then, softer, “Let’s make art.”

But even as she turned to take her place, she was already improvising.

Because the plan had been poses.

Vi was about to deliver a performance.

Pose One.
Back-to-back. Hands linked.

Vi pressed lightly against Matilda’s back, careful with her footing on the taped markers. Her right hand laced gently with the gloved one behind her, fingers curling in delicate contact.

The fabric was cool. The touch, barely there.

This was choreography. Theater. Cold and exact.

She lowered her chin, eyes cast to the floor. It was the kind of image that would look perfect on a billboard. Clean. Curated.

It didn’t feel like anything.

Pose Two.
Standing at Matilda’s side, palm to her upper back, a platonic suggestion of closeness.

Matilda didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

Vi swallowed. She could feel the steadiness of Matilda’s breathing—a slow, calculated rhythm. She probably didn’t break rhythm even if you whispered something filthy in her ear.

Focus.

Vi placed her hand on Matilda’s back exactly where she’d been told. Posed her shoulder to camera. Tilted her head.

The light was right.

The body language, stiff.

Pose Three.
Vi behind Matilda again. One hand gently at her waist. The other at the collarbone.

She stepped into position. Hand on the waist—firm, but not gripping. The second hovered at the base of Matilda’s neck.

That’s when it hit her.

This was too neat. Too soft.

And Matilda—this sculpted, veiled goddess—was right there.

So close she could breathe her in.

And still acting like Vi didn’t exist.

Something in Vi's spine straightened. Her breath deepened.

No.

If Matilda was going to pretend to be untouchable, Vi would teach her what it felt like to be wanted. With no room left to hide.

Pose Four.
Vi leaned in for the collarbone touch—but this time, her fingers curled. They weren’t placed; they claimed.

Her thumb brushed against exposed skin. Just a little too long. Just a little too warm.

Matilda didn’t flinch.

But her breath caught.

Vi grinned, slow and feline.

There it is.

Pose Five.
They faced each other. Vi’s hand was meant to cup Matilda’s elbow delicately.

Instead, she let her fingers slide up—slowly—tracing the curve of the glove until her hand curled around the soft bend of Matilda’s arm.

Their eyes met.

A flicker behind the mask. Just for a second.

Blue. Bright. Not cold, not even close.

Heat prickled in Vi’s stomach.

Pose Six.
Vi lowered to one knee, Matilda standing above.

The pose demanded reverence.

Vi gave her devotion.

She looked up—not at the camera, but at her.

Right at her.

Held that gaze with steady, smoldering intent.

And then, without direction, she lifted her hand.

Not to pose. Not to place.

To touch.

Fingers against Matilda’s thigh, just above the garter. Slow. Testing.

Matilda didn’t move.

But the fabric under Vi’s hand shifted as if the model had taken a trembling breath.

Pose Seven.
Vi stood again, arms instructed to wrap gently around Matilda’s waist from behind.

She obeyed—mostly.

Her right hand curled around Matilda’s clavicle, thumb trailing up toward the edge of the mask.

Her left hand slid across the stomach—firm, steady, just beneath the underbust.

Cameras clicked furiously.

Pose Eight.
She was supposed to place a hand on Matilda’s shoulder from behind.

Instead, she stepped in close. Too close.

Placed both hands on her hips. Thumbs brushing soft skin between straps.

Matilda inhaled sharply.

Not loud. But audible.

Vi’s pulse thrilled.

Pose Nine.
Facing each other again. Vi’s hand trailing along Matilda’s ribcage now.

Delicate fingers brushing just beneath the curve of the breast. Not gripping—resting.

She felt the soft exhale against her wrist.

Pose Ten.
Vi’s hand at Matilda’s neck. A hand cupping her cheek.

Still no dialogue. But Matilda’s lashes fluttered at the contact.

Her mouth, just barely parted.

Her chest, no longer rising and falling on a perfect beat.

She was feeling this.

Vi’s grin was all teeth.

Pose Eleven.
She stepped in, bodies nearly touching.

Vi’s hand curled just under Matilda’s jaw.

Another behind her back.

She leaned in, not quite brushing against her—but close enough to burn.

The veil fell back.

No one had cued it.

But now her jaw was exposed. The elegant line of her neck. Her mouth.

Still masked, but that didn’t matter.

Vi had everything she needed.

Pose Twelve.
Matilda turned. Vi stepped behind her.

Both of her arms looped around—one under the bust, one across the ribs.

She pulled Matilda close.

Breast to back.

Breath on her neck.

The camera caught it all.

Pose Thirteen.
Vi placed her hands on Matilda’s thighs, slowly trailing down as she knelt again.

This time, she didn’t look up with reverence.

She looked up like a sinner.

Pose Fourteen.
Matilda seated now. Vi stood.

Her hand cupped Matilda’s chin from above.

Their eyes met. Neither looked away.

The tension was unbearable.

Pose Fifteen.
Vi leaned in. Just enough for her breath to skim the edge of the mask.

Not touching. But God, so close.

Matilda shivered.

Pose Sixteen.
Vi brushed the gloved hand aside. Replaced it with her own—resting lightly on Matilda’s upper thigh.

No one said anything.

The crew was silent.

Pose Seventeen.
Vi seated now. Matilda in her lap.

Matilda’s hand on her shoulder. Just as planned.

Vi reached up.

Placed her hand on Matilda’s chest.

Not below it on it.

Pose Eighteen.
Matilda turned away.

Vi stepped in close. Pressed her palm between Matilda’s shoulder blades and leaned forward, whispering something that no one else could hear.

The camera caught the angle of her lips. The shift in Matilda’s posture.

The heat.

Pose Nineteen.
The chaise.

Vi’s heart beat out of rhythm.

She looked at the lounge. Then at Matilda.

No one told her to.

But she placed her hands on Matilda’s waist—and pushed.

Gently.

Matilda fell back onto the chaise, catching herself with one hand. The other came up to brace—too late.

Vi climbed over her, one knee between her legs.

Her hand slid along the outside of Matilda’s thigh.

The other cupped her chin—slowly lifting.

Matilda looked up, eyes wide behind the mask.

Vi’s breath trembled.

Their mouths weren’t touching.

But they were close enough to kiss.

And that—God help her—was when the camera clicked.

And Vi knew she wasn’t modeling anymore.

She was begging.

Yearning.

Worshipping a woman she still didn’t even know.

But wanted.

More than she’d ever wanted anything.

The camera clicked.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Then silence.

Nobody called cut. No one breathed.

Vi’s hand was still at Matilda’s chin, her other arm braced above her on the chaise. Her leg was bent between them, not touching—barely not touching—but close enough that even the suggestion sizzled in the air like ozone before a storm.

Matilda didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

But her chest rose in a fast, shallow breath. One hand pressed against the velvet lounge beneath her. The other floated at Vi’s bicep—unmoved. Not pushing away.

Not even shaking.

Just… resting there. Light and trembling.

And then, without warning, she moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

Matilda turned her face just slightly away, breaking the eye contact.

Then she touched Vi’s wrist—just once—and lowered it from her chin.

Graceful. Effortless. Like a queen dismissing a favored subject.

She sat upright, pulled the sheer veil—now fallen behind her shoulders—back over her face.

The mask never slipped.

But her mouth… her mouth was parted just slightly, like someone still recovering from oxygen starvation.

She adjusted the strap of her garter belt with one smooth flick of her wrist.

And then Matilda stood.

Back straight.

Posture flawless.

Every inch the curated fantasy Caitlyn had built.

She didn’t look at Vi again.

Didn’t need to.

The tension in the room snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

Matilda crossed the set without a word, her bare feet soundless on the stage floor. Her sheer train followed behind her like vapor, catching the light as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just been writhing beneath Vi on a chaise lounge like a woman seconds from losing herself.

She didn’t speak.
She didn’t wait.
She didn’t look back.

The studio door closed softly behind her.

A beat of silence.

And then—

“Holy shit,” Jace muttered, lowering his camera with a stunned laugh. “Are we…? Was that… real?”

Dominique hadn’t moved. She was still staring at the chaise lounge like it might combust. “That was… that wasn’t just modeling. That was—personal.”

“Yeah,” Jace muttered. “Did you see the way Matilda reacted to her?”

“She didn’t react,” Dominique said, slowly turning toward him. “That was the problem. She unraveled. Silently.”

“And then walked away like nothing happened,” Mel added.

They all turned to look at Vi.

Still crouched at the chaise. Still flushed.

Still very much not okay.

Her eyes flicked toward the door. Just once.

Then again.

“I need to know who she is,” Vi said under her breath. Not for the first time. But never with this kind of weight.

Mel arched a brow. “You and everyone else on the internet by tomorrow.”

Vi didn’t smile.

Chapter 11: Aftermath

The door shuts behind her.

Caitlyn walks.

No—glides.

Because Matilda doesn’t stumble. Matilda doesn’t pant or clutch her chest or rip off her mask in the middle of a hallway like she’s suffocating. Matilda drifts, perfectly poised, even if her lungs are burning and her knees are shaking like she just sprinted a mile in stilettos.

She rounds the corner, hits the dressing room, and locks the door with trembling fingers.

And then?

The collapse begins.

The mask is the first thing to go. It clatters against the marble vanity with an undignified clang. The gloves follow, peeled off with frantic, shaky hands. And then—then the veil. That damn veil, damp with sweat at the top lip and clinging to her chin, even though she made it short on purpose, just long enough to shield herself from knowing stares.

She breathes like she’s drowning. Hands braced on the counter. Staring at her own wide, flushed reflection in the mirror.

She let it happen.

Not just once. Not just one slip. She let Vi touch her. Crawl over her. Breathe her in like a drug. And Caitlyn had gasped. She had shivered. She had participated.

She had liked it.

And everyone saw it.

She slams a hand against the vanity—not hard enough to break anything, but loud enough to feel real. The sound echoes in the sleek dressing room like a slap.

She's supposed to be composed. Controlled. Distant.

She built Matilda to be untouchable. And then Vi… Vi touched her like she already knew how she felt. Like she could read every hidden craving Caitlyn had sketched in the dark and turned them into gospel.

She leans forward, forehead pressed to the mirror.

“She doesn’t know it’s you,” she whispers to her reflection. “It’s fine. She doesn’t know. She won’t know.”

And yet.

And yet.

She knows exactly how Matilda felt in Vi’s arms.

And she knows how Vi looked at her.

Not at the mask.

At her.

Like she was fire. Like she was ruin. Like she was wanted.

And Caitlyn, Caitlyn, responded.

Not with words. Not with control. But with body. With breath. With need.

And that scares the hell out of her.

Because for a moment—for longer than a moment—she wasn’t playing a role.

She was herself. And Vi saw it.

And Vi wanted it.

And Caitlyn?

She wanted her right back.

 

Caitlyn slipped into her office like a shadow, locking the door behind her before anyone could corner her.

Five minutes.

She just needed five minutes.

To breathe. To unmask. To unspiral.

She didn’t even get five seconds.

Bang bang bang.

“Open. The. Door.”
Dominique. A voice like a nail file on soft guilt.

“I’m in the middle of—”

“We watched you almost get railed in 4K, Caitlyn. You don’t get to hide.”

“Dominique,” she growled.

Then Mel’s voice, smoother but no less pointed:
“Open up, or we’re using the spare key.”

A beat.

Then a sigh. The lock turned.

Mel, Dominique, and Jayce poured in like righteous fury wrapped in designer athleisure.

Jayce held his camera like a weapon. “Would you like to explain what the hell just happened?”

Dominique flopped onto the office chaise like she owned the place. “Because that was not Matilda. That was not a model. That was not a concept. That was a woman catching feelings in real time and trying not to make out with her crush on set.”

Caitlyn crossed her arms, jaw tight. “We got the shots, didn’t we?”

“Oh, we got the shots,” Jayce said. “The problem is the shots got you.”

Mel opened her tablet. “Here. Look.”

She turned it to face Caitlyn—full screen, ultra high-def.

The final image.

Vi over Matilda.

Hand at the chin.

That molten stare.

Matilda’s mouth parted, breathless, caught between surrender and fight. Her mask still on. Veil tossed back. One glove askew. The kind of shot that made people sin on a Tuesday morning just scrolling Instagram.

Caitlyn’s throat bobbed.

“No,” she said. “We can’t use that one.”

Jayce blinked. “Why not?”

“Because it’s—too much. It’s not on-brand. We’re a luxury label, not an erotic novella cover.”

Dominique, deadpan: “Then explain why it looks like you illustrated it with your soul.”

Mel zoomed in. “Caitlyn. This? This is art. I’ve never seen chemistry like this in any campaign. And the colors? The pose? The emotion? This is your magnum opus.”

“I wasn’t trying to feel anything!” she snapped.

Jayce snorted. “You sure did a great job hiding that.”

Caitlyn dragged both hands through her hair. “We cannot release that one. Pick another for the cover.”

“Nope,” Mel said, tapping on her screen. “It’s already formatted for Times Square.”

“What?!”

“Mock-up,” Dominique lied, badly. “Unless, of course, the internet begs for it. Which it will.”

Mel hit play on Vi's little preview thirst trap video.

One video Vi had posted ten seconds after the shoot wrapped with the caption:

"I’m not saying I saw God today, but I did see Matilda. 💙🔥 #CKFireAndIce"

 

The comments were feral.

user42069: who tf is Matilda and why do I want her to ruin my life
sapphiclegend: I’m not gay but also I’m lying
bipanicmode: is this what lust at first sight looks like??

Caitlyn stared.

Then back at the unreleased and unedited photo on Mel's screen.

Then at herself.

“It’s just a mask,” she whispered. “It’s supposed to protect me.”

Mel reached over and softly tapped the screen where Matilda’s lips were parted.
“It’s not the mask people will react to, Caitlyn. It’s you.”

Caitlyn paced the length of her office like it owed her an apology. The silk robe hung askew around her elbows, one glove still on like she’d forgotten it in the rush of get me out of there before I combust.

She’d pulled her hair back with the same comb she used to stab people metaphorically in meetings.

Now she looked like she’d just had an emotional affair in front of a live studio audience.

And the audience had notes.

Dominique perched cross-legged on her desk. “So, quick debrief—are we pretending that didn’t happen, or do you want us to order the wedding invites?”

Caitlyn shot her a look sharp enough to file patents with. “It was a shoot.”

“It was a spiritual experience,” Jayce muttered. “I have to go call my therapist. Thank God I'm gay.”

“You said you wanted this campaign to feel intimate,” Dominique continued, counting off on her fingers. “Raw. Electric. You literally wrote, and I quote, 'a closeted girl’s dream about the woman she’ll never get to touch.' Ring any bells?”

Caitlyn groaned. “That was metaphorical.”

“Well, now it’s literal and stunning, and your metaphor is climbing the trending page.”

Mel, ever the calm hurricane in designer boots, opened a fresh tab on the studio Mac. “Vi’s preview video has 2.4 million views in 40 minutes.”

She clicked. A second later, audio of Ariana Grande purring filled the air as Vi's slow turn in that CK lingerie looped on screen.

And the comments?

Apocalyptic.

@sapphicsurvivor: not to be dramatic but I would die for a drop of Matilda’s sweat
@thirstunhinged: Vi walked into the Vatican and rawdogged temptation
@caitlynsleftbrow: WAIT WAS THAT THE CK MODEL?? THE ONE WHO NEVER SHOWS HER FACE???
@CKofficial (verified): 📸 Coming soon. You’re not ready.

 

Mel turned the volume down as Caitlyn slumped into her chair like gravity just hit harder in luxury spaces.

Jayce leaned against the bookshelf. “So when were you planning to tell Vi she was flirting with you for two hours straight?”

“Never,” Caitlyn snapped.

Dominique grinned. “Girl. You were breathing through your mouth. We could hear you whimpering during Pose Seventeen.”

Caitlyn covered her face with both hands and let out a very posh, very muffled scream.

Mel placed a hand on her shoulder gently. “You can’t pull this back, Caitlyn. The campaign’s already happening. You can either hide—or own it.”

“She can’t know,” Caitlyn said, voice hoarse.

“She doesn’t,” Mel said simply. “That’s the problem.”

And that—oh, that hit harder than the rest.

Because Caitlyn didn’t know what Vi would do if she found out. If she connected the breathless model she nearly devoured on the chaise lounge with the tightly wound CEO who had tried very hard not to look at her in meetings.

Worse—she didn’t know what she would do if Vi found out.

Or if she wanted her to.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it—just long enough to see Vi’s handle pop up on TikTok.

New post.

“Reacting to seeing my own CK shoot previews (spoiler: I’m not well)”
Thumbnail: Vi with both hands over her face, screaming into a pillow
First frame caption: “WHERE ARE HER FANGS?? WHY DO I WANT HER TO BITE ME???”

 

Caitlyn turned the phone face-down like it insulted her ancestors.

The office was quiet.

Dominique stood up slowly. “So. You good?”

“No.”

“Do we post it?”

Caitlyn hesitated.

And then: “Put the last one on a Times Square billboard.”

Jayce choked. “Wait, really?”

Dominique fist-pumped. “Hell yes. Sapphics win.”

Caitlyn stood again. Straightened her robe. Adjusted her remaining glove like she hadn’t just been spiraling in couture.

Her voice was low.

“Make sure it drops at midnight.”

“Why?” Mel asked.

Caitlyn turned toward the window—toward the skyline, the stars, the empire she built to stay untouchable.

And whispered,

“Because if I’m going to lose my mind over a woman I can’t have, I’d rather do it while everyone else is asleep.”

Chapter 12: Good morning Fame

Vi was dead asleep when she broke the internet.

Which, honestly, was tragic. She would’ve liked to witness the carnage live—maybe with popcorn. Or wine. Or both. She could’ve gone live in her robe and whispered, “It’s what she deserves,” while grinning like the slutty little gremlin she was.

Instead?

Her phone vibrated itself off the nightstand at 7:32 a.m., and she caught it mid-air like it owed her money.

28,290 notifications.

Vi blinked.

“What in the aggressively gay hell…”

She thumbed her screen open, still crusty-eyed and pillow-dented, and her soul immediately left her body.

Because TikTok—bless it, curse it—was already on fire.

Top of her For You Page:

A teaser from CK's official account. Music slow and sultry. Fade to black. Then the shot—

Her.

Hovering over Matilda.

Eyes molten. Hand at her chin. The veil pushed back, revealing a mouth parted like a secret. The kind of image that could ruin a nun’s credit score.

Caption:

“CK: Fire & Ice. Coming soon. #CKCampaign #Matilda #ViOnTop #PrayForUsAll”

 

Vi choked on her own spit.

“Oh my god.”

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

Because CK hadn’t just dropped a teaser.

They’d dropped the entire shoot.

All nineteen photos.

Each more dangerous than the last. Starting clean. Curated. High fashion and high concept.

And then… the escalation.

The touch to the collarbone. The hand at the throat. The parted lips. The shiver.

The veil being pulled back.

The one where Vi knelt between Matilda’s legs and looked up like she was seconds away from confessing everything.

And then the final one.

Her, on top. Matilda beneath her. One breath from blasphemy.

The comments were rabid.

@femmefatale47: this entire shoot is a narrative and the narrative is unholy temptation
@sapphicsins: from reverence to ruin in 19 frames. incredible.
@dykepocalypse: I am on my knees. Just like she was.
@ViFixMyLife: if I don’t get a photobook, I’m going to riot
@ViMatildaTruthers: if they’re not dating, why did my soul leave my body???

Someone made a full TikTok edit set to Hozier with slow zoom-ins on the way Matilda’s breath visibly hitched halfway through the shoot. Another user broke down the symbolism of the veil coming off—frame by frame—with diagrams like they were analyzing a Renaissance painting. One girl simply posted a duet of her sobbing in a bathtub with the caption “I’m not surviving this campaign.”

And the theories. Oh god, the theories.

“Matilda is clearly a reclusive heiress from Italy. Look at the bone structure.”
“She’s an underground performance artist. Probably French.”
“Matilda is AI. That’s not a real woman. That’s a divine algorithm.”
“They're obviously together. You can't act like that and not be in love.”

Vi just sat there in bed, staring at the chaos. Her hoodie was halfway off her shoulder. Her iced coffee was yesterday’s. Her hair looked like she lost a fight with a small woodland creature.

And she was more famous than she’d ever been in her life.

She had 200k new followers.

Her name was trending.

People were editing her thighs into Greek statues.

Still, her favorite post?

A TikTok she made herself, twenty minutes later. Barefaced. Half-asleep. Wearing the hoodie from the shoot and nothing underneath.

“Hi. I woke up gay, confused, and deeply spiritually unwell.
If anyone knows how to get in touch with Matilda—or, like, summon her via candle ritual—I’m available.
Also yes. That photo is real.
And no. I am not okay.”

Caption:

“If thirst is a crime, consider this a confession. #CKFireAndIce #ViTilda #MatildaHauntMe”

It had two million views in under an hour.

And not a single clue who Matilda was.

Which, of course, made the internet want her even more.

 

Caitlyn hadn’t moved from her couch in hours.

The studio’s white noise—the hum of a city too busy to care about personal breakdowns—filtered in from the window, but it didn’t reach her. Not really.

The billboard was up.

The photo shoot had dropped.

And the world had come unhinged.

Her phone was currently upside down on the coffee table, vibrating every thirty seconds like it was possessed. It had fallen to the floor twice already. She wasn’t picking it back up.

She sat curled up in a robe, hair unbrushed, bare-faced, clutching a throw pillow like it might anchor her to something real.

And then her front door opened.

No knock. No announcement.

Just the soft click of a key, followed by a determined pair of boots crossing the threshold.

“Don’t,” Caitlyn croaked from the couch. “I’m feral and full of shame.”

Mel appeared with a coffee tray and the steely calm of a woman who had absolutely dealt with worse.

“Hi to you too,” she said, already toeing off her shoes. “I brought caffeine and zero patience. Pick one.”

Caitlyn flopped the pillow over her head. “Return it to the void. I don’t want to be perceived.”

“You are being very perceived,” Mel said cheerfully. She plopped down on the other end of the couch, dropped a steaming oat milk latte onto the coffee table, and pulled out her tablet. “Let’s recap. You’re trending in six countries, three of which I’m pretty sure you’ve never even visited. There are already two Twitter accounts pretending to be Matilda fanpages. And TikTok has gone full witch-hunt trying to confirm you’re her.”

Caitlyn peeked from under the pillow. “Are they close?”

Mel smirked. “Only the lesbians.”

Caitlyn groaned. “God, they always know.”

“Yeah. We do,” Mel said, sipping her own coffee.

Caitlyn sat up, hair mussed, robe slouched, and looking very much not like the icy goddess Matilda. “Okay, but we have a plan, right? Like a real one? Something with legal terminology and plausible deniability?”

Mel nodded. “We’re issuing a very polite ‘no comment’ across all platforms. Official statement says Matilda is a ‘collaborating visual muse’ who prefers anonymity. You, Caitlyn, are the reclusive designer-CEO everyone already knows is a little eccentric and probably spends her free time brooding over lace swatches in a turret.”

“I do not brood,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Sure,” Mel said. “Anyway. You’re protected. No confirmations. No denials. Let the fantasy work for us.”

Caitlyn leaned her head back against the couch cushion. “What if the fantasy is too close to the truth?”

Mel tilted her head. “Is it?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Mel reached for the tablet again. Swiped. Turned it toward her.

The final image.

Vi, knee between her legs. Caitlyn’s veil tossed back. That hand under her chin. That parted mouth. That look.

It was everywhere. On fan accounts. In slideshow edits. Set to every sapphic power ballad in existence.

Caitlyn looked at it—and her face flushed red all over again.

“I let that happen,” she whispered. “I let her touch me. I let her look at me like that.”

“You didn’t just let her,” Mel said. “You met her there. Breath for breath.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes.

There were entire Tumblr blogs now dedicated to overanalyzing that single photo. One had already titled it the sapphic scream heard ‘round the world. A dating gossip account tweeted a zoom-in of Caitlyn’s mouth with the caption:

“This is not platonic breathing. They are either dating or about to implode.”

 

Worse, Vanity Fair had published a mini-profile within eight hours of the launch titled:
“Matilda & Vi: The New Sapphic Icons?”
with the subtitle: “What happens when two women share one frame and a thousand people combust?”

And still, somehow, nobody had absolute proof that Matilda was Caitlyn.

But the theories were gaining ground.

The cheekbone comparison threads.

The gif overlays of Caitlyn speaking in old interviews vs. Matilda nodding silently.

The chaos lesbians zooming in on the same freckle just below her jawline.

Mel cleared her throat. “Also… the Times Square billboard went viral. There’s already a Change.org petition to make it permanent.”

Caitlyn looked like she might pass out.

Mel softened a little, finally leaning in.

“You okay?” she asked, not as PR. As a friend.

Caitlyn rubbed at her temple. “No. I think I accidentally made art while developing a crush on a TikTok lesbian in front of the entire internet.”

Mel grinned. “You sure did.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Caitlyn whispered, “Do you think she knows?”

“No,” Mel said gently. “But she’s going to want to.”

 

Vi was in bed, upside down, legs against the wall, half a bag of sour candy on her chest, phone dangerously close to falling on her face.

Her For You Page was Matilda.
Matilda standing.
Matilda arching.
Matilda laid out like a Renaissance sin and Vi looking very not safe for work hovering above her.

She had tried—tried—to stop watching the edits. But one of them was set to a slowed-down version of “Temptation,” and she had… regrets. And rewatches.

She was mid-chew on a sour gummy ring when she caught it.

A stitch.

Just a still of the photo—the one. The chaise one.

And the caption read:

“So no one’s gonna talk about how Matilda might actually be Caitlyn Kiramman? Okay. Cool. Let’s talk about it 🧵👇”

Vi choked on the gummy.

She sat up so fast the bag dumped onto the floor. “You what now?”

The video cut to side-by-side photos. One of Caitlyn—sharp suit, sunglasses, zero tolerance for human joy. The other? Matilda, mid-pose, veiled and glowing like sex in a bottle.

The voiceover was deadly serious:

“Same height. Same posture. Same jawline. Don’t even get me started on the hands. And the body language? Identical.”

Vi blinked.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not,” she muttered. “CEO Cupcake would rather yeet herself into the sun than breathe the same air as me, let alone let me touch her.”

She scrolled to the comments. Mistake.

@lesbianCSI: Caitlyn is Matilda and Vi is already in too deep, pass it on
@confessiontime: tell me that’s not her breathing like that in the final pic, I DARE you
@deluluqueen: THE COLLARBONE FRECKLE MATCHES I’M NOT OKAY

Vi threw her head back and groaned. “Oh my god. You people are insane.”

A beat.

A pause.

A slow scroll back to that side-by-side jawline comparison.

Vi squinted. Then immediately shook her head.

“Nope. Not happening. Caitlyn Kiramman is a vampire made of fabric and ice cubes. Matilda practically melted under me.”

She dropped the phone onto her chest with a huff.

Still.

She didn’t open TikTok again that night.

She opened the photo.
Just to be sure.

And stared.
And stared.
And stared.

“…Nah.”

But her thumb stayed hovering over the image.
Right over Matilda’s mouth.

Right where she’d almost kissed her.

Chapter 13: Matilda Monopoly

Caitlyn entered the Monday morning brand meeting like she was walking into a battlefield, not a boardroom.

High heels. Cold eyes. One perfectly starched blazer that could cut diamonds on contact.

She had a plan. She had slides. She had her control, ironclad and zippered tight.

She did not have patience for what was waiting.

“Good morning,” she said sharply, sliding into her seat and opening her tablet. “Let’s begin with projections for the fall line—”

“We’re starting with Matilda,” Mel said calmly, already switching slides.

Caitlyn blinked. Her stylus paused mid-air. “We’re what?”

“Starting with Matilda,” said three people in unison. Mel. Jayce. Dominique.

Jayce turned his laptop so the whole room could see.

One enormous screen. One even more enormous photo.

Pose Nineteen.

Vi over Matilda. Matilda breathless, undone, her veil draped back like surrender, her gloved hand trembling. The hand at her chin. The parted lips. The want.

Caitlyn’s eye twitched.

She knew that image. Not just because it was hers. But because it haunted her dreams.

Mel didn’t blink. “Engagement has tripled. Reposts are in the millions. TikTok edits are spawning fandoms. The Matilda Effect is very real.”

Dominique tossed a stack of print-outs onto the table—mockups of Matilda on magazine covers, on perfume ads, on goddamn candles. Someone had scrawled Make Her Step On Me Scented in glitter pen.

“Cute,” Caitlyn said through gritted teeth. “And what happened to launching our fall line with a group campaign?”

Mel didn’t flinch. “We’re pivoting. Solo focus. Matilda only. The internet isn’t asking for CK Collective. They want Matilda. They want the mystery. They want the mask, the veils, the thigh touches, the gasp.”

Caitlyn’s hand clenched around her stylus.

“She wasn’t supposed to be the main campaign.”

Jayce looked at her, baffled. “She’s you.”

“No,” Caitlyn snapped. “She’s a controlled illusion. A ghost. She’s barely me at all.”

“But that’s why it works,” Dominique said, voice softer now. “She’s mystery and desire wrapped in a designer veil. She’s what you made her to be. You just didn’t expect people to fall in love with her.”

Caitlyn stared at the projection screen. Her own body—curved in surrender, elegant and exposed. Her own hand—trembling under Vi’s. Her own mouth—open and panting.

Her own want.

She swallowed hard.

Mel tapped to the next slide: fan art. Cosplay. A leather-bound Matilda fan zine someone already launched for preorder. One of the covers showed Matilda with her mask off—completely invented, of course. But the imagined Caitlyn? Almost perfect.

Too perfect.

“They’re getting close.”

“Shut it down,” Caitlyn said, louder than she meant. “Shut it all down. No fan campaigns. No branded merch. No Matilda spin-offs. We move forward with the original fall rollout—”

Mel didn’t say anything. She just turned the tablet around and hit play.

Vi’s TikTok from two hours ago.

“Pose 17,” Vi’s voice drawled, low and sultry, “is where she gasped.
She didn’t mean to. But oh, did she feel it.”
Cut to fan edits. Then to the Billboard in Times Square. Then—
Vi again, this time in a hoodie and shorts, crouched on a fire escape.
“Y’all think I’m kidding. I’m not. She touched me like I was the secret she couldn’t say out loud.”
#MatildaOwnedMe
#CursedByFireAndIce
#CEOcupcakeIsSuspicious

Caitlyn’s tablet slammed shut.

“Fine,” she hissed. “Fine. You want more Matilda?”

Three heads perked up.

“I’ll give you a mini-line,” Caitlyn said. “A limited drop. Just Matilda. No others. No duos. No trios. No Vi.”

A pause.

Mel narrowed her eyes. “You sure about that?”

Caitlyn stood. Cold. Composed. Lying through her teeth.

“No one else touches this campaign. If we give them more Matilda, it’s going to be on my terms.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She walked out, heels clicking like gunshots down the corridor.

What she didn’t say?

She was terrified.

Because “more Matilda” meant more her. More photos. More skin. More eyes watching. Wanting. Guessing.

Every shoot she’d done until now had been from behind, in shadows, masked in silhouettes. Just enough to say: There she is. Never enough to scream: Here I am.

Now?

Now they wanted her bare. Veilless. Consumed.

They wanted the version of her that had gasped under Vi’s hands.

And Vi would know. The moment Matilda so much as breathed differently, Vi would notice. She would watch the next shoot. She would compare. She would dissect. She would see everything Caitlyn had worked so hard to bury.

And when Vi found out?

She’d come for her.

And Caitlyn didn’t know if she was terrified of being found out—

—or terrified of how much she wanted to be.

 

Caitlyn had always designed from a place of precision. Cool, sculptural lines. Immaculate tailoring. Elegance that whispered, never shouted.

But this wasn’t whispering anymore.

This line didn’t ask for attention.

It commanded it.

And it wasn’t called “The Matilda Collection” anymore.

Just Black.

Matilda entered the set like a warning.

Gone were the airy pastels, the delicate tulle, the gauzy, romantic silhouettes that floated more than walked. Now it was black—everything black, kissed with hints of cobalt and gunmetal, like bruises made couture.

Even the lighting was unforgiving: spotlights and shadows, sharp contrast designed to cut.

The first look: a black satin demi bra with barely-there cups, scalloped lace along the edges, and thin cobalt straps that crossed over her sternum like a brand. The matching underwear was high-cut and minimalist, accented with sleek, matte leather piping. No frills. No bows. Just skin and sharpness.

Matilda didn’t pose.

She loomed.

Arms overhead, back arched like a drawn bow, one heel planted on the stool in front of her—dominant, grounded, unstoppable. Her eyes locked to the lens through her mask, body taut with tension. One gloved hand dragged down the side of her thigh. The other hovered just over her own mouth, fingers half-curled like she might shush the viewer—

Or dare them to speak.

Jayce didn’t even bother hiding the gulp this time.

Dominique’s jaw was slack. “Okay. I’m gay, but I feel like I should be paying reparations.”

Mel didn’t say anything. She was too busy refreshing her inbox in anticipation of the internet’s collective meltdown.

The next look hit harder.

Black mesh. No bra. A cobalt underbust corset that pushed her chest upward while leaving everything else exposed—strategically blurred by embroidery in the shape of spider lilies. The panties were strappy, high-cut, and sat like daggers on her hips. A short mesh shrug with pointed shoulders draped over her arms, more ornamental than functional.

The pose?

Standing. One knee bent. Head tipped back. One hand gripping her own throat.

Not tightly.

Just enough.

Caitlyn exhaled through clenched teeth.

This wasn’t just styling.

This was vengeance.

This was control—forced, not offered.

Matilda had been touched once, claimed on a chaise lounge by hands and eyes and a voice that undid her.

This Matilda?

She was unclaimable.

She didn’t wait to be adored.

She demanded worship.

The next outfit was black leather. Minimal. Cruel. A bandeau bra with geometric cutouts and matching high-leg panties with thin straps that crisscrossed her hips like restraints. Fingerless gloves, elbow-length, satin-lined. Boots—not heels—boots. Knee-high. Laced tight.

She posed with one foot on a stool, elbows resting casually on her raised knee.

Her fingers dangled.

But her gaze?

Her gaze pierced.

Her mask wasn’t soft anymore. This was a sharper cut, a more angular design—still elegant, still mysterious, but this one wasn’t hiding. It was daring you to look.

Each photo dared the viewer to think they were in control.

Each photo made it clear they were not.

The final look was barely a look at all.

Caitlyn had designed it herself with shaking hands and a clenched jaw.

A sheer black slip, cut so low in the back it nearly bared her entire spine. No bra. The slip clung in all the right places, caught on nothing, and fluttered with every breath. Beneath it—just a high-cut lace thong and a single cobalt ribbon around her thigh, like a promise. Or a threat.

She stood for the last shot in front of a backlit curtain, letting the sheer fabric catch the glow. Her silhouette burned through: curved, poised, proud.

Arms above her head, fingers knotted in her own hair.

Eyes cast downward.

Not submissive.

Calculating.

Daring.

“Touch me,” the pose said, “and I’ll make you regret it.”

 

The shoot wrapped in dead silence.

Even Jayce had stopped breathing somewhere around look four.

Mel finally said, “So… just Matilda, huh?”

Caitlyn stared at the camera for a long time before she answered.

Her throat was dry.

Her hands were shaking.

But her voice was steady.

“Just Matilda.”

Because if she couldn’t control the world—

She would control this.

Even if every flash of the camera felt like it burned her alive.

Even if every piece of black lace made her remember the curve of Vi’s hand on her hip, the weight of that knee between her thighs.

Even if she knew Vi was watching.

Waiting.

Ready to descend.

And the second she saw this line?

This shoot?

These poses?

Vi was going to burn the building down.

And Caitlyn didn’t know whether she was terrified…

…or hoping she’d bring gasoline.

Notes:

The comments they feed me. Thanks to those that have given me sweet little crumbs.

Chapter 14: You Don't Own Me

Vi had just finished nuking leftover noodles and was mid-stretch across her couch when she opened TikTok and saw it.

The new drop.

The Matilda Collection.

It was just a promo still at first. One photo.

Matilda, in black lace and midnight-blue mesh, standing with her back to the camera, her head turned over one shoulder in a look that could only be described as I own your soul and you’ll thank me for it. Her hair swept up in a loose knot. Her mouth painted matte wine-red. The mask was still on—but that look?

Unmasked.

Possession. Power.

Dominance.

Vi choked on an ice cube.

Her phone nearly went flying. She caught it by the case and sat up like the couch had caught fire.

“What the—what—the—hell is this!?” she said to no one. “I blinked and she rebranded as the hot version of vengeance??”

Her thumbs were already flying.

CK’s TikTok had posted a video with a slideshow of the new collection—Matilda posed against obsidian velvet backdrops, stretched across antique furniture, framed in gold filigree and shadow. The tone wasn’t sweet or mysterious anymore.

This was seductive warfare.

Every look said: You want me? Good. Suffer.

And Matilda… she wasn’t just modeling it. She was it.

Vi felt heat flood her chest, confusion not far behind.

Because she hadn’t heard a word about this.

Not from Caitlyn.

Not from CK.

Not even a whisper that the masked goddess who had practically melted into her lap three weeks ago was about to become the internet’s new obsession again—without her.

Vi opened her texts.

CEO Cupcake 🍰💀

Wow. So we’re just gonna do a whole new drop with your hot mysterious model and NOT TELL ME? I found out on TikTok, Caitlyn. The girl I’ve been daydreaming about just turned into a dominatrix Disney villain, and I didn’t even get a heads-up?? What did I do to deserve this betrayal? Do you HATE me or do you want me to combust. Pick one. Also. She looks like she could step on me. And that’s NOT the point. But also. Wow. Explain. Yourself.

 

She hit send before she could think twice, then immediately opened her camera app, still flushed, still spinning.

“Okay,” she said into the camera, trying to catch her breath. “Y’all saw the new Matilda drop, right? Right??”

She spun the phone toward her laptop screen, where the photos were cycling like a forbidden slideshow from a forbidden dream. “I mean. I—listen. I’m not trying to be dramatic, but—what the hell?!”

The TikTok cut to her face, jaw dropped, fingers pressed to her lips.

“I haven’t even recovered from pose nineteen yet,” she whispered. “You know the one. The one where I nearly proposed. And now she’s back looking like she could sell my soul on Etsy.”

The next cut was her lying flat on the floor.

A beat.

“She didn’t even tell me.”

Cut to her holding a pillow and screaming into it.

 

She didn’t even need to wait for the comments. They poured in like holy water into a room full of bisexuals with trust issues.

@softcrowned: Wait… Vi didn’t know this was happening??
@matildaismymommy: You mean they did this and didn’t invite her back for the sequel shoot?!?
@sapphicsupreme: No bc imagine being Vi and waking up to that like 😃🔪
@viilicious: We love the Matilda line but also… hello?? No duo shots?? They invented tension!
@pose19truthers: Still recovering from the chaise lounge and they expect us to process this ALONE???

 

The fan edits were already multiplying—black and white filters, slo-mo clips from the first shoot cut with the new photos, and audio overlays of soft moans, violin music, and occasionally, wolves howling.

Vi reposted one with the caption:

“This is why I have trust issues.”

 

Then another with:

“Matilda is the reason I cry during core workouts.”

 

And another:

“It’s giving I remember pose 19 and I’m mad about it.”

 

Privately, though?

She was pissed.

Not because she was jealous—okay, maybe a little.

But mostly because Caitlyn hadn’t said a damn thing.

Vi had bared herself—physically, emotionally, ferally—in front of that camera. She’d shown up, flirted with a ghost in lace, and somehow gotten tangled up in a mystery woman who clearly saw her too.

Now the mystery woman was back, decked in power, weaponized with longing, and Vi was sidelined like a disposable accessory.

She opened Caitlyn’s texts again.

No reply.

Of course.

Vi flopped back on the couch and groaned.

“You better answer, Cupcake,” she muttered. “Because this isn’t over. Not even close.”

She looked again at the screen.

Matilda. In black. One glove slipping down her wrist. A whip of wind in her veil. A smirk hidden behind the mask.

She looked like control.

She looked like power.

She looked like temptation dressed in silk and fury.

And Vi?

Vi wanted answers.

Badly.

 

Caitlyn sat on her office couch, legs tucked neatly beneath her, a cup of untouched tea cooling on the end table beside her. Outside, the city hummed along its normal Thursday pace.

Inside her penthouse, the world was on fire.

Her phone buzzed again.

She didn’t pick it up right away. Just watched it, face-down on the cushion beside her, lighting up with another angry text from Vi.

She already knew what it said.

Because she’d read the last six.

Twice.

You could’ve told me.

You could’ve warned me.

She’s everywhere right now, Caitlyn. MY for-you page is just Matilda in black lace. And I didn't even get a heads up?

Do you HATE me or are you trying to kill me slowly via psychological lingerie warfare?

 

The words were angry. Sharp. Vi’s usual chaos sharpened to a point.

And still, Caitlyn didn’t respond.

She didn’t even reach for the cup of tea. Her fingers were curled around the edge of a CK throw pillow like it might ground her in place.

The Matilda shoot had dropped six hours ago.

Just a handful of looks. Just her.

All of them black or cobalt. Harsh cuts. Asymmetrical silhouettes. Glossy mesh panels and visible boning. Everything she wasn’t supposed to be.

Matilda was supposed to be mystery, suggestion, elegance.

Now?

Now she was a dominatrix wrapped in high fashion and jawline shadows. Now she stood in black stilettos, one hip cocked, her gaze downcast like she was deciding whether to ruin you or just make you beg.

And Caitlyn had made her that way.

Because she wanted to control it again.

Because she needed to be the one setting the tone—not melting under Vi’s gaze, not trembling through poses, not gasping in front of her whole team like a goddamn fool.

So she made Matilda untouchable again.

Unyielding.

Untouchable, but not unnoticed.

And of course—of course—Vi had noticed.

Another buzz.

Another message.

I just want to know why.

 

Caitlyn's breath hitched.

Her thumb hovered over the phone.

Because you made me feel something.

Because you took my mask off with your eyes.

Because you made me forget who I was supposed to be.

She set the phone down again. Facedown.

Tightly composed.

No response.

Vi didn’t own her.

Vi didn’t get to demand explanations.

Not when she was the reason Caitlyn was unraveling in the first place.

 

Vi didn’t storm CK headquarters.

She marched.

Straight through the revolving glass doors, boots echoing off the polished floor, ignoring the quiet gasps from a few assistants loitering by the elevator. Hood down. Hair sharp. No makeup. No camera crew. Just her, a thundercloud in denim.

She knew exactly where Caitlyn's office was. She’d only been once. But once was enough. She’d memorized every detail.

She didn’t bother with the elevator.

She didn’t want time to cool down.

At the front reception desk, a junior staffer looked up and visibly blanched.

“Vi,” he said, adjusting his headset like it might shield him. “Hi! So good to see you again—”

“I need to talk to Caitlyn.”

“She’s… not available right now.”

Vi raised a brow. “I didn’t ask if she was available. I said I needed to talk to her.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, no, I get that, I really do, it’s just—she’s in meetings all day. Back-to-back. I can, um, maybe schedule—”

“I’m not here for a fitting,” she snapped. “Tell her I’m here.”

“I—I can’t interrupt—”

“Tell her I’m here.”

His hands hovered over the keyboard like they might protect him. “Miss Kiramman left strict instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed.”

Vi stared at him.

Hard.

Quiet.

Until he looked down and fumbled for his headset like it was a lifeline.

She backed away. Just one step. Then two.

Her voice dropped to a level that was somehow more terrifying than yelling.

“Let her know,” Vi said coolly, “that the next time she drops a line featuring the woman I’ve been losing sleep over for a month, maybe she should warn me first.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She turned. Walked out.

Didn’t slam the door.

Didn’t scream.

But the second she was outside the building, she unlocked her phone.

Opened her messages.

Scrolled to CEO Cupcake 🍰💀.

Typed:

You knew I’d see it. You knew I’d feel like this. And you didn’t even warn me. Cool.

Sent.

Then:

Just tell me the truth. Was it for me? Or am I just some girl who got lucky with a photoshoot?

 

She stared at the screen.

Read receipts popped up.

Read 11:43 AM.

No reply.

Vi closed her eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

And then she shoved her phone into her pocket and walked down the street like she wasn’t two seconds from exploding.

The world didn’t get to see her spiral.

But Caitlyn sure as hell would feel it.

Notes:

Thank you commenters. They make me smile. This story seems to be getting traction which is nice to see. :)

Chapter 15: Switch

Caitlyn barely looked up when Mel entered, Dominique close behind.

“You’re both supposed to knock.”

“We would’ve,” Mel said, “but we knew you’d want to see this immediately.”

Dominique set a thick, gold-trimmed envelope on Caitlyn’s desk. The paper looked like it cost a small fortune.

Caitlyn didn’t touch it. “What is it?”

“Gala invite,” Dominique answered. “Black tie, masquerade theme. Maison Delaroche’s bicentennial.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “The French legacy house?”

Mel nodded. “They’re making it a whole spectacle. Press, influencers, the works. And they want you, Caitlyn. Explicitly. The CEO.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do they care about lingerie?”

“That’s not all,” Mel said grimly. She turned her phone around, screen already flooded with posts and speculation. “Somehow, it leaked. They’re expecting you, Caitlyn Kiramman. But also... Matilda. And Vi.”

Caitlyn blinked. “All three of us.”

Dominique sighed. “They want the whole damn circus.”

“They want the CEO on the floor schmoozing,” Mel added. “And they want Matilda and Vi back together, feeding the mystery and the fantasy.”

Caitlyn’s stomach turned. “They’re treating us like a sideshow.”

“More like the headliner,” Dominique muttered.

Caitlyn reached for the invitation reluctantly, eyes skimming the patron list. She stopped cold halfway down.

Her mother.

Top donor. Bolded.

Of course.

The paper crinkled in her grip.

“She’s been throwing money at Delaroche for years,” Dominique said quietly.

Mel crossed her arms. “So. If you say no, you look petty. If you say yes, you walk right into her world. Her rules.”

Caitlyn’s jaw tightened.

“And if we send Delilah?” she asked. “Let her be Matilda for a night?”

Mel and Dominique exchanged a loaded glance.

“Vi will know,” Mel said. “She’s met Delilah. She’ll know within five minutes that’s not Matilda.”

“And when she knows,” Dominique added, “there’s a very real chance she’ll lose her shit. And she’ll have an audience.”

“She’d never expose us outright,” Caitlyn argued.

Mel raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that? She's stormed the building demanding an audience with you because you wouldn't text her back.”

Silence.

Then Mel pressed, “You really wanna gamble that? In a room full of cameras? With your mother watching?”

Caitlyn rubbed at her temple. “So I have to be Caitlyn and Matilda in the same building.”

“Exactly,” Mel said. “We’ll plan it. You’ll make the CEO rounds first. Press, donors, obligatory networking. Then we get you changed, masked up, and Matilda walks in.”

“With Vi waiting,” Dominique added, “because let’s be honest—she’s coming the second she hears Matilda’s gonna be there.”

Caitlyn swallowed thickly. “You realize this is absurd.”

Mel smiled faintly. “Sure. But it’s good press.”

“Assuming I don’t fall apart.”

Mel stepped forward, voice softer. “Look, I’ll help coordinate the switches. Dominique can prep Delilah just in case. But you know it has to be you. Or the whole game ends.”

Caitlyn looked back down at the list of names. Her mother’s at the top, staring back like a taunt.

“Fine,” she said quietly. “We’ll do it.”

Mel nodded. “I’ll get planning.”

“And Mel?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure the masks are good.”

“Why?”

Caitlyn exhaled, a humorless chuckle in her throat. “Because Vi’s not the only one I’ll be hiding from.”

 

Vi wasn’t even out of bed when the leaks started.

She blinked blearily at her phone screen, still half-buried in the pillow, and there it was:

“Maison Delaroche Bicentennial Gala — Guest List Leak?”

She tapped.

And scrolled.

And stopped dead.

Caitlyn Kiramman (CEO, CK)
Matilda (CK’s Phantom Muse)
Vi (Influencer, CK Model )

Her stomach flipped.

“What the—”

She refreshed. Another headline. Another post. Then fan edits—already. Split images of Matilda, Vi, and Caitlyn side by side with captions like The Trinity Will Be In Attendance, and CEO, Muse, and Muse's Favorite Problem.

“The fuck is this?” she muttered.

A second later, her phone buzzed. Unknown number. CK headquarters.

She stared at it, debating. Then answered.

“Vi speaking.”

“Hey, it’s Jayce, over at CK—sorry to bug you early, but Caitlyn’s asked if you could come in today. Urgent meeting. It’s about the gala.”

Vi snorted. “Now she wants to talk to me?”

“Yeah, I—look, just come in if you can.”

She hung up without saying goodbye.

And she went.

By the time she stormed into CK’s boardroom, boots heavy on the polished floor, Caitlyn was already seated at the head of the table, perfectly composed. Mel, Dominique, Jayce, and Viktor lined the sides.

Vi didn’t sit.

She crossed her arms and stood right there at the opposite end.

Vi crossed her arms, eyebrows raised, voice too casual to be polite. “Wow. Finally decided I was worth a meeting, huh?”

Caitlyn didn’t respond, but her gaze didn’t leave Vi.

Vi gave a hollow little laugh. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you again unless there was a camera in my face.”

Mel’s mouth was a thin, awkward line. Jayce suddenly found something very interesting on the conference table. Dominique tapped her pen against her notebook like she wanted to be anywhere else.

Vi shook her head, still smiling like it was a joke. “Let me guess — new line? Viral campaign? Desperately need a token TikTok influencer because you ran out of mystery silhouettes?”

“You done?” Caitlyn asked flatly.

Vi just smirked. “Not even close.”

But she didn’t push further. Because she didn’t want to leave.

She was mad. Yeah, pissed that Caitlyn couldn’t even text back. But the second Mel said gala, Vi’s pulse had kicked up — because that meant Matilda. That meant another shot. A new chance.

And fuck if she was going to walk away from that.

Mel cleared her throat gently. “So… right. The gala. We’ve been invited to this very high-profile charity event, some of the most exclusive fashion names are on the list.”

“And they asked for us?” Vi muttered, still looking at Caitlyn. “Or just your mask?”

Mel tried to keep it professional. “They asked for all three. You, Matilda, and Caitlyn.”

Vi’s eyes flicked to Caitlyn, and something sharp crossed her face. “What, so you want me to do double duty? Smile for the press with the boss and then pretend I’m not hunting the girl in the mask?”

Caitlyn’s voice was ice. “You’ll only need to play your part if you say yes.”

Vi stared at her a beat longer, then shrugged, like it didn’t matter. But her leg was bouncing under the table.

“Guess I’m here, aren’t I?” Vi said. “Go ahead. Tell me what you want.”

Mel glanced between them, visibly relieved that things weren’t spiraling. “We’ll get into logistics, but, uh, just know — the press coverage on this is huge. Everyone wants to see you and Matilda together again. It’s the talk of social media already.”

Vi’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile.

Instead, her eyes stayed locked on Caitlyn. “Bet it is.”

She wasn’t saying no. But she wasn’t making it easy.

And Caitlyn didn’t look any more comfortable for it.

Mel jumped in, smoothing the tension with her best PR tone. “Right. So—obviously this is a pretty formal event, not just influencers or fashion heads. It’s... society. Old money types. Art patrons. Some big names.”

Vi snorted softly. “Can’t wait.”

Mel smiled tightly. “We’ll stagger appearances. Caitlyn will arrive first, she’ll make rounds, handle the boardroom types. Then we’ll bring you in — solo. Press loves a dramatic entrance.”

“And then Matilda,” Jayce added, voice careful. “We’ll time it for when the most eyes are watching. Maximum impact.”

Vi’s eyes flicked between them. “Right. Staggered. Drama. Got it.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And how exactly is Matilda getting there?”

The table went a little too quiet.

Dominique picked up the slack with a breezy shrug. “Matilda always finds her way. We’ve got it handled.”

Vi watched her. She didn’t believe that for a second.

But she also wasn’t about to push it — not here, not yet.

She just gave a slow nod, eyes still on Caitlyn. “Fine. But if I show up and this is some half-assed stunt? I’m leaving.”

Mel raised her hands, placating. “It won’t be. We’ve already got designs in mind for you. Custom work. If you’re willing.”

Vi shrugged again, playing it cool. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Mel exhaled like she was deflating. “Right. Well... since you’re here, might as well knock out measurements. We’ll get Dominique to sketch out some preliminary designs with you.”

Vi glanced at the clock on the wall. “Sure. Not like I have plans.”

“Dominique, can you—?”

“I’m already on it,” Dominique said, pushing back from the table. “Studio’s clear.”

Vi followed her, but paused in the doorway, glancing back at Caitlyn still seated stiffly at the head of the table.

“You coming, Cupcake?” she asked, tone dry. “Or are you sending a proxy for this part, too?”

They walked the corridor in silence, Dominique leading ahead. Vi trailed just behind Caitlyn, boots heavy on the tile, gaze lingering just long enough to needle.

Then, lightly:

“You know,” Vi said, “saw a TikTok last night.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond, but her ear twitched, barely.

Vi continued, tone breezy. “They were comparing your jawline to Matilda’s. Frame by frame.”

That earned her a brief side glance, unreadable.

Vi smirked to herself. “They even zoomed in on that little freckle under your chin. Same spot, same side.”

Silence.

Vi chuckled low. “Weird coincidence.”

She didn’t press further. Just strode past Caitlyn to catch up with Dominique, leaving the weight of her comment hanging in the air.

Caitlyn exhaled slowly through her nose.

They reached the studio doors, Vi tossing one last grin over her shoulder.

“Let’s get to it, then. Can’t have me showing up looking boring.”

Then she was inside, the conversation left behind—but Caitlyn still felt that phantom pressure under her chin, where the freckle sat.

Notes:

Yes I was watching she's the man and got inspired.

Chapter 16: Design

Dominique was already at her worktable when Vi and Caitlyn stepped in, the space an organized chaos of sketchpads, pencils, and fabric swatches. She barely looked up before saying, “Good. You’re both here. We’re locking this in today.”

Caitlyn hovered near the door, arms crossed, while Vi wandered over to the nearest mannequin, idly flicking at a pinned scrap of fabric.

“We’re talking the gala designs, yeah?” Vi asked, pretending she wasn’t already eager to hear.

“Of course,” Dominique said, pencil poised. “We need all three of you to look like a cohesive set—but distinct enough to tell a story.”

Caitlyn stayed silent, so Vi filled the gap. “Let me guess—boss lady wants dark, tragic, and boring.”

Dominique chuckled. “You’re not wrong. Caitlyn?”

“Dark blue,” Caitlyn said. “So dark it’s nearly black.”

“Material?”

“Velvet.”

Dominique nodded, already sketching. “Silhouette?”

Caitlyn hesitated. “Fitted down to the thigh. Then a flare.”

“Mermaid cut,” Dominique confirmed. “Neckline?”

“Sweetheart. Not too deep. Cap sleeves.”

“Any embellishments?” Dominique pressed.

“Minimal.”

Vi groaned. “God, you’re allergic to fun.”

Dominique grinned. “What if we gradient crystals from one side of the neckline? Heavy at the top of one breast, trailing diagonally to the opposite hip.”

Caitlyn considered that. “Acceptable.”

“And fabric rouched under the crystals. Emphasizes the waist.”

“Fine.”

Vi made a show of yawning. “Wake me up when we get to my suit.”

Dominique raised an eyebrow. “You want a suit?”

Vi grinned. “Hell yeah. Black, tailored sharp enough to cut. Satin lapels. Red silk tie.”

“Cufflinks?”

“Red stone.”

“Got it.”

Dominique was already sketching it all out, pencil flying.

“And now Matilda,” Dominique muttered. “She’s the showstopper.”

Caitlyn tensed.

“She needs to be brighter than Caitlyn’s blue,” Dominique said aloud. “Still dark, but with more sheen. Satin.”

“Bodycon,” Vi threw in. “Matilda’s gotta look dangerous.”

“Corset top, sheer panels. Crystal detailing heavy up top, fading down.”

Vi leaned forward. “And a slit up the thigh. High.”

Caitlyn’s lips thinned but she didn’t object.

“Gloves,” Dominique said. “Black, opaque, up to the elbow.”

Dominique finished her last strokes, then turned the sketchpad around. Three rough designs stared back:

Caitlyn: Midnight velvet, cap sleeves, diagonal crystals, rouched waist, flared skirt.

Vi: Black tailored suit, red silk tie, red cufflinks, sleek.

Matilda: Deep blue satin, corset top with sheer panels, heavy crystal work, thigh-high slit, black gloves and mask.

Vi gave a low whistle. “Okay. That’s a set.”

Caitlyn stared at the page, face unreadable.

Dominique looked satisfied. “I’ll source the fabrics today.”

Vi’s eyes stayed on the Matilda sketch, then flicked up to Caitlyn. A grin tugged at her lips.

“You know,” Vi mused, “you really do have that same freckle under your chin.”

Caitlyn’s spine went rigid.

Vi plopped herself onto the nearest worktable, legs swinging as she studied the sketches like she was reviewing blueprints for a heist.

Dominique flipped to a fresh page. “We need masks.”

Vi perked up. “Now we’re talking.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “I assume you have ideas?”

“Always,” Dominique said, sketching quickly. “They have to match the outfits, obviously. But it’s a masquerade—this is where we flex.”

She started with Caitlyn. “For you... I’m thinking something sculpted, elegant, architectural. Black base, but with crystal accents that mirror the diagonal line on your dress. Like the mask is catching light the same way.”

She penciled swift curves and sharp points—half fan, half crown—with crystals sweeping from one side of the mask to the opposite cheekbone, like the path of a comet.

“Feathers?” Dominique offered.

Caitlyn shook her head. “No feathers. Keep it structured.”

“Done.”

Vi whistled. “It’s giving: do not approach.”

“Perfect,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Matilda next,” Dominique said, already scribbling. “She’s the showstopper, so her mask needs to feel dangerous. I’m thinking a deep navy base with glossy black accents. Almost like a second skin, but with raised patterns—like veins or creeping vines in glossy paint or tiny crystals. Sharp edges near the cheekbones, and elongated points just past the outer eye.”

Vi hummed. “What about lace? Or sheer mesh panels?”

Dominique grinned. “Yes. Black mesh over the eyes, just faint enough to conceal but still show glimpses.”

“And a sharp upward flick near the temples,” Vi added, shaping it with her fingers. “Like cat ears without the ears.”

“Exactly.”

Vi smirked. “I’m good at this.”

“You’re annoying,” Caitlyn said, but her voice was lacking bite.

Finally, Dominique tapped her pencil against the paper. “And you, Vi.”

Vi kicked her heels. “I want something red.”

“You’ll be in black and red, so... red mask, black accents?”

Vi nodded. “Make it sharp. Something angular. Not delicate.”

Dominique sketched quickly: a deep red mask that wrapped around the eyes and dipped into a V over the bridge of the nose. The edges flared into sharp points over the brows and cheekbones, lined in matte black. The overall shape was somewhere between a fox and a flame—sleek, bold, and a little cocky.

“Glossy or matte?” Dominique asked.

“Matte,” Vi said. “But with a shimmer when the light hits it.”

“Got it.”

She flipped the sketchpad around to show them: three masks, each distinct but thematically linked—structure, shimmer, danger.

Vi gave an approving nod. “Alright. I can work with that.”

“Good,” Dominique said. “I’ll mock up prototypes. We’ll need fittings for those too.”

Vi stretched her arms overhead, grinning. “You know, this almost makes up for the cold shoulder treatment, Cupcake.”

Caitlyn didn’t reply. She was still looking at the Matilda mask sketch, fingers pressed lightly to her chin—right where Vi had said the freckle was.

Dominique caught the look, said nothing, and quietly started gathering her things.

“Vi,” Caitlyn said suddenly, eyes still on the page. “You’ll have your designs by next week.”

Vi gave a mock salute. “Can’t wait.”

But her grin stayed just a little too long before she finally slid off the table, lingering near the sketches like she was memorizing them.

“You’re excited,” Dominique teased.

Vi winked. “Maybe I am. Try not to fuck it up.”

Vi was still perched on the edge of the stool, arms folded, foot tapping with idle irritation as Dominique shuffled through fabric swatches. But her eyes kept drifting — not to the materials or the masks, but to the ornate, gold-trimmed envelope that sat just out of place on Caitlyn’s side of the table.

She stared long enough to finally ask, dry and suspicious, “What’s with the fancy letter?”

Dominique, still sorting fabrics, glanced up and sighed. “Maison Delaroche invite. That masquerade gala.”

Vi gave a small scoff. “Yeah, I know that much. I meant why you’re looking at it like it called your dress ugly.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately. Her thumb rubbed absently along the edge of the paper, but her gaze stayed lowered.

Dominique watched her, then murmured, “You might as well tell her.”

Caitlyn’s jaw flexed. She didn’t want to. She never wanted to. But something in Vi’s steady, expectant stare made her sigh through her nose.

“My mother’s going to be there,” she muttered.

Vi blinked. “Okay? You gonna melt like the Wicked Witch if she sees you or something?”

“She’s the top donor to Delaroche,” Caitlyn added, sharper this time. “And she despises everything I’ve built.”

That made Vi stop.

“What?”

Caitlyn’s gaze stayed fixed on the envelope, voice brittle. “She wanted me to marry some rising politician, host charity events, shake hands, keep my mouth shut. A neat, ornamental life.”

Vi was staring now, her frustration paused but not gone. “That’s real rich, coming from a woman bankrolling the fashion industry.”

“She donates to legacy houses,” Caitlyn said bitterly. “Old money fashion. The tasteful, the traditional, the respectable.” She said it like it was a curse. “A lingerie company with a masked model and an influencer? She’d sooner pretend I was dead.”

Vi opened her mouth, then closed it again. She shifted, something uneasy flickering in her expression.

“You never said that,” she muttered. “You never told me.”

Caitlyn looked up at her, something tired and hollow in her eyes. “Why would I?”

Vi didn’t have a good answer for that. So she looked away, jaw tightening.

She still wanted to be mad. She was mad — about Matilda, about the lies, about Caitlyn pretending like she wasn’t knee-deep in all this with her. But... this was different. And that prickled at her, unwanted.

“So what,” Vi muttered, “you just... go there, play the good little CEO, pretend she’s not sneering at you the whole time?”

Caitlyn shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. But I can’t avoid it. Not with the guest list. Not with her name at the top.”

Vi exhaled hard through her nose. “Guess that’s why you’re not just backing out.”

“No,” Caitlyn said softly. “It’s not just press, Vi. It’s... it’s about proving I was right. That I could build something real. That I wasn’t a mistake.”

Vi’s stomach twisted. She didn’t like this side of Caitlyn — the cracks in the armor. It made it harder to stay angry.

She huffed a breath, eyes flicking away again. “You’re still an asshole for ghosting me.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched faintly. “I know.”

“But...” Vi’s voice dipped quieter. “You’ll look good doing it.”

Caitlyn blinked at her.

“Proving her wrong,” Vi clarified, trying not to look directly at her. “You’ll look good doing it.”

The tension held between them a moment, but something in it had softened — grudging, but soft.

Dominique, wisely, didn’t say a word.

Then Vi stood abruptly. “Alright. Well. If we’re done playing sad rich kid confessions, can we get back to the part where I get to look hotter than both your alter egos?”

Caitlyn’s smile was small, but it stayed.

Dominique grinned. “I’ll get the sketchbook.”

Vi muttered, “Good. Because I’m not showing up to some fancy ball and letting your mom think I’m anything less than a fucking prize.”

She didn’t wait for a response — she just stalked toward the design table, ponytail swishing behind her.

Caitlyn watched her go, a faint warmth behind her ribs she didn’t dare name.

Chapter 17: Practice

The conference room at CK looked less like a boardroom and more like a backstage dressing suite. Racks of finished garments lined the walls—Caitlyn’s midnight-dark gown, Matilda’s sheer and shimmering dress, and Vi’s crimson-suited ensemble stood like mannequins at attention.

Mel dropped a stack of diagrams on Caitlyn's office table, her tablet glowing with time blocks and maps of the venue. Dominique trailed behind her, arms crossed and eyebrows already raised.

"Okay," Mel started, flipping to the first page, "we need a strategy that doesn't end in you passing out from exhaustion."

"Or getting caught mid-change," Dominique muttered.

Caitlyn stood by the window, arms folded. She hadn’t sat since Mel called this meeting. The thought of toggling between herself and Matilda all night made her stomach twist, but she masked it well.

Mel pointed to a layout of the ballroom. "We have four key time blocks where the press and the donors will be most active. Caitlyn does the opening hour, mingles, gets seen, plays nice with the money. Then you vanish to become Matilda for the mid-evening press rush."

"Then I disappear again?" Caitlyn asked.

"Right. You switch back to Caitlyn for the formal thanking of the sponsors. Your mother will definitely expect to see you at a table."

Dominique tapped the schedule. "Then one final transformation: Matilda reappears for the late-night dance and mingling."

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound like a stage play."

Mel grinned. "Because it is. The world's most exclusive, stress-inducing play."

Dominique unfolded another diagram. "We've mapped out two secure changing locations: a side salon and the private coat room. Both will have security to keep nosy guests out."

"What about staff?" Caitlyn asked.

"Delilah will be shadowing you," Mel said. "She'll act as Matilda's 'assistant' when needed, but also she's your decoy in case anyone gets too curious during a changeover."

Dominique added, "I'll handle wardrobe logistics. Quick-release features, easy fastening. You won't have time for laces and corsets in between."

In the center, Dominique knelt beside a low stage they’d wheeled in, dress forms and bolts of fabric scattered like a mad workshop.

“All right,” she said, tugging a heavy box onto the table. “Let me show you the magic.”

She flipped open the box to reveal an array of fasteners, clasps, and carefully sewn hidden seams. “We’re talking stage magician shit. Quick releases here—” she plucked a scrap of fabric and yanked gently, the seam parting cleanly with a hidden clasp release “—velcro panels disguised under beading here, and reinforced snaps at the hips. You’ll be able to slip out of the gown in under two minutes. Less, if Mel’s helping.”

“Mel is definitely helping,” Mel muttered from her seat, arms crossed. “We’re not trusting Caitlyn alone with snaps. You’ll dislocate your shoulder.”

“I’m not that clumsy,” Caitlyn deadpanned.

“You literally bruised your elbow trying to unzip a sample jacket last week.”

Caitlyn scowled faintly but didn’t argue.

Dominique held up Matilda’s dark blue dress. “This one’s trickier—corsetry always is—but I built the sheer corset bodice to separate from the skirt at the sides. Invisible latches. The crystals disguise the stitching. I’ll show you.”

She motioned for Caitlyn to step up. With the efficiency of a Broadway dresser, Dominique slipped the Matilda dress over Caitlyn’s head, fastening the bodice expertly. “If we align the crystals right, no one can tell this isn’t a continuous piece.”

She clipped hidden latches at Caitlyn’s hips, guiding her through each motion. “When you need out, pull the sides, twist the corset counter-clockwise, and it’ll unhook like this—” she demonstrated with a sharp tug, and the side of the corset split neatly open.

Caitlyn’s brows lifted, impressed. “That’s… brilliant.”

“I know.” Dominique gave a wink. “We’ll do a dry run in a minute. But first…”

She reached into the box again and pulled out the masks.

“Vi’s is simple—sleek, red velvet overlay with satin backing, but with the metal filigree at the temples so it still reads rich. Matches her tie.”

She set it aside, then lifted the next.

“Matilda’s,” she said with a little reverence, “was a bitch to engineer but worth it.”

She held up the mask—a deep blue and black ombré, its surface adorned with tiny crystal constellations that caught the light in scattered glimmers. It curved high along the cheekbones and upward into feather-light metal sweeps at the temples, framing the eyes in soft arcs. At the brow, the crystal detailing subtly formed a crescent moon.

“There’s a built-in comb and pins to secure it in your hair. But I also made it light enough that you can wear it for hours without it shifting.”

Mel gave a low whistle. “You’re wasted in fashion.”

Dominique shrugged. “I just like a challenge.”

Finally, Dominique retrieved the last mask—Caitlyn’s.

Black satin base, matte and understated except for the sharp sweep along the brow, where white crystals clustered from the temple like a streak of comet dust. Minimal but striking.

“Yours to match the gown. You’ll wear it when you’re Caitlyn—not Matilda. You’re blending CEO glamor with just enough mystery.”

Dominique stepped back, hands on her hips. “Now let’s practice. Get in the Caitlyn gown, we’ll time the switch.”

Mel pulled out her phone. “I’m clocking you. You’ve got ninety seconds. Go.”

Caitlyn slipped into the dark, star-sheened dress. Dominique adjusted the flare at her hips, then cued her for the dismount—back into the dressing area behind the rack partitions.

“Off. Now.”

Inside the curtain of fabrics, Dominique’s instructions echoed.

“Undo the side zip—here—pull across, unclip the hip fasteners—no, not like that, twist first—good, now step back—.”

Caitlyn emerged less than two minutes later, corset gleaming, sheer skirt swinging,

Mel tapped her phone. “One fifty-two. Not bad. But you’ll be sweaty.”

“We’ll pad the transitions with timing,” Dominique said. “Vi can be distracted easily enough.”

“She’s not the only one I’ll need distracting,” Caitlyn muttered.

Mel handed over water. “We’ll station Delilah nearby, masked, for misdirection. If Vi’s looking too close, Delilah walks past. A Matilda decoy.”

“Decoy doesn’t speak,” Dominique reminded. “Matilda doesn’t speak at all.”

“Ever,” Mel agreed. “Not to the press, not to Vi, not to anyone.”

“That’ll make it harder,” Caitlyn murmured.

“Then emote,” Dominique said simply. “That’s what you’re good at.”

Caitlyn gave her a sharp look, but there was no bite to it.

Mel grinned. “One more round, boss. And then we do it again. And again. Until you can swap blindfolded.”

Caitlyn sighed but moved back behind the racks.

Because failure wasn’t an option—not with Vi watching.

Not with her mother watching.

Not with herself watching, in every mirror.

Dominique tapped the side of the garment rack, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Alright, phase two. Wig logistics.”

Caitlyn sighed, already in the Caitlyn dress—sleek midnight fabric hugging her frame, crystals at the bodice catching the overhead light. Her hair was twisted into a low, tight bun at the nape of her neck, neat and unassuming.

“This bun’s staying?” Dominique asked, circling her like a tailor at work. “Because I’m telling you, it’s the only way the wig’s going on smooth.”

“Yes,” Caitlyn muttered. “I’m not redoing hair mid-event.”

Dominique gestured to the prep table, where the Matilda wig rested on a mannequin head—platinum blonde melting into deep auburn, styled into soft, controlled waves that swept past the shoulders.

“You’re gonna need help getting it on clean,” Dominique warned. “Wig cap first. Then we slide the wig, comb it down into the bun, fasten it with pins. If you rush it, it’ll look bulky.”

Mel was scribbling in her notebook. “I’ll do the first check. Dominique will do the fasten and pin. Time it.”

Dominique prepped the wig cap, showing Caitlyn the stretch and snap of the mesh. “This goes on first—keeps everything tucked. If you do it right, you’ll have no ridges, no bumps. Then mask.”

Mel glanced at Caitlyn. “We’ll keep your shoes and makeup the same between roles. Mask hides most of the face. Shoes we can match by sole color.”

“Fine,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Okay,” Mel said, watch ready. “Start in the CEO gown. We’ll do a full change. Wig, dress, mask. Ready—go.”

Caitlyn swept behind the partition, Dominique close behind with the Matilda gown and wig kit in hand.

“Start with the zip—good,” Dominique instructed. “Step out—here’s the wig cap.”

Caitlyn yanked the cap on, smoothing her hair as Dominique adjusted it into place, pulling it snug over the bun.

“Wig next,” Dominique muttered. “Tilt forward. There—slide it back.”

The platinum-auburn wig settled over the cap, combs clicking into place just above the bun. Dominique worked fast, pinning the sides, adjusting the hairline.

“Dress next—arms up.”

Caitlyn slid into the Matilda dress, the sheer corset locking into place with Dominique’s practiced hands on the hidden latches. The skirt snapped neatly at the hips, the crystals shimmering with every movement.

“Mask—here,” Dominique passed it to her.

Caitlyn slipped it on.

“Done!” Dominique called.

Caitlyn stepped out.

Mel stopped her timer. “Two minutes, thirty.”

“Still slow,” Caitlyn grumbled.

“You shaved thirty seconds off already,” Mel said. “With practice? You’ll hit ninety.”

Caitlyn turned slightly, checking the wig’s swing in the mirror. Not bulky. No seams. The mask shadowed enough of her features to obscure the delicate difference between Matilda’s sharper silhouette and Caitlyn’s natural one.

“And when you change back?” Mel asked.

Dominique unpinned the wig, lifted it cleanly while the cap kept everything smooth. Caitlyn’s bun was still intact, her hair untouched, barely a strand out of place.

“Wig off, cap off, unzip the Matilda dress, slip back into Caitlyn’s,” Dominique narrated. “It’s a flow. Keep your arms and shoulders moving to help the garments fall into place.”

Caitlyn nodded, focused. “I’ll get faster.”

“You have to,” Mel said. “Because you’re not just switching once. You’ll start as Caitlyn, greet donors, then switch to Matilda when Vi arrives, do press photos, then maybe switch back later if anyone starts sniffing too close.”

“And Vi?” Caitlyn asked.

Mel smirked. “She’s your biggest distraction. She’ll chase Matilda, guaranteed. You just need to keep moving.”

Caitlyn looked back at the mirror, Matilda’s reflection staring back—crystals like stars across her corset. A phantom twice over.

“I can do it,” Caitlyn said quietly.

“Damn right you can,” Dominique said. “We’re gonna drill it until you can swap in your sleep.”

“Again?” Caitlyn asked.

Mel grinned. “Again.”

And Caitlyn stepped behind the partition—again.

Chapter 18: Show Her

Vi stood in front of her mirror, phone propped against an empty glass on the dresser, and adjusted the knot of her red silk tie for the fourth time. She squinted. Turned her head. Undid the knot and redid it tighter. Still didn’t look right.

She hit record anyway.

“Okay, poll time,” she muttered to the camera, fixing her hair with one hand. “If you’re invited to some super pretentious rich person masquerade and you know the girl you’re obsessed with might be there — do you: A, play it cool, B, accidentally confess and ruin your life, or C, get drunk and cause a scene?”

She gave the camera a deadpan stare.

“Don’t lie. I know half of you are picking C.”

She hit stop, watched the video back once, and posted it before she could talk herself out of it. She barely tossed the phone onto the bed before it buzzed with comments. Always C, Definitely B, queen, Is it Matilda? It’s Matilda, right?, and the ever reliable Wear the red tie if it’s true you’re down bad.

Vi laughed quietly to herself, flopping back on the mattress, arms sprawled wide like she was making a snow angel in the sheets.

“Down bad,” she muttered. “Understatement.”

Because yeah — the Caitlyn thing? Whatever. She was still kinda mad, sure, but the longer she stewed on it, the less it mattered. Caitlyn was cold and distant and apparently scared of texting back. Fine. She could live with that.

But Matilda? Matilda was something else. Some kind of fever dream in crystal and shadows, staring at her like she already knew all the answers Vi hadn’t even asked yet.

And now she had a chance to see her again.

The thought alone made her stomach flip like a kid sneaking candy before dinner. She’d never admit that out loud. Not even on TikTok.

Still, the event itself was another story.

She groaned and sat up, dragging both hands down her face. Rich people, society types, wine that cost more than her rent — she’d have to be on her best behavior just to avoid getting thrown out before Matilda even showed up.

Vi stood and started pacing, restless. “Don’t swear. Don’t steal anything. Don’t make fun of the canapés. Smile for the cameras. Try not to say ‘fuck’ more than twice.”

She paused. “Okay, once.”

She caught her reflection mid-stride. The red tie stood out against her crisp white shirt and sharp black suit, a pop of color in a sea of monochrome. She smirked.

The tie was bait. She wasn’t even subtle about it. If Matilda saw it — and she would — she’d know.

Vi leaned on the dresser, watching herself with that same cocky grin she pulled when pretending not to care. But she cared. Way too much. And she’d already admitted that to herself when she agreed to the whole thing.

She grabbed her phone again, thumbing through the growing pile of comments.

Wear the tie. She’ll notice. Bet Matilda shows up in red to match. If you don’t get a kiss this time I’m suing.

Vi chuckled and hearted that one. “Yeah, me too.”

Then, curiosity got the better of her, and she switched apps, scrolling through TikTok and Twitter for the latest conspiracy theories about Matilda. Side-by-side comparisons of Caitlyn and Matilda still flooded the feeds — split screens of their eyes, jawlines, necks. Some were eerily convincing. Others were pure stretch, like a blurry shot of Caitlyn adjusting her hair and a grainy freeze-frame of Matilda mid-pose.

“Maybe,” Vi muttered to herself. “Maybe.”

She’d been leaning that way ever since she saw Caitlyn’s freckle — the one under her chin. Same as Matilda’s. Same place. Same angle.

But still... there was distance. Matilda moved like someone else. She looked at Vi like she was... something. Something Caitlyn clearly didn’t want to be.

And that? That was worth chasing.

Vi grinned, pacing again. She didn’t know what she wanted — an answer, a kiss, another chase — but she knew she wasn’t leaving that gala empty-handed. She couldn’t. Not with how her pulse kicked up every time she thought about those masked eyes and that silent stare that said more without a word.

“Play it cool,” she told herself. “Wear the tie. Don’t confess. Don’t drink the expensive wine.”

She paused, then shrugged.

“...Or do. Maybe you’ll need it.”

She flicked the lights off and dropped back onto her bed, scrolling through the Matilda tag one more time, watching edits of herself and the masked muse set to bad pop songs and breathy remixes.

Her heart was already pounding.

And the night hadn’t even started yet.

She was halfway through a video of someone doing a dramatic breakdown of her last shoot — side-by-sides of Matilda’s walk versus hers, commentary about how “intimate” their body language was — when the headline scrolled past her feed.

Maison Delaroche Patron List Leaked.

She was about to ignore it — who cared about donors — but something in the subtext caught her eye. She thumbed back up.

And there it was, bold as anything:

Cassandra Kiramman.

Vi stared at the name, brow furrowing. Kiramman. That was no coincidence.

She clicked the article, skimming past the boring society names until she hit the short bio blurb.

Cassandra Kiramman — political donor, high society tastemaker, philanthropist, longtime patron of Maison Delaroche.

Vi sat back, phone balanced in her palm, gears turning.

So that’s what this was. This wasn’t just Caitlyn showing up to rub shoulders with fashion bigwigs — it was family. And not the cozy, oh-she’s-so-proud kind.

Vi remembered the stiffness, the careful composure Caitlyn wore anytime the gala came up. The weight in her voice. The way she’d dodged, ducked, kept Vi at arm’s length the entire time they’d been planning.

She wasn’t just cold for the fun of it.

She was protecting herself.

Vi blew out a breath, raking a hand through her hair.

“Damn,” she muttered. “Okay, Cupcake.”

She wasn’t about to pity Caitlyn — that’d get her throat punched, probably — but it made something settle in her gut. A low, simmering resolve.

Caitlyn might’ve built walls, but Vi could respect the hustle. She clawed her way up, built an empire out of lace and silk, made the whole world hungry for a masked ghost. And now she had to walk into a room where her own mother still saw her as less.

Vi wasn’t gonna let her walk in alone.

Sure, Caitlyn didn’t flirt back — didn’t even try to meet Vi halfway most days — but that didn’t matter. This wasn’t about flirting. It wasn’t even about the maybe crush she was nursing under all that bravado.

It was about showing Caitlyn’s mother — and the whole bougie pack of them — that Caitlyn had built something real. Something impossible to ignore.

Vi cracked her knuckles, smirking faintly to herself.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Let’s give them a goddamn show.”

She wasn’t sure if Caitlyn would ever return a text, or flirt back, or even notice her outside the occasional boardroom glare. But that wasn’t the point anymore.

Vi would be there, in her sharp-ass suit and red silk tie, and play the part so well even Caitlyn’s mother couldn’t sneer at it. She’d stand next to the mask and the mogul, smile for the cameras, and make sure the world saw what Caitlyn built.

Not because she was in love. Hell no. But because no one — no one — deserved to walk into a room like that and feel small.

And if it earned her a proper smile from Caitlyn? Bonus.

But that wasn’t the prize.

She grinned, already imagining the first flashbulb pop, the sea of cameras, the stunned faces.

They’d regret underestimating Caitlyn Kiramman.

Vi would make sure of it.

Chapter 19: Final Checks

The fitting studio was a tangle of garment bags, mirrored walls, and the soft hum of music Dominique insisted on to "keep the energy up." Vi stood in front of the full-length mirror, turning slightly from side to side, letting the red silk tie flick just enough to catch the light. The suit was razor-sharp, the lapels precise, the cut hugging her waist and flaring just enough at the hips to still feel playful.

She tugged the cuffs, smirking to herself.

"Goddamn," she muttered. "I clean up good."

Caitlyn was behind her, stepping carefully into her own dress as Dominique adjusted the waist. The gown clung like a shadow, dark blue so deep it was nearly black, and shimmered with every step thanks to the constellation of crystals crossing her torso in that sharp diagonal. The cap sleeve framed her shoulders, the fabric flaring just below her hips like the trailing tail of a comet.

Vi glanced back — and stared.

Yeah. Goddamn.

Caitlyn caught the look in the mirror, one brow raised. "Problem?"

Vi grinned. "Not unless being hot is a problem for you."

Dominique snorted but didn’t look up from where she was smoothing a seam. "Behave."

"I’m just saying," Vi said, turning fully to face Caitlyn. "You show up in that, we’re gonna have to drag bodies out of our path."

Caitlyn ignored her — or pretended to — though the tips of her ears flushed faintly.

Dominique stood, brushing her hands off on her hips. "Alright, that’s perfect on you," she told Caitlyn. "No adjustments needed. I have to run back to the design floor—someone's having a full-blown crisis over beadwork. Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone."

"You’re leaving me with her?" Caitlyn deadpanned.

Dominique grinned on her way out. "You’ll survive."

The door clicked shut behind her, and for a beat, neither of them spoke.

Then Caitlyn sighed. "Alright. Let me see the fit."

Vi stepped closer, arms half-raised. "You're the boss."

Caitlyn rolled her eyes and circled, straightening the lapels, tugging the shoulders, adjusting the lay of the tie. She moved automatically, but her fingers slowed when they brushed Vi’s collarbone, barely hidden beneath the white of the shirt.

Vi caught it immediately. "You know, if you wanted to touch me, you could just say so."

"Hold still."

"Yes, ma'am."

Caitlyn scowled, but it didn’t have much heat behind it. She checked the waistcoat, smoothing the line over Vi’s ribs, and tried — tried — not to notice how solid Vi was beneath the fabric. She wasn’t bulky, but there was a strength there, tempered by confidence, the kind of casual arrogance of someone who knew exactly the kind of effect they had.

She adjusted the tie. "This is crooked."

"Could just be my face."

"Unfortunately, that can’t be tailored."

Vi grinned wider. "Oof. Cold, Cupcake. Right where it hurts."

Caitlyn didn’t answer, too focused on the fine details, but her mind was miles ahead — spiraling, actually. Because Vi looked... good. The red silk of her tie, the sharp cut of her suit, the mess of pink in her hair that still somehow worked. She was supposed to be a model — just a model — but standing this close, Caitlyn could smell her perfume, warm and spiced, and it made her brain static.

She tugged the tie straight one more time, then stepped back abruptly.

"That’ll do," she said.

Vi raised a brow. "That’s it? No other notes? No praise for your star model?"

"You’ll get enough praise at the event. The press will see to that."

Vi watched her, like she was trying to find a crack in the armor, but Caitlyn was already turning away, pretending to busy herself at the fabric counter.

Vi chuckled softly. "You know, if you keep pretending I’m not hot, it’s just gonna make it more obvious you noticed."

Caitlyn didn’t turn, didn’t answer — just ran her hands over swatches of fabric that didn’t need her attention.

Vi hummed, pleased with herself.

Dominique returned ten minutes later, arms full of embroidery samples, and immediately clocked the tense silence.

"I see we didn’t kill each other," she muttered.

Caitlyn cleared her throat. "Vi’s suit fits. No further adjustments."

Vi grinned, tipping an invisible hat to Dominique. "Fits like a dream. Compliments included."

Dominique just shook her head and started sorting samples.

Vi headed for the door, shrugging her jacket back into place. She paused, hand on the handle, and glanced back with that same crooked grin.

"Hey, Cupcake," she said. "You know you look good in that, right?"

Caitlyn glanced up, expression unreadable.

"In the dress," Vi added, still grinning. "But you probably knew that."

She turned to leave—

"You look good too," Caitlyn said.

Vi froze mid-step. Looked back, eyebrows up, clearly not expecting that.

Caitlyn didn’t flinch. She just stood there, arms loosely crossed, as if the words hadn’t cost her anything. But her ears were faintly pink.

Vi’s grin widened. "Damn. Gonna have to mark that down — the day Caitlyn Kiramman admitted I was hot."

"Don’t get used to it."

Vi winked. "No promises."

Then she slipped out, the door shutting behind her, leaving Caitlyn in the quiet.

The door clicked shut behind Vi, and for a long moment, the studio was still.

Dominique didn’t even look up from her embroidery samples. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” Caitlyn muttered, turning back toward the mirror.

“Mm-hmm.” Dominique plucked through a few swatches. “She caught you off guard. That’s a first.”

“She caught me off guard by existing. She’s loud.”

“She’s loud and hot,” Dominique added with a grin. “And now you said it out loud. Progress.”

Caitlyn shot her a look, but Dominique only smiled wider.

“It was one compliment.”

“And yet it physically pained you to say.”

Caitlyn ran a hand through her hair, then stopped herself—careful not to pull it free from the low bun Dominique insisted she keep practicing with.

Dominique tilted her head, pretending to inspect her. “You sure you’re gonna survive the gala? You’re barely holding it together in a fitting. Wait until she’s dressed like that and eyeing you all night.”

“I’ll be masked. She won’t know.”

“Sure.” Dominique chuckled. “Because masks magically erase chemistry.”

Caitlyn sighed. “She flirts with everyone.”

Dominique raised an eyebrow. “But she lingers on you.”

Caitlyn hated that her ears warmed again.

Dominique finally stood, stretching her arms overhead. “Anyway, fun as this is, we have strategy to review. Because you, my dear CEO, are about to have one hell of a costume change relay.”

She crossed the room to the corkboard they’d set up weeks ago, now cluttered with floor plans, schedules, and photos of the venue.

“So,” Dominique started, pointing with a capped marker, “Caitlyn enters first. Press photos, mingling with the donors, notably your mother’s clique.”

Caitlyn’s mouth flattened at the mention.

“We keep you on that floor until the press finishes their rounds,” Dominique continued. “Then Mel escorts you backstage to the green room. I’ll be waiting with the Matilda change-up kit. Wig, dress, mask.”

“How fast can we do it now?” Caitlyn asked.

“Best run? Ninety-two seconds.”

“Not fast enough.”

Dominique smirked. “We’re fine. We’re padding the schedule. Vi enters ten minutes after you vanish. That buys us plenty of time.”

Caitlyn nodded, staring at the map. “And Delilah?”

“Stationed in the crowd. Masked, quiet, planted near the press. If Vi’s eyes wander, Delilah moves. Misdirection.”

“And speaking?” Caitlyn asked, quieter.

Dominique shook her head. “Matilda never speaks. You know the rule.”

Caitlyn exhaled, tension tightening her shoulders.

“If Vi corners Matilda?” Caitlyn pressed.

“Mel intervenes. She’ll be monitoring from the wings. You’ll stay moving—photos, staged moments, then back behind the curtain to switch again if needed.”

Caitlyn rubbed her temple. “I’ll be changing all night.”

Dominique smiled faintly. “You’re playing both halves of the fantasy. That’s the point.”

“Until it falls apart.”

“It won’t.”

Caitlyn looked up, skeptical.

Dominique softened. “You’ve done harder things, Cait. This is just... theatre. With higher stakes.”

“The highest,” Caitlyn muttered. “My mother, the press, Vi...”

“And you’ll manage all of them. Like you always do.”

Caitlyn glanced at herself in the mirror—still in the gown, crystals catching light like stars. She looked... the part. She just didn’t feel it.

“I’m not used to playing pretend this hard.”

Dominique’s voice dropped, gentler. “You’ve always been playing. Just finally in costume.”

That hit a little too close.

Caitlyn shook it off. “Let’s run it again. The switches.”

Dominique grinned, already reaching for the stopwatch. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And Dominique?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up about the blushing.”

Dominique winked. “Not a chance.”

Chapter 20: Gala 1

The Maison Delaroche bicentennial gala was held in a glass-walled atrium, all gilded edges and towering white columns, the chandeliers hanging like constellations of starlight. It was the kind of place designed to make even the wealthy feel small, hemmed in by opulence and generations of legacy.

Caitlyn arrived in a black car with tinted windows, the kind of vehicle that swallowed you whole and spit you out polished. She stepped onto the carpet, camera flashes going off like distant fireworks, but her face was already composed. Smooth, neutral. The CEO mask, well-worn.

The dress helped. The midnight-dark fabric clung to her shape like it was made of shadow and starlight, the crystals sweeping across her torso in that deliberate, cutting diagonal, the cap sleeve making her look sharper at the shoulder. Every step was calculated grace—the flare of the skirt trailing just long enough to command attention, but not long enough to trip.

She posed briefly for the photographers—not smiling, just the barest nod of acknowledgment—before moving into the building. Inside, the atrium was alive with chatter and string music, the swell of a curated orchestra echoing under the glass dome.

Mel was waiting just inside the entrance, headset in place, clipboard in hand.

“You’re on time,” Mel noted, giving her a once-over. “You look lethal.”

“That’s the goal,” Caitlyn muttered. “She’s here?”

Mel’s face shifted—something between sympathy and warning. “She is. Already making the rounds. Fourth floor, terrace level.”

Of course she was. Early arrival, center of the room, first to be seen.

Caitlyn’s stomach was a knot, but it didn’t reach her face.

“I’ll start ground level,” she said. “Donors first.”

Mel nodded, already ticking off mental lists. “We’ll text you if Vi’s on site. And we’ll need you ready to switch in an hour.”

Caitlyn swept through the crowd like a blade through silk. She smiled when appropriate, shook hands when expected. The older donors, the legacy families, the art patrons who’d been financing French fashion dynasties for centuries—all of them wanted a glimpse of the cold, elegant CEO of CK. They asked polite questions, commented on the masks, the theme, her presence.

Someone asked, offhandedly, if Matilda would be attending.

“She’ll make an appearance,” Caitlyn answered with a practiced smile. “She never misses a performance.”

By the time she’d made it halfway through the lower level, she could feel the weight of the upper floors, the knowing that her mother was up there watching. It was just a matter of time.

Mel sidled up between handshakes. “She’s clocked you.”

“Of course she has.”

“She’ll corner you eventually. I can run interference.”

“No,” Caitlyn said, cold and flat. “She’d see through it.”

Mel gave her a careful look. “You sure?”

Caitlyn’s jaw was tight. “I can handle it.”

The climb to the fourth floor terrace was slow, measured. There were no elevators—Delaroche loved its dramatic staircases. The terrace opened wide, half-indoor, half-outdoor, the Parisian skyline a glittering backdrop beyond the glass. The air was cooler here, but Caitlyn still felt the heat rising beneath her skin.

She saw her mother immediately.

Cassandra Kiramman stood by the balcony, glass of champagne in hand, wrapped in silver silk that looked like it had been tailored from moonlight itself. Her hair was perfectly coifed, her posture regal and still. She was speaking to a cluster of patrons, but Caitlyn knew the difference between her mother engaged in conversation and her mother waiting.

Cassandra glanced sideways—eyes sharp and pale—and saw her.

She smiled. The polite kind. The dangerous kind.

“Caitlyn,” she called, soft and piercing at once. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t brave the upper floors.”

Caitlyn approached, the weight of the gown settling across her hips like armor.

“Mother,” she said simply.

The patrons beside Cassandra excused themselves, scattered by the unspoken tension like birds before a storm. Cassandra watched them go, then turned her full gaze on her daughter.

“You clean up nicely,” she said, eyes roving critically. “This is better than the last charity gala. At least you didn’t come dressed like you were staging a coup.”

Caitlyn didn’t flinch. “I didn’t realize fashion policing was your charity of choice.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Always so quick with your mouth. Pity you never applied it in the right arenas. You could’ve been an extraordinary diplomat’s wife.”

“I prefer to run my own company, thanks.”

Cassandra sipped her champagne. “Mmm. A lingerie company.”

That disdain—soft, subtle, poisonous—curled beneath every word.

Caitlyn folded her hands in front of her, pretending calm. “CK is one of the most profitable fashion houses of the decade.”

“And yet you’re still chasing attention in costumes and masks.”

“Some of us have to build a legacy,” Caitlyn said, voice steel. “We don’t get handed one.”

Cassandra smiled faintly, but her eyes didn’t soften. “Legacy is more than novelty, Caitlyn.”

“Funny,” Caitlyn said, “that you’re a top donor to Delaroche—another fashion house. Or is it only lingerie that doesn’t meet your standards?”

Her mother’s gaze cooled another degree. “Delaroche is legacy. Lineage. Art. Not undergarments disguised as performance.”

“It’s more than that.”

“Is it?” Cassandra tilted her head, curious and cruel. “Then prove it.”

Caitlyn held her ground. “I intend to.”

Cassandra smiled like it was a challenge accepted. “Good. I look forward to the show.”

She turned back to the skyline, effectively dismissing her daughter.

Caitlyn stood there another second, the air sharp in her lungs. Then she turned, steps slow and measured back toward the stairs.

Mel caught her halfway down. “Well?”

“She hasn’t changed,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Didn’t expect her to. But you okay?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer. Just kept walking. She had to change soon—Matilda’s first entrance was coming.

But in the back of her mind, her mother’s voice lingered.

Prove it.

Fine, Caitlyn thought.

She would.

She’d burn the whole room down just to do it.

The first shift was scheduled precisely—an hour into the gala, just as the press settled into their second wind and the donors were wine-warmed and eager to see the elusive Matilda. The strings had shifted to jazz, and the air hummed with a decadence only the rich could fake so easily.

Mel caught Caitlyn at the stairwell landing.

“Vi just walked in,” she said, pressing a comm discreetly to her ear. “She’s in the red. Looks good.”

Caitlyn sighed quietly. “Of course she does.”

“You’ve got ten minutes before you need to be Matilda,” Mel added. “Press is asking for her. She’ll have to come down the grand staircase.”

Caitlyn nodded and ducked into the staff access door just past the third floor. Mel and Dominique were already there, Dominique armed with the Matilda gown, the wig on its stand, and the mask gleaming under the vanity lights.

“You know the drill,” Dominique said. “Dress off, wig cap first.”

Caitlyn stripped down swiftly, stepping out of her dark blue gown. Dominique zipped her into Matilda’s sheer, crystalline corset with practiced speed, her hands moving deftly over the hidden latches.

“Breathe in.”

Caitlyn obeyed, and the skirt snapped neatly into place, the crystals dripping down like a constellation across her hips. Dominique slipped the wig cap over Caitlyn’s slicked bun, tugged it tight.

“Wig.”

She positioned the platinum-to-auburn wig expertly, the combs sliding into the bun, the waves soft but immaculate. By the time she was fastening the final pins, Mel was counting the time aloud.

“Three minutes.”

Mask last. The deep blue and black ombré, with its subtle crescent moon of crystals at the brow. Caitlyn didn’t need a mirror anymore—she knew the effect. Shadowed, mysterious. The cold specter of allure.

“Go,” Mel said, cracking the door open.

Matilda stepped out.

 

Meanwhile, Vi stood near the first floor’s centerpiece—an ice sculpture of a faceless figure in a gown, delicately posed. Her red silk tie was catching the ambient light, and the press had already taken a few casual shots of her, whispering about the mysterious viral model finally showing up.

She swirled a drink idly, gaze skimming the levels.

No Caitlyn.

She couldn’t even spot the famous mother either, but the growing buzz from the staircase drew her attention. Phones lifted. A low hum passed through the crowd.

Vi followed the eyes—and there she was.

Matilda.

Vi barely remembered ditching her drink. One second she was loitering at the base of the grand staircase, the next she was standing right in the line of Matilda’s slow, calculated descent.

She watched as Matilda approached, her masked gaze fixed and deliberate. The lights caught the crystal constellations dotting her mask and corset, her platinum-to-auburn waves falling just so against her bare shoulders. The slit in her skirt revealed flashes of leg, but it was the confidence that caught Vi’s attention most — like she knew every set of eyes belonged to her already.

When she reached the bottom, Matilda didn’t hesitate. She extended a hand, pale and poised, palm up toward Vi.

Vi blinked. “Shit, really?”

Matilda said nothing, just watched her, fingers expectant. That slight tilt of her head said well? and Vi, grinning now, reached out and took her hand looping it over her arm.

It was cooler than she expected — but warm enough to feel human, not ethereal. Delicate, but firm in its grip.

“Guess I’m your date now,” Vi muttered under her breath, flexing her grin. “Fine by me.”

Without a word, Matilda turned and started guiding them into the crowd. Vi followed, just a half step behind, trying not to laugh at the way the sea of guests parted like they were royalty.

And then the flashbulbs started.

Photographers zeroed in the moment they stepped into full view — the CEO’s phantom muse on the arm of her most notorious model. The camera shutters clicked in rapid succession, flashes igniting around them in bursts of white heat.

Vi tried to play it cool, letting her smirk settle lazily as they walked. She could hear the murmurs: There they are, Matilda and Vi, together again. People whispered about the chemistry, the drama, the goddamn mystery of it all.

Matilda didn’t flinch once. She moved like this was her stage — like she expected every lens to be on her. Every now and then, she would subtly tilt Vi’s hand on her arm just enough to adjust the visual — always making sure the cameras got the best angle.

Vi noticed. And god, she appreciated the showmanship.

“You’re really good at this,” Vi muttered close to her ear, her voice low and amused. “I should let you lead more often.”

Matilda glanced sidelong at her, eyes sharp through the mask, but still — no smile, no sound. Just that commanding presence that made Vi’s heart beat like she’d just stepped into a fight ring.

They paused in front of the largest cluster of photographers, and Matilda shifted — turning slightly so their shoulders touched. She didn’t let go of Vi’s hand.

Cameras went nuts. Someone shouted “Over here, Matilda! Vi, look this way!” and Vi obliged, tossing a smirk over her shoulder while Matilda remained still, statuesque.

Vi leaned just slightly closer, breath barely brushing Matilda’s ear. “You’re having fun, huh?”

She swore — she swore — the corner of Matilda’s mouth twitched.

And then they were moving again, seamlessly, Matilda’s hand still delicately looped through Vi’s arm like they’d been doing this for years.

“You’re a menace,” Vi whispered, grinning all the while. “And I think I’m obsessed.”

Matilda didn’t respond, but when she guided them straight toward the most densely packed part of the gala — the donors, the socialites, the true snakes — Vi just chuckled to herself.

“Alright,” she muttered under her breath. “Let’s put on a show.”

Chapter 21: Gala 2

They glided through the crowd like royalty — or villains, depending on who was watching. And judging by the way heads turned, Vi figured it was a little of both.

Everyone wanted a piece of them — mostly of Matilda, of course, but Vi was riding the wave with her usual cocky grin, shaking hands and charming smiles like she belonged in these velvet-covered rooms.

Everywhere they stopped, the press circled like sharks, snapping photos, murmuring “Stunning,” “Matilda is even more breathtaking in person,” and “She’s so elusive, it’s maddening.” Matilda, true to form, didn’t say a word — but she moved with enough grace, enough soft smiles and lingering glances, that she didn’t have to.

Vi kept the conversation flowing, filling the silence with her own brand of wit and casual bravado.

“Forgive my date,” she told a particularly nosy donor, “She took a vow of silence for Lent. Or just to spite me. Jury’s out.”

That earned her a soft sound — not a laugh, but a huff. Breath through the nose, subtle but definitely amused. Vi’s grin sharpened.

“Oh? That was almost a laugh. Careful, Matilda — you’re gonna break your streak.”

Matilda’s eyes glimmered through her mask, and though she didn’t speak, she tilted her head just enough to feign innocence. Vi swore she was being mocked.

They moved on, Vi smoothly guiding her along, pretending not to notice every time Matilda’s hand brushed against her arm, or lingered just a little too long on the curve of her elbow. But she noticed. And her brain was definitely keeping count.

As they paused near a tower of champagne flutes, Vi leaned in, dropping her voice low. “You know, I can’t decide if you’re more dangerous because you don’t talk… or because you might. Like any second, you’ll say something and I’ll just combust on the spot.”

Matilda glanced at her sidelong, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.

“C’mon,” Vi pressed, grinning. “Nothing? Not even a little gasp? A *‘Vi, you’re so handsome it hurts’? Not even a thank-you for me carrying this whole conversation?”

Right on cue, Matilda gave a soft — barely audible — giggle. The kind of breathy, unintentional sound that sparked something low in Vi’s chest.

She blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Okay. That was... rude and hot.”

Matilda shrugged delicately, eyes sparkling with the satisfaction of having given just enough to tease her.

Vi was so close to pushing again when Mel’s voice cut in.

“There you two are.”

Mel, wine glass in hand, eyed them with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Vi, you’ve got another photo op in ten. And Matilda — there’s a donor I need to introduce you to.”

Matilda glanced to Mel, then back at Vi, her hand sliding from Vi’s arm with that same feather-light grace. Vi let it linger — just a moment — before letting her go.

“You’re stealing her already?” Vi quipped. “We were just bonding.”

“You’ll live,” Mel muttered. “She’ll be back.”

Vi watched them go, Matilda’s dress shimmering as she walked, her gaze flicking back once — just briefly — with that same faint smile under her mask.

Vi exhaled a slow, laughing breath to herself. “Yeah. Definitely a menace.”

Vi had just swiped a glass of champagne from a passing tray when a voice, sharp and smooth as a knife’s edge, cut in beside her.

“Miss Violet, is it?”

She turned, grin already tugging at her mouth, but it stalled when she caught sight of the woman before her. Vi didn’t need an introduction. She knew that sharp-cut posture, the glint of judgment in steely eyes, the way her pearls sat just so on the collar of a perfectly tailored silver dress.

Cassandra Kiramman.

Vi’s grin stayed put, but the instinct to raise her guard prickled up her spine.

“That’s me,” Vi said, offering her hand. “Though most people just call me Vi. You must be Caitlyn’s mom.”

Cassandra looked at her hand as though it were an unwashed fork. She didn’t take it.

“I’ve heard of you,” Cassandra said, voice cool and clipped. “Though I must admit, I expected you to be... taller.”

Vi huffed a little laugh. “That’s fair. I’m taller on the internet.”

Cassandra’s smile was thin, like she’d rehearsed it once in a mirror. “And pinker, apparently.”

Vi smirked, letting that one pass. “What can I say? I’m my own marketing.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard. Influencer, model...” She trailed off, like she was waiting for Vi to fill in more respectable titles, but when nothing came, she pressed on, voice tightening. “And yet, here you are. In this room.”

Vi took a slow sip of her drink, eyes steady. “Yeah. Crazy how that worked out, huh?”

“Indeed,” Cassandra murmured. “Remarkable what catching the right eye can do for one’s social standing.”

Vi’s smile stretched tighter, but she didn’t bite. “Or maybe I’m just really good at what I do.”

Cassandra looked her up and down, nothing but calculation in her gaze. “You’re certainly... enthusiastic.”

Vi’s jaw twitched. “That’s one word for it.”

Cassandra offered a ghost of a smile. “Well. The world does love a spectacle. For a time.”

The implication was clear: Temporary. A phase. A flash of novelty that wouldn’t last.

Vi knew the type. She’d met plenty of Cassandra Kirammans before — people who weighed your worth in pedigree and legacy, who saw charm and grit as sideshow tricks instead of skill. It was tiring. But something about this Cassandra — Caitlyn’s mother — made her pride sit sharp in her throat.

Before Vi could retort, a passing councilman waved Cassandra over. She excused herself with all the warmth of a frost advisory and disappeared into the crowd.

Vi let out a breath through her nose, muttering under her breath, “Real fucking delight, that one.”

Backstage, Caitlyn stood before the mirror, Dominique securing the last clasp at her waist, her midnight-dark gown catching the low lights with every shift of her hips.

“Your mother found her,” Dominique said, half under her breath.

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked up. “Vi?”

“Who else?” Mel chimed in, pinning the last bit of the bun wig cap. “They’re probably still out there squaring off like two cats in an alley.”

Caitlyn’s stomach twisted. She knew that tone in her mother’s voice without hearing it. Cutting, clinical. She’d slice Vi into confetti and leave her standing.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Neither did you,” Dominique pointed out. “But here we are.”

Caitlyn adjusted the mask, her expression hardening in the glass.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’m not leaving her out there with Cassandra.”

Mel gave a tight nod. “Time to play the favorite daughter.”

Caitlyn appeared beside Vi, the soft swish of her gown barely audible over the crowd. Even masked, she carried a presence that made Vi pause—this was the woman everyone whispered about.

Caitlyn’s voice was calm but direct.
“So… I heard you had a conversation with my mother.”

Vi smirked, lifting her glass casually.
“Oh, yeah. The delightful Cassandra Kiramman. She made sure I knew I was too loud, too pink, and basically a novelty for her taste. Said I don’t belong in this crowd.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flickered with something almost like amusement.
“She doesn’t waste words.”

“Nope,” Vi said, grinning. “But hey, at least she noticed me.”

Before Caitlyn could reply, the spotlight snapped onto the stage, and the announcer’s voice echoed through the hall.

“Please welcome one of tonight’s major donors, Mrs. Cassandra Kiramman.”

Cassandra stepped forward with a cold grace, her eyes immediately locking onto Caitlyn—who was casually draped on Vi’s arm, mask hiding her expression but not the sharpness in her posture.

Vi caught the subtle scowl Cassandra threw at Caitlyn and whispered,
“Looks like your mom isn’t thrilled about the company you keep.”

Caitlyn gave a dry laugh.
“She’s not one to hide her feelings.”

Just then, the band kicked back into motion, filling the room with swelling strings and steady percussion. Vi glanced at Caitlyn, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, how about we give her something worth looking at?”

Vi held out her hand.
“Dance with me.”

Vi extended her hand with just the right mix of invitation and challenge. Caitlyn hesitated for a heartbeat—long enough to make Vi’s pulse skip—then slid her fingers into Vi’s, cool and deliberate. The contact was light, but electric, a silent agreement passing between them.

They stepped toward the center of the ballroom, the crowd instinctively parting around them. Whispers fluttered through the air—curious eyes and speculative glances—but Caitlyn didn’t flinch. If anything, her posture straightened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile brushing her lips beneath the mask.

For Caitlyn, this wasn’t about playing a role or hiding behind a facade. She was fully aware of the message they were sending—Look at me. This is my choice. I own this. The knowledge only sharpened her calm confidence. She leaned into Vi’s hand, meeting her grip with an ease that said she was more than willing to be part of this unspoken performance.

Vi, feeling the shift, tightened her fingers slightly, pulling Caitlyn a fraction closer. Their bodies brushed, and Vi’s other hand slid low onto Caitlyn’s back, warm and steady against the cool fabric of her gown. The touch was light but intentional—a subtle claim, a quiet question.

Caitlyn didn’t pull away. Instead, she let the contact linger, tilting her head just enough so their eyes met. There was a flicker of amusement there, a silent acknowledgment that she knew exactly what Vi was doing, and she didn’t mind in the slightest.

The music swelled, wrapping around them like a secret melody. Their steps fell into a smooth rhythm, practiced and effortless. But beneath the surface, the dance was charged with something neither fully named—a mixture of defiance, curiosity, and a quietly growing connection.

From across the room, voices whispered—“They look like they own this room,” “There’s more here than just a show.” But Caitlyn was unbothered by the attention. If anything, she welcomed it, draping herself on Vi’s arm with a relaxed grace that made the moment feel all the more real.

Vi’s eyes flicked to Caitlyn’s masked face, searching for signs of the ice she’d expected, but instead finding something warmer—an openness that made her chest tighten in a way she wasn’t ready to admit.

They danced on, the space between them humming with unspoken possibilities. For Vi, every brush of Caitlyn’s hand, every breath shared in the silence, was a spark of something thrilling and new.

And for Caitlyn, this dance was a quiet rebellion—a statement not just to her mother, but to the world: I decide what matters tonight.

Chapter 22: Gala 3

The song faded to its final notes, leaving them standing still—closer than polite company probably warranted, but neither of them moved to correct it. Vi’s hand hovered at Caitlyn’s waist, her touch light but unwilling to fully let go.

Caitlyn’s pulse hadn’t settled since the first step. She had meant for this to be just a gesture—a jab at her mother, a brush-off to the crowd—but somewhere between Vi’s hands and the closeness of their steps, it had shifted. She felt warm in ways she wasn’t prepared to feel tonight.

She cleared her throat softly and stepped back, careful but deliberate.

“I should return to business,” Caitlyn said, voice cool but not cold. “Thank you for the dance.”

Vi tipped her head with that easy grin. “Anytime.”

Caitlyn turned before she could feel that grin sinking in too deep. She cut through the crowd with practiced grace, her exit precise, formal—enough that a few attendees murmured, quietly recognizing that the CEO had made her departure for the night.

But she didn’t leave the building.

The moment she was past the heavy curtains and out of sight, her pace quickened. Dominique was already waiting, holding a garment bag and her Matilda mask like they’d planned.

“You’re leaving as you?” Dominique asked, quick on her heels.

“I just did,” Caitlyn muttered, already unclasping her jewelry. “Matilda’s next.”

Dominique helped her strip out of the gown, efficient and silent. Mel appeared, wig in hand, raising a brow.

“Someone get under your skin?” Mel asked, eyeing her curiously. A little smirk on her face.

Caitlyn didn’t answer. She kept her expression schooled as the transformation began—the sleek, commanding Caitlyn Kiramman folding neatly away, layer by layer, until only Matilda remained.

But the memory of Vi’s hand on her back, the warmth of that closeness—it lingered beneath the costume.

 

Matilda found her.

Vi caught the movement in her periphery first — a shimmer of dark fabric and the distinct stillness that came with her presence. She turned, and there she was, standing just a few feet away like she’d been watching for a while. Maybe she had.

Vi grinned without thinking, without hesitation. “Oh, now you wanna show up. Where’ve you been all night, gorgeous? Thought I was gonna have to file a missing persons report.”

Matilda tilted her head, but it was sharper than playful — a faint air of aloofness, like she was above the question. She didn’t come closer, just stood there, composed, unreadable.

Vi sighed, mock exasperated, but it was all for show — she was already walking toward her, drawn like she always was. “Right. The vow of silence. Convenient.”

Up close, she was worse — worse in the way that Vi could never get used to. That stupidly perfect posture, the cold curve of her mouth that wasn’t quite a frown but wasn’t inviting either, the mask making her eyes just dark enough to feel dangerous.

God, Vi was obsessed.

She offered her hand anyway, like she always did. “Dance with me.”

Matilda didn’t even pretend to consider it. She simply took Vi’s hand and led her back toward the dance floor, that gliding, graceful walk that made it look like she wasn’t even touching the ground.

The band was playing slow, syrupy, deliberate.

When Matilda stepped into her space, Vi forgot about everything else. She always did.

Their bodies fit together too well, like Matilda knew the exact distance to keep between them — close enough to make Vi feel it, not close enough to satisfy. And Vi was always greedy about her.

But something... something about the way Matilda settled her hand on Vi’s shoulder, the weight of it, the precise way her fingers curved — it snagged at Vi’s brain. A memory stirred, recent and sharp.

It was just like Caitlyn. The same easy tension in her spine. The same confidence in her stance, unbothered, unhurried.

Vi’s eyes narrowed faintly. “You know,” she murmured, “you dance a lot like someone I just danced with.”

No response — of course. Matilda’s head tilted slightly, a gesture of interest, or maybe of taunting. She never gave anything away.

Vi tried to shake it off, but it was gnawing at her now — the way Matilda’s hand slid lower on her back, like she knew she could get away with it. Like they’d already done this before.

They moved in slow, steady turns, Vi’s fingers flexing slightly against the curve of Matilda’s waist, fighting the urge to pull her closer. She was already close enough to feel the warmth off her, to imagine what she’d sound like if she ever actually spoke.

Vi swallowed. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about her like that — but she always did.

They danced until the music swelled to its final notes, but Vi didn’t let go immediately. She stepped in just a breath closer, close enough for her voice to be low and private when she said, “Thanks for the dance, Cupcake.”

She felt it. A flicker. A faint, almost imperceptible stutter in Matilda’s breath, the smallest shift like she’d been caught.

Vi’s grin spread slow and sharp. She didn’t press, didn’t say more. Just let the suspicion bloom quietly in her chest as Matilda eased out of her grasp, gliding away into the crowd like nothing had happened.

Vi watched her go, heart hammering, mind racing.

She was getting closer. She could feel it.

 

Caitlyn barely made it around the corner before the mask came off. She tugged it free, sucking in a sharp breath, the cool air of the hallway not doing nearly enough to settle the thrum in her chest.

She hadn't meant to react. She hadn’t even thought she could—not like that. But Vi had said Cupcake, her nickname for actual Caitlyn, and her mind had blanked, her body reacting before she could coach it still. She’d twitched. She was sure of it.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid. She should’ve been more careful.

She pushed open the heavy glass door to the balcony, stepping into the chill of the night air. The quiet was a relief, the muffled hum of music behind her just distant enough.

“What the hell was that?” she whispered to herself, pacing in a tight circle. She ran both hands through her wigged hair, resisting the urge to rip the whole thing off.

“She can’t know. She can’t know.”

She stopped, staring out over the city skyline. The wind bit at her exposed shoulders, but she barely felt it. Instead, she dragged a hand over her face and muttered, “I need to pull it together. She’s just... guessing. She doesn’t know.”

Another breath. She rolled her shoulders back, trying to shake off the lingering buzz of Vi’s hands on her waist, the way their bodies had aligned without effort. Caitlyn could still feel the phantom warmth of it.

 

The door to the balcony was already half open, the night air slipping through in soft, cold breaths. Vi hadn’t expected anyone out here — least of all the shadow pacing just beyond the threshold.

She froze when she heard it — a voice. Familiar, low, sharp around the edges.

“She can’t know. She doesn’t know. I can’t believe I let that happen—”

Vi’s brow furrowed. That was... Caitlyn? But Caitlyn had left — she’d made a whole show of it.

She edged closer, the voice clearer now, the words tense and muttered as Caitlyn pressed a hand to her temple like she was trying to physically hold herself together.

“I’m an idiot. Of course she noticed. Why did I... why did I let her get that close?”

Vi’s confusion deepened. She almost spoke, almost called out, but then a shift in the light caught her eye — the glint of crystals on a dark dress.

Not Caitlyn’s CEO dress.

Matilda’s dress.

The wig — longer than Caitlyn’s usual sleek bun. The mask wasn’t on, but the profile was unmistakable.

Vi’s stomach flipped. She stepped onto the balcony, the air colder now but her pulse hotter than ever, her mind racing to catch up.

That was Caitlyn.

Matilda was Caitlyn.

Her body knew it before her brain finished connecting the dots. The way she danced, the way she carried herself, the posture, the hands — it was so obvious now, and yet she’d been blind to it because Matilda had always been a ghost, a fantasy.

But Caitlyn stood here. Both.

Vi stepped forward, the wood creaking underfoot. Caitlyn snapped her head up, eyes wide, caught exposed — wig on, Matilda’s dress still hugging her frame, mask gone, but herself, utterly herself.

They stared at each other. The skyline stretched behind Caitlyn, but Vi couldn’t see anything but her — not the mask, not the disguise, just her.

Vi let out a low breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. “I thought you went home.”

Caitlyn swallowed hard, visibly trying to stitch herself back together. She didn’t speak — didn’t have an excuse loaded this time.

Vi stepped closer, every part of her alight with the pieces clicking into place. She shook her head, her grin slow and dawning, like she was seeing Caitlyn — really seeing her — for the first time.

“God,” Vi muttered, half to herself, “you’re her.”

Caitlyn didn’t deny it. She couldn’t. She stood still, caught, her breath shallow.

Vi stopped just a step away, eyes roaming from the wig to the dress to Caitlyn’s face, unmasked, flushed in the cool air.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Vi said, voice low, steady. Then, with a faint, reverent smile:

“The real you.”

Notes:

Awww the bot deleted their comment. Shame. 🤣 Thanks for the defense though my loyal commenters.

Chapter 23: Hiding

Vi stormed into the building like she’d been fired out of a cannon, barely acknowledging the sleek modern decor or the tight smiles from the front desk. She was moving too fast for anyone to stop her, shoulders squared, jaw set.

She made a beeline for the elevators, but before she could jab the call button, Mel intercepted her, hands up in caution.

“Whoa, Vi, slow down—”

“Where is she?” Vi barked. “Is she in yet?”

Mel winced. “She’s... not here.”

Vi frowned, chest still heaving from the speed of her entrance. “What do you mean, not here?”

“Personal day,” Mel said gently. “She sent a message this morning. Said she was taking the day to decompress after the party.”

“Decompress,” Vi repeated flatly, like the word offended her on principle. “After what, two dances and a few glasses of champagne?”

Mel tilted her head, voice cautious. “You sure that’s all it was?”

Vi glared. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Mel raised her brows. “You don’t show up ready to throw open doors unless something’s eating at you.”

Vi shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. “She’s hiding. I know it.”

“Look, she’s probably just laying low,” Mel said. “People are still gossiping about you two, and Caitlyn doesn’t love being the center of attention.”

Vi exhaled hard, pacing a slow circle by the elevator. “Fine. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Mel watched her go, eyebrows pinched. “You might wanna ease up on the battering ram approach.”

Vi waved her off, already stalking toward the exit. But her gut was twisting, because she knew. Caitlyn was hiding — from her, not from the office.

 

Vi was in the lobby before most of the staff even arrived, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. She paced, checking her messages — still nothing from Caitlyn. But that was fine. She’d be here. She’d have to come in eventually.

She was halfway through her second coffee when Dominique approached, clipboard in hand, already wearing her no-nonsense expression.

“She’s not in yet,” Dominique said before Vi could ask.

“Yet,” Vi echoed, stubbornly. “So she’s coming?”

Dominique hesitated. “She... hasn’t said. No message this time.”

Vi cursed under her breath. “What’s the excuse today?”

Dominique’s mouth twitched. “Personal time, again. No more details.”

“She’s not sick, is she?” Vi asked, trying to keep the concern out of her voice.

“Far as we know? No.”

Vi blew out a long breath. “Great.”

Mel wandered over then, sipping her own drink. “Vi, you’re gonna wear a groove in the marble with all that pacing.”

“Maybe it’ll wake her up,” Vi muttered. “This isn’t like her. She’s always here.”

“Maybe she just needs space,” Dominique said gently.

Vi shot her a look. “Yeah? Space from what, exactly?”

Mel exchanged a look with Dominique. “Maybe... you?”

Vi scowled but didn’t argue. Because she was starting to think the same thing. She let herself hang around for another hour, pretending to busy herself with emails she didn’t care about, but the pit in her stomach only grew heavier.

By noon, she left, but not without checking Caitlyn’s office one more time — still dark, still cold.

 

By the third day, Vi’s patience was hanging by a thread. She arrived like she owned the damn place, jaw clenched, eyes scanning every face she passed.

She found Mel and Dominique huddled near the conference room and strode straight toward them.

“Where is she?” Vi demanded, hands on her hips. “And don’t give me that personal time bullshit.”

Mel sighed, already looking exhausted. “Vi—”

“No,” Vi snapped. “She’s avoiding me. I know it. I’m not stupid.”

Dominique looked uneasy, but she didn’t deny it.

“She’s not answering my texts,” Vi continued. “Not my calls. Not my DMs. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s looking at my burner accounts anymore.”

“Maybe she just needs space to figure it out,” Dominique tried, gentle but firm.

Vi laughed bitterly. “Figure what out? I didn’t do anything but dance with her.”

Mel gave her a look, one brow raised. “You two danced like the rest of the room wasn’t even there. Everyone felt it. Maybe you scared her off.”

“I just want to know if she’s okay,” Vi said, quieter now. “I’m not... trying to push her, I just want to know.”

Mel’s expression softened. “We know, Vi. But you coming in like a wrecking ball every day probably isn’t gonna lure her back.”

Vi paced away, hands on her hips, muttering, “I’m gonna find her. I swear I will.”

Dominique watched her, voice gentle. “Maybe... just don’t burn the place down trying.”

Vi didn’t answer, but her mind was already racing. She can’t avoid me forever.

 

Caitlyn sent her morning message, the neat, professional kind of lie she could send without thinking twice:

Taking a decompression day. Will update soon.

But she didn’t move from her couch. She didn’t even remember changing out of her dress, except at some point she had — now swaddled in her favorite, threadbare pajamas. Pajamas so soft they’d become shapeless, with a loose t-shirt so oversized it hung off one shoulder. She hadn’t bothered to put her hair up. The pins from the Matilda wig were still in her bathroom sink, a reminder she refused to face.

She stayed bundled up under a lumpy blanket, half-watching some muted documentary about penguins while the weight of everything pressed down harder than her best corset ever could.

And her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

She didn’t have to check it to know who it was. Vi.

Texts, DMs, missed calls. At first, the messages were light. Teasing. Then concerned. Then just persistent. She scrolled through a few, enough to catch:

“Seriously, Cupcake. Just blink. I’ll feel better.”

“I don’t know if you’re ignoring me or if this is some elaborate game of hide and seek, but I’m playing now.”

“If I have to pull a fire alarm to see you again, I’ll do it.”

The ache in her chest deepened. She knew what Vi was waiting for — confirmation. An explanation. A confession Caitlyn didn’t know how to make.

She tightened the blanket around herself, curled up tighter, and let the day pass in a haze of cold tea and silent documentaries.

 

This time she didn’t try to dress it up. She texted in with a short, blunt line:

Personal matter. Taking the day.

The buzzing started almost immediately. She silenced her phone, but the vibrations still thumped faintly on her coffee table — Vi, again and again.

And then a knock.

She thought about pretending she wasn’t home, but she knew that knock — firm, rhythmic. Mel.

“Cait, open up,” Mel called through the door. “I’m not leaving.”

Caitlyn sighed, trudging to the door and cracking it open an inch. She barely had the energy to pretend to be fine.

Mel’s expression softened the second she saw her — pale, exhausted, eyes heavy. “God, you look miserable.”

“Thanks.”

Mel held up a bag of pastries and a coffee. “Bribe?”

Caitlyn let her in.

Mel stepped into the dim apartment and frowned, taking it all in — the blanket nest, the wig on the back of a chair, the untouched food containers.

She set the coffee on the table gently. “Talk to me.”

Caitlyn sat down, wrapping herself back up, staring at the floor. “She knows.”

Mel stilled. “Vi?”

Caitlyn nodded slowly. “She knows Matilda is me.”

“How?”

Caitlyn’s voice was thin. “The balcony. She... she saw me. She called me Caitlyn.”

Mel eased down onto the edge of the couch. “What did she say after?”

“Nothing direct.” Caitlyn glanced toward her silent phone. “But she’s been texting. Calling. Nonstop.”

Mel winced. “She’s worried. You know that, right?”

“I know. I just... I can’t.”

Mel’s gaze was patient but firm. “She deserves to hear from you.”

Caitlyn pulled the blanket tighter. “I’ll figure it out.”

Mel didn’t push. She only nudged the coffee closer. “Please don’t wait too long.”

Caitlyn barely nodded, guilt gnawing her alive as the phone buzzed again.

 

She didn’t send anything that day. She didn’t even pick up the phone.

It kept buzzing, though. Every hour, Vi. Checking in. Sometimes just a “Hey.” Sometimes a longer ramble that Caitlyn didn’t have the courage to read.

By evening, the knock came again — softer this time, followed by Dominique’s gentle voice.

“Caitlyn? It’s me and Mel.”

Caitlyn groaned into her blanket. “I’m fine.”

“We brought food,” Dominique offered. “You didn’t come in. We got worried.”

“Not dead yet,” Caitlyn muttered.

Mel’s voice was quieter this time. “Can we come in? Just for a bit?”

Caitlyn sighed and got up, shuffling to unlock the door.

They stepped in carefully, like they were worried they’d spook her. Dominique had a bag of food, and Mel carried a bottle of wine this time, her eyes scanning the mess and then Caitlyn herself.

“You’ve really been here the whole time,” Dominique murmured, setting the food on the counter.

“She’s been trying to reach you,” Mel said, not unkind. “Vi. She’s been... worried.”

Caitlyn flopped back onto the couch, hands covering her face. “I know.”

“She was at the office again today,” Mel went on. “She thinks you’re avoiding her.”

“I am.”

There was a long, thoughtful pause.

Mel finally sat across from her, voice softer than before. “Is that really what you want? To make her think you don’t want to see her?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer, but her breath hitched.

Dominique sat next to her carefully. “You’re not like this. You’ve never hidden from things. Not even things that scared you.”

Caitlyn’s throat tightened. “This is different.”

“Why?”

She swallowed, eyes hot. “Because if I face her, it’s real.”

Mel leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “She already knows, Cait.”

Caitlyn closed her eyes. “But she hasn’t said it. She hasn’t said it because she’s waiting for me to... and I can’t.”

Dominique touched her arm gently. “We’re not here to push. We’re here because we’re worried.”

Mel’s voice was quiet. “And because she’s not gonna stop coming, Cait. She’ll knock on every door you’ve ever walked through if she thinks it’ll get you to look her in the eye.”

Caitlyn wiped at her face, half-hearted. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Soon, okay?” Dominique said. “She just wants to know you’re okay.”

Caitlyn barely nodded, curling tighter into herself again.

And when the door finally shut behind them, Caitlyn sat there in the dark — still waiting for a courage she didn’t have yet.

Caitlyn stood there for a long moment, just staring at the wood, her apartment heavier now for the absence of company. She should have felt lighter. She should have appreciated the quiet.

But it was loud. Deafening.

The moment the latch set, the weight that had been sitting on her chest for days shifted — not off, but down, pressing until her knees wobbled. She made it to the couch and collapsed onto it, the blanket still crumpled where she’d left it. She didn’t even pull it over herself this time.

She just stared at the ceiling.

She thought if she stayed still long enough, she could hold it all in. That she could keep the panic pressed tight under her ribs, like she always had — packed neat, managed, contained.

But the dance kept replaying. The way Vi’s hand settled warm and certain on her waist. The way Vi had looked at her like she knew. Like Caitlyn was a puzzle piece she’d been trying to find and had just snapped into place.

Then that moment on the balcony.
I’ve been looking for you.

And still — still — the buzz of her phone every hour. Every few hours. Vi trying again and again.

Her throat ached with it — with the fear, the guilt, the want.

She sat up too fast, the room spinning, her breath short and shallow. Her body was betraying her. Her heart was too loud. Her thoughts were too loud.

She stumbled to her kitchen, like the simple act of making tea would tether her to the ground. She got as far as putting the kettle on the stove before she gripped the counter, hands shaking.

The thought just would not stop:
She knows. She knows. She knows.

She tried to breathe through her nose, slow and deep like she’d taught herself to do under pressure. But her chest just stuttered. The air wouldn’t fill her right.

The kettle whined faintly. She turned it off without pouring a drop.

And then, like the panic had nowhere else to go, it broke.

Her knees gave, and she slid down the cabinet to the floor, hands buried in her hair, her breath hiccuping in her throat — dry and thin. The tears came quiet, just damp warmth she tried to blink away. She didn’t even have the strength to sob, just trembled like her own body was trying to reject her.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered to no one. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

She sniffed, swiped at her face with the sleeve of her pajama shirt, stared at the tile under her feet.

“I don’t even know if she wants me to fix it.”

For a long time, she just stayed there. Until her breathing slowed. Until the tremors passed. Until the dark of her apartment felt less like a cave and more like a shield.

At some point — long past midnight, close to three — she crawled back to the couch. She grabbed her phone, thumb hovering over Vi’s contact. She stared at the unread messages — dozens of them now.

She didn’t read them. She couldn’t yet.

But her fingers moved anyway, fumbling through exhaustion, her pulse low and heavy in her throat.

And she typed:

I’m alive.

That was all.

No explanation. No context.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

Then she let the phone drop to her chest, let her eyes close. The ache was still there, but a little duller now — because at least the silence was broken.

Chapter 24: Emerging

Vi wasn’t even asleep when the message came through.

She’d been half-passed out on her couch, TV still playing something she wasn’t watching, phone in hand just in case. She’d told herself one more hour, just to check, just in case Caitlyn cracked.

When the buzz hit at 3:12 AM, Vi’s eyes snapped open like she’d just heard a gunshot.

I’m alive.

Vi sat up so fast her neck cracked.

“That’s it? That’s what you’re giving me?” she muttered aloud, staring at the screen. But her heart was racing. She was pissed and relieved and—god—so fucking glad to hear something.

She almost called right then, thumb hovering over the icon, but she stopped herself. The time caught her eye — three in the goddamn morning. Caitlyn’s insomnia hour. It wasn’t an invitation. It was... something. A breadcrumb.

Vi stared at the text. She re-read it about eight times, scowling, whispering to herself, “You’re alive? Yeah, no shit. But where the hell have you been?”

She wanted to fire back a hundred things — snarky, desperate, biting — but somehow she knew if she pushed too hard, Caitlyn would vanish again.

Instead, she just typed:

Good.
I’ll see you soon.

And she meant it. Because she wasn’t waiting anymore.

 

The next morning Vi was already in the office by the time Dominique walked in.

Mel raised an eyebrow when she spotted her. “You sleeping here now?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Vi muttered, eyes flicking to the elevators every time the bell dinged.

“You know she’s probably not gonna—”

“She’s coming,” Vi cut in. “She texted me.”

Mel blinked. “At what hour?”

“Three. A.M.”

“Oh, that’s healthy.”

Vi kept pacing. “She said she’s alive. That’s something. And I’m not letting her ghost me again.”

Dominique made a quiet bet with Mel that Caitlyn wouldn’t show, but they kept it between them.

And then — just before ten — the elevator chimed again.

Vi heard the familiar click of expensive heels before she even saw her.

Caitlyn.

In a fitted navy suit, sleeves perfectly cuffed, hair back in a sleek, low ponytail. She looked... good. Not well-rested — Vi could see the exhaustion still under her eyes — but composed, polished, armor on.

She stepped out of the elevator like nothing was wrong, like she hadn’t been MIA for three days, like she hadn’t texted Vi from a black hole at three in the goddamn morning.

And Vi’s heart thumped.

Caitlyn paused when she saw her. She didn’t smile, but her mouth twitched like she wasn’t surprised. She looked... resigned. She’d expected this.

“Hey, stranger,” Vi said, low and steady, all that irritation and need barely masked by her grin. “Look who decided to rise from the dead.”

Caitlyn cleared her throat softly, smoothing her jacket. “I did say I was alive.”

“That’s debatable.” Vi stepped forward, eyes not leaving her. “Three days, Caitlyn. Three.”

“I needed time.”

“Yeah? You know what I did with my time? Stormed this place like six times. Mel was about to install a security system just for me.”

Mel, from her desk: “Still considering it.”

Caitlyn’s gaze flicked to the others, a touch of color rising to her cheeks, but she stood her ground. “I’m here now.”

Vi stopped just short of her, voice quieter. “You gonna keep running? Or are we gonna talk?”

Caitlyn met her eyes. She didn’t look away, but she didn’t answer either.

Mel and Dominique both watched from the sidelines, sensing the air shift — the tension stretching taut between them. The whole office felt it.

Finally, Caitlyn sighed. “My office. Five minutes.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked away, her composure wrapped so tight it looked like it might strangle her.

Vi stared after her, fists flexing at her sides.

Mel muttered to Dominique, “Five bucks says that conversation turns into a shouting match.”

Dominique shook her head. “Ten bucks says it doesn’t even make it that far.”

Vi didn’t care. She’d waited three days. She wasn’t leaving that office without answers.

She followed.

Vi didn’t slam the door, but she closed it with more force than necessary, her hand still on the handle as she stared across the room at Caitlyn.

She didn’t say anything right away — just stared. And Caitlyn stood there, composed but pale, waiting like a soldier about to be dressed down.

Vi breathed out through her nose, pushing her hands into her jacket pockets. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“You wanted to talk,” Caitlyn offered, tentative. “So talk.”

Vi laughed — short, disbelieving. “Yeah, I do. I’ve got... so many questions.” She shook her head, pacing a slow line, the gears clearly turning. “Matilda. It was you. Always you. Since the first goddamn shoot.”

Caitlyn nodded, barely.

Vi stopped pacing. “Why?”

Caitlyn’s mouth parted, but she hesitated, like the answer was heavier than she’d prepared for. “It started as privacy. Control. The brand needed a face that wasn’t mine — someone aspirational, desirable... not the cold CEO.”

“And you decided to be that face anyway,” Vi muttered, half to herself.

“It was easier than trusting someone else to do it right.”

Vi huffed. “Of course it was.”

She looked up at Caitlyn then, eyes narrowed — but not sharp, more searching than anything.

“All that time. I kept thinking Matilda had this... pull. Something familiar I couldn’t put my finger on. But it was you.” She stared harder, like seeing Caitlyn for the first time again. “You were right there the whole time.”

Caitlyn’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

Vi let out a laugh — quiet, flat. “You didn’t want me to find out at all.”

Silence.

“But I gotta ask,” Vi continued, softer but still pointed. “Was it you that first shoot? The chaise lounge, the crawling...?”

Caitlyn’s cheeks flushed, just slightly. “Yes.”

“God.” Vi ran a hand through her hair, almost smiling despite herself. “No wonder you didn’t say a damn word.”

Caitlyn lifted her gaze at that, cautiously. “You’re not... furious?”

Vi met her eyes, shrugging helplessly. “I mean, a little. You made me feel like I was chasing a ghost. But... I don’t know. I was starting to like you, Caitlyn — not just Matilda. That’s the part that’s screwing me up.”

That seemed to catch Caitlyn off guard — her lips parted, a faint breath catching in her throat.

Vi shook her head. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with all that. But I know this—” She stepped a little closer, gaze steady. “You don’t get to disappear on me again. I spent three days chasing my goddamn tail.”

“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn said, quieter still.

Vi squinted at her. “You mean that?”

Caitlyn’s expression softened. “I do.”

Vi stood there, rocking on her heels, like her body didn’t know whether to stay or leave.

“I’m not gonna lie. Part of me still wants to be pissed. But then I remember the way you danced with me.”

That pulled a look from Caitlyn — a subtle, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“And then the way Matilda danced with me. Which was... alarmingly similar.”

Caitlyn shook her head, shoulders dropping, but not with tension — with relief.

Vi grinned, just a little. “I should be mad. But I think mostly, I’m just... glad it was you.”

They stood there for a beat, that admission hanging between them, not quite light, not quite heavy.

“Next time,” Vi added, “just try saying something. Before I wear a hole in your goddamn office carpet.”

Caitlyn chuckled faintly, the sound so rare Vi’s grin widened. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” Vi turned to leave, then paused with her hand on the door. She glanced back, eyes warm but still teasing. “Oh — and you owe me another dance. As you. No mask.”

She left Caitlyn blinking at the door.

The door clicked shut behind Vi, and Caitlyn just stood there. Silent. Still.

She should have felt relieved — it was done. The confrontation, the reveal, the messy aftermath. And yet her chest felt tighter than it had all three days she’d been hiding in her apartment.

She stared at the door like it might open again. Like Vi might pop her head back in with one last remark, one last grin, one last jab that would leave Caitlyn just as wrecked as that dance had.

But the door stayed shut.

Her knees wobbled. She braced both hands on the desk and sat down hard in her chair, every bone in her body feeling too heavy. She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath until it hissed out of her lungs.

She’s not mad.
She should be mad.
Why wasn’t she mad?

Caitlyn tipped her head back and groaned softly at the ceiling, palms dragging down her face.

God, she’d lied. Lied by omission, by persona, by every damn mask she could put between them. And yet Vi had stood there — not storming, not shouting — but looking at her. With that open, frustrated, fond expression that made Caitlyn feel dangerously exposed.

And then she’d left Caitlyn with a promise.
Another dance.
No mask.

“God,” Caitlyn muttered under her breath, covering her eyes with both hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

She didn’t hear them — the conspiratorial whispers on the other side of her door — but she definitely felt it when the door cracked open without ceremony.

Mel’s voice, dry and unimpressed: “Are you done having an existential crisis or should we come back?”

Caitlyn groaned louder and didn’t even move. “Can’t you just pretend you didn’t hear that?”

Dominique strode in after her, arms crossed, brows high. “Hear what? The shouting? The pacing? Or the very charged silence followed by Vi leaving with her hair all messy?”

Mel stepped in and shut the door behind them, smirking. “You know she’d been parked at the front since 8 AM, right? She was waiting for you like a damn puppy.”

Caitlyn dropped her hands and glared weakly at them. “Don’t call her that.”

“Oh, my bad. A very hot puppy,” Mel corrected.

Dominique smiled slyly. “You’re in deep shit, boss.”

Caitlyn groaned again and buried her face in her hands. “She wants another dance.”

Mel perked up. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s terrifying.”

“Okay, no, what’s terrifying is how long you thought you could actually pull this Matilda shit off,” Mel said, pulling up a chair like she was settling in for a show. “Did you really think no one would notice?”

“I didn’t think Vi would notice,” Caitlyn muttered into her hands.

“Because she’s obsessed with you,” Dominique sing-songed. “She’s been obsessed with both of you.”

Mel grinned. “Congrats. You are the girl of her dreams. Twice.”

Caitlyn let her head fall back against the chair, staring at the ceiling again. “I hate both of you.”

Dominique shrugged. “We love you too.”

They let her sit there, letting the panic spiral settle, while Mel patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Mel said. “She likes you. And now she knows you’re hot and mysterious. It’s a win-win.”

Caitlyn sighed. “You’re both insufferable.”

“We learned from the best,” Dominique grinned.

And despite herself — despite everything — Caitlyn felt the smallest, stupidest smile tug at the corner of her mouth.

Because Vi wanted another dance.

And the terrifying truth?
Caitlyn wanted it too.

Chapter 25: Date maybe

“So, I take it we’re trending,” Caitlyn said flatly, scrolling through the projected headlines on the office screen.

Jayce, seated across the conference table, nodded like he was proud of them. “Trending? Caitlyn, the internet is feral.”

Victor tapped his pen against the table, smiling faintly. “You’re the top article on every fashion and entertainment blog. Both of you, technically.”

“Both of me,” Caitlyn muttered.

“Not just you,” Mel added, grinning. She flipped through her tablet. “It’s Vi too. You and Vi. Matilda and Vi. Every angle. Every moment someone managed to catch of you two — or three, depending how you count — dancing.”

“Public’s obsessed,” Dominique chimed in, eyes bright. “They’re making edits. Fan-cams. There’s a ship name.”

Caitlyn blinked, suspicious. “There’s a—?”

“Yeah,” Jayce cut in, way too pleased. “It’s CaitVi.”

Mel snorted. “Or ViTilda, if you’re nasty.”

“I hate all of this,” Caitlyn groaned.

Victor, patient as ever, gestured at the data on the screen. “Regardless of your feelings, this is free marketing. We’ve had a ten percent uptick in site traffic and product searches just from the photos alone.”

Jayce nodded eagerly. “We should capitalize. A feature. Another photoshoot. People want to see this.”

Caitlyn made a face. “You want me to dress up as Matilda again?”

Victor shook his head. “Not necessarily. But you with Vi? That sells itself.”

Dominique grinned. “Or better yet, go out in public together. Give them something candid. Keep the mystery alive.”

Mel gave Caitlyn a knowing look. “You did say the brand needed buzz.”

Caitlyn crossed her arms, pretending to think — but truthfully, she was already picturing it. Not just the optics. But Vi. Laughing. Grinning. Hands on her hips, tugging her closer.

She pressed her lips together to fight a smile.

“So what I’m hearing,” Mel teased, “is you wanna ask her out.”

“I’m hearing that too,” Dominique added.

Caitlyn shot them a glare, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

Jayce clapped his hands together. “It’s settled! Dinner, drinks — maybe somewhere with a dance floor. Let the rumors keep spinning.”

Victor nodded approvingly. “It’s strategic. Controlled.”

Mel grinned wide. “And if it’s a date? Even better.”

Caitlyn sighed, defeated. “Fine. I’ll... reach out.”

The room collectively smirked like a pack of cats.

“You’re all very irritating,” Caitlyn muttered.

Mel leaned in. “And yet? You love us.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but the blush didn’t fade. She was already drafting the invite in her head.

Caitlyn stared at the blank email draft like it personally offended her.

Mel kicked her office door closed with her heel and crossed her arms. “You’ve been hovering over that thing for thirty minutes. Either send it or I’m doing it for you — and I’ll definitely make it sound flirty.”

“I’m not hovering,” Caitlyn muttered.

Dominique leaned against the desk, grinning. “You absolutely are. You typed ‘Hello’ twelve different ways and deleted them all.”

“Because it’s— it’s not a date, it’s—”

“Public image,” Mel said, voice dry.

“Business dinner,” Dominique added with a grin.

“Exactly,” Caitlyn nodded, relieved.

Both of them rolled their eyes so hard Caitlyn swore she could hear it.

“Okay, fine,” Mel said. “But hypothetically, if it was a date… what’s the harm? She wants to see you.”

“Because—” Caitlyn gestured vaguely at the laptop, “Because I don’t know what to say. What version of me she’s saying yes to.”

Dominique gave her a look. “Both. It’s both. She knows it now.”

“She danced with you,” Mel added. “At the gala. Without the mask. That wasn’t Matilda.”

Caitlyn groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “You’re both very annoying.”

“And you’re stalling.” Dominique snatched the laptop, skimmed what little Caitlyn had written, then shoved it back toward her. “Just ask her out. Dinner. Public. Fancy enough she knows it’s you making an effort.”

Mel grinned. “Bonus points if there’s a dance floor.”

Caitlyn sighed, flexed her fingers like she was about to perform surgery, and finally started typing.

Vi,

I wanted to reach out about the recent interest in the gala photos. There’s clearly public demand for more appearances — and it might benefit the brand for us to be seen together again.

If you’re amenable, I’d like to invite you to dinner. There’s a venue I have in mind — the kind that offers good food and a dance floor, should the mood strike.

Let me know.

— Caitlyn Kiramman

She stared at it, considered adding something playful, then immediately deleted it and hit send before she could lose her nerve.

Mel and Dominique watched the whole thing in dead silence.

When the email whooshed off, Mel clapped her hands once. “Finally.”

Dominique peeked over Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Wow. That was the most formal invitation to flirt I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not flirting,” Caitlyn muttered.

“You’re so flirting,” Dominique grinned.

And Caitlyn couldn’t even deny it.

 

Vi’s phone buzzed against the coffee table, and she ignored it at first — she was halfway through a rerun and half-heartedly scrolling her FYP. But the name flashing across the screen caught her eye.

Caitlyn Kiramman.

Vi didn’t even pretend to play it cool. She snatched the phone up, heart already thudding, and thumbed the notification open without a second thought.

She read the email once. Then again. She sat up straighter, squinting like the words might shift if she looked harder.
Dinner. A place with a dance floor.

A slow grin tugged at her mouth, equal parts smug and excited.
“Look at that,” she muttered. “She remembered.”

Because Vi had said it, hadn’t she? She’d told Caitlyn she owed her a dance — a real one, as herself, not hiding behind Matilda’s mask. Vi might’ve said it to get under her skin, but some part of her meant it.

And here it was. An invite, dressed up polite and professional, but Vi knew a hand being offered when she saw one.

She sat back, still staring at the screen, lips twitching with a grin she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. She could still feel the ghost of that last dance — the weight of Caitlyn’s waist under her hands, the way her body gave just slightly before she’d pulled away. Like she’d wanted to stay.

Vi wasn’t going to let her get away this time.

She tapped out her reply, short and easy:

Caitlyn,

Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Vi

 

Vi stared at the screen a second longer, then chuckled to herself. “Took you long enough.”

She stood up, stretching her arms over her head, and her grin sharpened as her mind spun ahead to the night itself — the music, the lights, Caitlyn finally standing in front of her without any masks or costumes between them.

“That’s your dance, cupcake,” she muttered. “And I’m cashing it in.”

She tossed her phone onto the couch and headed off to find something to wear — something sharp, something that’d make Caitlyn look twice.

Because if this was her dance, Vi was gonna make damn sure it was one Caitlyn couldn’t forget.

Chapter 26: Date definitely

Vi showed up early.
Not because she was nervous — or that’s what she told herself — but because if Caitlyn Kiramman was going to waltz into a place like this, Vi wanted the full view.

The restaurant was upscale without being stuffy. Golden light in hanging glass fixtures, velvet booths, the low murmur of wealth that knew how to stay quiet. The dance floor was set in the center, lacquered and gleaming, a live jazz band already tuning up on the stage nearby.

Vi had dressed up — blazer sharp enough to cut, black slacks that actually fit her thighs (miracle), and a silk shirt she’d debated for twenty minutes. Hair styled on purpose for once. She’d even worn real cologne — the good kind.

She’d barely been there five minutes when the energy shifted. She didn’t need to see her to know Caitlyn had arrived.

The hostess at the front straightened just a little too eagerly, patrons turned heads under the guise of sipping wine, and Vi sat back in her chair, smirking to herself.
When Caitlyn appeared at the edge of the dining floor, Vi’s smirk faltered.

She was stunning.
Midnight blue dress, slim cut but modest, glittering like a ripple of stars when she walked. Hair swept up but soft around her face, and a pair of earrings that caught the low lights like they’d been designed just for her.

Vi let out a low whistle as Caitlyn approached.

“Well, shit,” Vi said as Caitlyn reached the table, “I thought I was prepared for this. I was not.”

Caitlyn arched an elegant brow, lips curved just barely. “I did warn you.”

Vi stood up, offering a dramatic, half-mocking bow. “Miss Kiramman. You look ridiculous.”

Caitlyn blinked, confused, until Vi grinned and clarified, “Ridiculously good. And I don’t even have to squint past a mask this time.”

That earned the tiniest, most satisfying smile. Caitlyn stepped forward like she might be about to say something clever — but instead, she paused, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, gaze soft but searching.

“You clean up well yourself,” Caitlyn murmured, eyes flicking down Vi’s frame and back up with precise calculation.

Vi’s grin turned lopsided. “I do try when royalty invites me out.”

“Hardly royalty,” Caitlyn replied, smoothing a hand down the side of her dress, almost self-conscious. “Shall we sit?”

“Nah.” Vi stepped closer, grinning. “You already owe me something.”

Caitlyn’s brow furrowed — then realization hit, clear in the way her mouth twitched, fighting a smile.

“A dance,” Caitlyn said.

“Damn right.” Vi offered her hand. “I’m here to collect.”

For a heartbeat, Caitlyn hesitated. But then, with a sigh that was more amused than reluctant, she slipped her hand into Vi’s.

The contact sparked something, like it always did — like it had before, even when Vi hadn’t known it was her. She led Caitlyn out onto the floor, the band easing into a slow, steady rhythm.

Vi turned to her, hand at her waist, other clasping Caitlyn’s. “We’re not in front of your mother this time.”

“No,” Caitlyn said, voice low, amused. “But the whole city’s watching.”

“Good.” Vi pulled her just a touch closer. “Let ‘em.”

And then they were moving — easy, instinctual. Caitlyn didn’t trip, didn’t stumble, didn’t overthink her steps. She let Vi guide her, their bodies fitting together like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Vi tried not to grin too hard. She tried not to stare at the curve of Caitlyn’s neck, or the flush creeping up her throat.
Tried.

“You always this good at playing both sides?” Vi asked, voice just loud enough for Caitlyn to hear. “By day, stone-faced CEO. By night, masked siren.”

Caitlyn huffed softly. “You’d be surprised what people can be when no one’s watching.”

Vi’s grin sharpened. “I’ve got a few guesses. But I’d rather you show me.”

That made Caitlyn laugh — quiet, genuine. It was a sound Vi wanted to hear again. And again.

They spun once, twice, the band lilting around them. Other couples circled nearby, but Vi only saw Caitlyn — the barest shimmer of her dress, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the slight squeeze of her hand when Vi spun her lazily back into place.

They were close.
Close enough that Vi could see where Caitlyn’s lipstick had worn down a little from the wine she’d probably had before arriving. Close enough to smell her perfume — expensive, elegant, just a little sharp.

Vi swallowed hard, realizing her heart was pounding.

Caitlyn’s gaze flicked up, catching her staring — and for once, Caitlyn didn’t look away.

Neither of them did.

The band shifted tempo — a little slower, a little moodier. But Vi didn’t let go. If anything, she pressed in just slightly, just enough that Caitlyn had to choose: either pull back or settle into the space Vi was giving her.

She settled.

Vi smiled to herself. “You’re not bad at this.”

“Dancing?” Caitlyn asked lightly.

“Yeah. Or, you know… letting someone get close.”

Caitlyn scoffed under her breath, but her grip didn’t loosen. “I’ve had practice.”

“Bet you have.” Vi’s voice dropped lower, her grin sharp but her eyes soft. “Just didn’t know I was practicing with the same person both times.”

That earned her a low sound — amusement with a thread of guilt knotted inside. Caitlyn didn’t answer, but her thumb, where it rested against Vi’s hand, traced one absent, thoughtful circle.

Vi caught it. Filed it away.

They kept moving — slow, smooth — like they’d done this dozens of times before. Like Vi hadn’t only just found her, and Caitlyn wasn’t still figuring out if she could be found.

“You know,” Vi murmured, “when I said you owed me a dance as yourself, I didn’t think I was being that literal.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched. “I’m very precise.”

Vi chuckled, her gaze flicking down to Caitlyn’s mouth, then dragging back up to her eyes. “Yeah. I noticed.”

They drifted to the edge of the dance floor without thinking, still holding on even when the song ended, like neither of them wanted to break the spell just yet.

But Caitlyn did, gently stepping back first — smoothing her dress, recovering just that tiny inch of distance.

“Shall we eat?” she asked, her voice careful, as if her pulse wasn’t also just a little fast.

Vi wanted to pull her back in. But she also wanted to see how Caitlyn carried herself when she wasn’t in Matilda’s skin — in a restaurant instead of a ballroom, sharing food instead of steps.

She offered her arm with a cocky grin. “Lead the way, boss.”

Caitlyn took it — and didn’t let go until they reached the table.

The waiter barely finished setting their menus down before Caitlyn ordered a wine for the table — not even a glance at the list. She just knew. Vi watched her do it, leaning back in her chair, chin in hand, eyes dancing.

“Look at you,” Vi said, grin slow and warm. “Not even pretending to think about it.”

“I like knowing what I want,” Caitlyn replied smoothly.

Vi hummed. “Yeah. That much is obvious.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked up at that, catching the edge of flirtation — she didn’t rise to it, not verbally, but she sat just a little straighter, like she’d filed it away somewhere.

The waiter left them with their glasses and a basket of bread Vi was absolutely not going to ignore. She tore a piece off while watching Caitlyn watch her, until the stare was too blatant to ignore.

“What?” Vi said around a mouthful. “You’re lookin’ at me like I’m gonna break into a sonnet.”

“I’m trying to figure you out,” Caitlyn admitted.

Vi smirked. “Bit late for that.”

“Is it?” Caitlyn tilted her head. “You could’ve walked away when you found out.”

“Please.” Vi laughed, setting her bread down. “You? Dancing around in two personas, making me lose my damn mind? I wasn’t walking away from that.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, but her eyes stayed locked on Vi, curious. “You’re not... angry?”

Vi ran her tongue over her teeth, considering. “I mean, yeah. Little bit. Feels like you stole the answer key to a test I was enjoying failing.”

That surprised a laugh out of Caitlyn — genuine, low, shaded in disbelief.

“You’ve been lying to me,” Vi went on, “but I was falling for both versions anyway. Which... I think says more about me than you.”

Caitlyn watched her, lips parted like she might respond, but nothing came out. She closed her mouth again, gaze dropping briefly to the tablecloth like she was thinking.

Vi leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And I’m still curious. Still got questions. Like…”

She raised a finger.
“Who’s the real you?”
Another finger.
“Why build Matilda in the first place?”
And a third.
“And was it always you? Even that first shoot? Because if so, you’re a damn good liar.”

Caitlyn lifted her wine glass, using it like a buffer, but Vi could see the flush creeping at the top of her ears.

“Yes,” Caitlyn admitted softly. “It was me. Every shoot.”

Vi chuckled to herself, shaking her head as she swirled her wine. “You know, I’m not even mad about the lie. I’m mad that you let me make an absolute ass of myself on that first shoot.”

Caitlyn sipped her wine, feigning innocence. “You weren’t an ass.”

“Please.” Vi laughed, pointing at her again. “Pose four? I started poking at you. Flirting. Testing your patience. And you just sat there like I was a particularly annoying houseplant.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched. “It was supposed to be silent. Mysterious.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause by pose ten, I knew you were enjoying it.” Vi leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with delight. “I saw that little tell — you’d gasp just barely when you thought no one was watching. Which just made me push harder.”

Caitlyn shook her head, but she was smiling, eyes dipping low with fondness. “I thought I was doing a better job hiding it.”

Vi grinned. “Nah. Not from me. I don’t know how you kept it together, honestly.”

Caitlyn let out a soft breath. “Practice. A lot of... practice.”

Vi laughed into her glass. “Pose nineteen.”

Caitlyn’s gaze sharpened at that, her cheeks coloring just faintly.

“Oh, you remember,” Vi teased, delighted. “That was the chaise lounge. I crawled up onto it, pinned you with a knee between your legs, grabbed your chin—”

“And you smirked like you’d just won a prize,” Caitlyn finished dryly, but her lips curved despite herself.

Vi pointed triumphantly. “Because I had. You went still — but not scared-still. More like... caught.”

Caitlyn’s blush deepened, but she didn’t look away. “I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

Vi’s grin was all teeth. “I wasn’t expecting you to like it.”

Silence stretched for a beat — but it wasn’t heavy. It was charged, a thread between them pulled just tight enough to hum.

Then Caitlyn cleared her throat softly, sitting up straighter. “You were... persistent.”

Vi chuckled, eyes narrowing with playful accusation. “You let me push.”

Caitlyn’s gaze met hers, steady. “I did.”

Vi sat back, slow and satisfied, watching her like she was seeing her for the first time again. “You’re really something, Kiramman.”

Caitlyn tilted her glass in a mock toast. “And you’re relentless.”

They clinked again, smiling now. Easier. Warmer.

Vi set her glass down. “But I wasn’t wrong, was I? About the spark.”

Caitlyn paused — then shook her head once. “No. You weren’t wrong.”

Vi leaned forward again, grin still in place but her voice dropping low. “Didn’t think so.”

Their eyes stayed locked, the air between them thick but not uncomfortable. Just... waiting.
Want.

Chapter 27: Date 2

They ended up sharing a dessert, mostly because Vi swore she wasn’t a dessert person — only to snag a bite off Caitlyn’s plate as soon as it arrived. Caitlyn just arched an eyebrow but didn’t protest, not even when Vi made a delighted sound and immediately stole another forkful.

“Unbelievable,” Caitlyn muttered, pushing the plate halfway across the table in surrender. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I lied,” Vi said, mouth full. “You should’ve known better.”

Caitlyn shook her head with a soft laugh, resting her chin in her hand as she watched Vi like something about this — them — still didn’t feel entirely real yet. She’d spent months standing perfectly still behind a mask, and now Vi was sitting across from her, grinning around stolen dessert, and it was all just... easy.

Vi caught her looking. “What?”

Caitlyn’s lips parted like she’d say nothing — but then she tilted her head slightly, considering. “You really were... relentless. About Matilda.”

Vi’s grin widened. “Not even sorry about it.”

“No, I gathered.” Caitlyn reached for her glass but didn’t lift it, just tapped her fingers against the stem. “I knew you’d be... persistent. But I didn’t think you’d haunt me like that first shoot did.”

Vi leaned in a little, eyes narrowing playfully. “Haunt, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Impossible.”

Caitlyn huffed but didn’t hide her smile. She traced the rim of her glass, thoughtful now. “I had to schedule a solo shoot after that one.”

Vi’s brow quirked. “Yeah? The black leather one?”

“Mhm.” Caitlyn’s gaze dipped. “I didn’t do it for the campaign. Not really.”

Vi sat back, eyes sharpening with interest. “Why’d you do it?”

Caitlyn hesitated, the truth teetering on the edge. “Because I felt like I’d lost control.”

Vi blinked. “Control?”

“That last shoot,” Caitlyn said softly, eyes pinned to her wine glass. “You crawled up on that chaise, climbed over me like you owned me — and I let you. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t want to. And then... it went viral. Edits, gifs, headlines. Everyone was watching that moment — watching me — and I wasn’t in control of any of it.”

She looked up finally, steady but vulnerable. “So I booked the solo shoot. The leathers, the heels, the whole thing. I wanted to... take that power back.”

Vi sat there, fork halfway to her mouth, watching her like she’d peeled open some part of herself Vi wasn’t sure anyone else got to see.

“You were trying to remind yourself you could,” Vi said quietly.

“Yes.”

Vi’s fork hovered mid-air, her brow furrowing as Caitlyn confessed why she'd done that solo shoot. “Wait—that shoot? The one in black?”

Caitlyn nodded slowly, fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Mm.”

Vi set her fork down, a little too hard, her grin curling more wry. “You mean the one that got dropped online without warning? The one where I almost threw my phone across the room because you didn’t even mention Matilda was doing a mini line?”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, eyes dropping as if suddenly very interested in her glass. “That one.”

Vi shook her head, scoffing with mock offense. “You’re kidding me. I was livid! I thought we were done with the mystery drops! I was refreshing my feed like a thirsty idiot and then bam — you, in strappy black underwear, turning away from the camera like we didn’t all just get assassinated.”

Caitlyn huffed a soft laugh, but there was a blush creeping up her neck.

“Then the corset shot — shot from the back like a damn tease — and the baby doll thing cut down to here.” Vi gestured sharply, grinning despite herself. “I had to pace my apartment just to cope. I was like, ‘this woman’s trying to kill me through pixels alone.’”

“You did call Matilda a menace on your story,” Caitlyn admitted.

“Yeah, and I meant it!” Vi grinned, shaking her head. “I was mad, but not because of the pictures. I was mad because you didn’t tell me. I thought... I don’t know. I thought we’d earned a little... I don’t know, heads up?”

Caitlyn’s smile dimmed just slightly, the weight of the truth lingering between them.

“I couldn’t,” she admitted, voice softer. “It wasn’t just a shoot. I did it because I felt like I was losing control. Like Matilda was supposed to be mine, my mask — but then that last shoot with you, it was like you cracked it open. And everyone saw that. Saw me. So I... I needed to reclaim her. For myself.”

Vi sat back, watching her, her expression gentler now. “Yeah. Okay. I get that.”

Caitlyn blinked. “You do?”

Vi shrugged. “Sure. Doesn’t mean I liked it, but... yeah. You were trying to remind yourself who was in charge.” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You still didn’t have to murder me with those photos though.”

Caitlyn smiled faintly, her eyes warm. “I can’t be blamed for your lack of restraint.”

Vi chuckled, picking up her wine glass and tapping it lightly against Caitlyn’s. “Yeah, yeah. To restraint.”

“To lack of it,” Caitlyn returned, eyes glinting.

They drank, the moment stretching quietly — not awkward, but heavy with everything still unsaid.

Vi’s glass was nearly empty by the time she pushed her chair back, eyes never really leaving Caitlyn. She smiled, slow and deliberate, as she stood.

“Alright,” Vi said, holding out a hand. “I’m calling it. You owe me that dance.”

Caitlyn blinked, caught off-guard by the suddenness of it. “I thought we already—”

“Nah.” Vi shook her head, stepping closer, palm still open and waiting. “You gave me a dance as Caitlyn. I want one as both of you.”

Caitlyn’s breath caught, her pulse jumping. She stared at that hand — calloused, inked, sure of itself — and then up at Vi’s face, full of that insufferable grin and the glint of someone who’d decided they weren’t leaving without what they wanted.

With a soft, almost disbelieving sound, Caitlyn slipped her hand into Vi’s.

Vi’s grin widened, but her touch was careful — guiding Caitlyn out onto the floor, into the low pulse of music that had shifted to something slower, smoother. The kind of song that filled the space between two people if they let it.

Vi didn’t pull her too close right away. She held her by the waist, one hand clasping Caitlyn’s, their bodies just... hovering. That careful not-quite-touch that barely passed for a formal hold. But Vi’s eyes never left her.

“You always this quiet when you’re not playing pretend?” Vi murmured.

Caitlyn swallowed, fingers flexing slightly in Vi’s grasp. “Maybe I just don’t want to ruin the moment.”

Vi chuckled under her breath, but it was low and rough, like even she was hyperaware of the charge zipping between them.

The song carried them, steps slow, Vi guiding but watching for every flicker of permission in Caitlyn’s gaze. And with every step, every gentle sway, they drifted closer. It was easy. Natural. A little dangerous.

Vi’s hand slipped lower at Caitlyn’s back, fingertips grazing the fabric there. She felt Caitlyn tense — just a little — but she didn’t pull away.

“Y’know,” Vi said, voice husky but soft, “I’ve been staring at you all night thinking finally.”

“Finally what?” Caitlyn’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Finally I see you. All of you.” Vi’s gaze flicked down to her lips, then back up. “And you’re still... you.”

That pulled something taut between them. Caitlyn’s breath hitched, like she was fighting some instinct to step back, to retreat again — but Vi’s hand stayed gentle at her back, her grip easy to break.

She didn’t break it.

Instead, Caitlyn whispered, “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

Vi’s grin softened. “Doesn’t matter.”

And that was it — the breath between them collapsed, and Vi kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a claim or a dare. It was warm, tentative at first, like Vi wanted to make sure Caitlyn wouldn’t bolt. She didn’t. Her hand even tightened just slightly at Vi’s shoulder, grounding herself there.

Vi deepened it just a little — lips coaxing, not taking — and when Caitlyn kissed her back, tentative but real, Vi nearly smiled into it.

It was the kind of kiss that said I see you, I still want you, without either of them having to admit it out loud.

When they finally broke apart, the music still humming around them, Vi rested her forehead against Caitlyn’s. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

Caitlyn’s eyes were still closed, her breathing shallow. “You really don’t know how dangerous that is.”

Vi chuckled. “Good thing I like danger.”

They didn’t move — still swaying, still pressed just close enough to feel the warmth between them.

“C’mon,” Vi whispered, smile crooked. “Let me have my moment. Don’t run off yet.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Caitlyn murmured back.

And for now, that was enough.

They stayed on the dance floor just a moment longer, reluctant to let the song — or the closeness — end. But then Caitlyn quietly said, “I think I’m ready to go.”

Vi nodded, swallowing the urge to pull her closer again. “Yeah. Okay.”

They slipped out of the restaurant together, the city air cooler now, humming with distant sounds. For a beat, they just stood there on the sidewalk, the night feeling strangely... still. Like something important had shifted, and neither of them wanted to break it too soon.

Vi rocked on her heels, glancing sidelong at Caitlyn. “I wasn’t lying, you know.”

“About what?”

“That I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t look away. “I know.”

They stood in the quiet of that admission, neither moving to leave, like they both wanted to stay in it just a little longer.

Then Vi smiled, easy but earnest. “Walk you home?”

Caitlyn blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. But she smiled too. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Vi offered her arm, playful, and Caitlyn took it, sliding her hand into the crook with a small shake of her head — fond, amused, just a little bit smitten.

They started walking, slow, the city’s buzz low around them. Neither of them said much. They didn’t need to. The connection — whatever it was, whatever it might become — sat warm and steady between them, no longer running, no longer hiding.

Just walking forward together.

Chapter 28: Statement

Caitlyn barely made it three steps into the office before Mel materialized in her path, coffee in hand and a grin that meant trouble.

“Well, well,” Mel said, voice far too knowing. “Did you enjoy your date?”

Caitlyn blinked, deadpan. “It wasn’t a date.”

Mel laughed. “Right. Because you usually slow dance with your coworkers. Twice. In the same night much less kiss them.”

Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed. “How do you even—”

Mel held up her phone, shaking it slightly. “Because the paparazzi caught it. Along with the stroll home. Whole city’s seen it, Cait.”

Caitlyn’s stomach sank. “No, they didn’t. No one even noticed us leave.”

“Sure,” Mel smirked. “Except for the guy on the corner with the telephoto lens. And the one at the restaurant. And the nosy socialite who sold her phone pics. You’re viral, babe.”

Caitlyn let out a strangled groan. “You’re kidding.”

Mel was already pulling up her tablet. “I wish.”

She handed it over, and Caitlyn’s gut dropped further. There they were — dancing, her mask forgotten, Vi’s hands familiar on her waist. Another blurry shot captured them strolling up Piltover Square, arms loosely linked.

But the worst — or best, depending on who you asked — a high-res, perfectly timed shot through the glass of the restaurant. Vi’s hand curled around Caitlyn’s waist, Caitlyn’s hand on her cheek, just as Vi kissed her on the dance floor.

The headline practically screamed:
“CEO Kiramman and CK’s Viral Star: Business or Pleasure?”

And under it, far too many pictures for comfort.

“They caught everything.” Mel sounded half-exasperated, half-impressed. “Gossip outlets are already in my inbox. They want a statement before noon.”

Caitlyn’s ears burned. “But we didn’t kiss outside! There was one— one kiss, on the dance floor.”

“Sure,” Mel teased, “But the way you were looking at each other on that walk? Whole city’s filling in the blanks.”

Caitlyn slumped into her chair, head in her hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

A knock interrupted them both, and Dominique peeked in. “Vi’s here.”

Caitlyn’s head shot up, heart skipping — whether in panic or something else, she wasn’t sure.

Mel didn’t wait. “Send her in.”

Vi strolled in like she owned the place — hair slightly tousled, grin already forming. “So,” she drawled, “We’re famous now.”

Caitlyn winced. “You saw.”

“Of course I saw. Half my followers have sent me the headline. ‘Scandalous Sapphic Power Couple.’ Catchy.”

Caitlyn groaned again.

Mel snorted. “Glad one of you is enjoying this.”

Vi glanced between them, her gaze settling on Caitlyn. “What’s the move, Cupcake? We issuing a statement?”

Caitlyn hesitated, then sighed. “I’d rather ignore it.”

“That’s not gonna work,” Mel chimed in. “If you don’t say anything, people will run with whatever story they want. Which — right now — is everything from secret engagement to forbidden workplace romance.”

Vi chuckled. “Damn. I didn’t even get to buy her dinner twice yet.”

Caitlyn shot her a flat look, but Vi just grinned wider.

Mel crossed her arms. “We can control the narrative. Just confirm it was a private evening, and politely tell them to mind their business.”

Vi looked to Caitlyn. “You cool with that?”

Caitlyn hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But no specifics.”

“Sure,” Vi said. “We’ll keep ‘em guessing.”

“It’s safe,” Mel shrugged. “You want a flat denial?”

Vi leaned on the table, eyes on Caitlyn. “Do you want to deny it?”

Caitlyn opened her mouth—then hesitated. The image of that kiss — how Vi had looked at her — flashed bright and electric behind her eyes. She closed her mouth again.

“I don’t want to lie,” she admitted.

Mel grinned, like that was her cue. “Then we go vague. ‘CEO Kiramman and Vi are getting to know each other, and ask for privacy regarding their personal lives.’”

Caitlyn pinched her brow. “And that’s supposed to satisfy people?”

“It’ll feed the speculation and buy us time.”

Vi chuckled. “Let ‘em speculate. We look good together.”

Caitlyn shot her a tired glare, but her mouth tugged at a reluctant smile.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Draft it.”

“Already done,” Mel said, spinning the tablet. “Review and approve.”

As Caitlyn skimmed, Vi nudged her shoulder, voice low. “Besides, you do still owe me another kiss.”

Caitlyn glared at her over the tablet. “I owe you nothing.”

Vi just grinned. “You’re right. That one’ll be free.”

Mel groaned. “I just drafted the statement. Don’t make me write a second one.”

Caitlyn tried not to laugh, but it bubbled up anyway — quiet and a little helpless.

She signed off on the statement.

Mel grinned. “Perfect. Let’s go break the internet.”

 

The statement went live within the hour:

“CEO Kiramman and Vi are spending time together and getting to know each other. We appreciate your respect for their privacy at this time.”

Mel hit post with all the finality of a judge’s gavel, then immediately flopped onto the couch with her tablet, ready to watch the world catch fire.

Vi didn’t leave. She stayed seated on the edge of Caitlyn’s desk, her arms crossed, scrolling her phone while side-eyeing Caitlyn, who still hadn’t moved much since reading the final draft of the statement.

“I hate this,” Caitlyn muttered, staring into her untouched coffee. “Why did I agree to this.”

“Because they were going to print it anyway,” Mel said, swiping through the trending tags. “And because the world is ravenous for this. Seriously, Cait — you’re top five trending in three countries right now.”

Caitlyn groaned into her hand.

“On the bright side,” Mel continued brightly, “no one’s got a negative word about Vi. Everyone thinks she’s hot, cool, a sapphic icon, all that.”

Vi grinned. “They’re not wrong.”

Mel threw her a wink. “You’re welcome.”

Caitlyn finally lifted her head just enough to glare at them both. “I wasn’t ready for any of this.”

“Hey, I kissed you,” Vi said, half teasing, half earnest. “At a public place, and you didn't shove me away. That’s like... an invitation.”

“I didn’t know there was a photographer outside!”

“There’s always a photographer outside,” Mel chimed. “Honestly, I’m surprised it took them this long.”

Vi leaned in on her elbows, grinning at Caitlyn like she was enjoying the view.
“You know, I kissed you first. You owed me that dance.”

Caitlyn flushed. “It wasn’t—”

“Say it wasn’t a date,” Vi dared her.

Caitlyn opened her mouth, hesitated... then gave up entirely with a groan, burying her face in her hands.

Vi’s grin widened. “Thought so.”

Mel chuckled, refreshing the feed again. “We’ve got reporters asking for interviews already. Not just you, Caitlyn — they want Vi’s side of things too. Everyone’s obsessed with how this pairing even happened.”

Vi raised a hand and said jokingly, “I’ll give them my statement: ‘She kissed me first. Don’t blame me.’”

“Perfect,” Mel deadpanned. “Let me know when you want that engraved on a plaque.”

Caitlyn slumped back in her chair, flustered, defeated, but secretly—deep down—she was smiling behind her hands. Because Vi was still here, still teasing her, still choosing to be in her orbit despite the chaos.

And that was harder to be embarrassed about.

 

The office was quiet now, the buzz of the day finally faded into the soft hum of evening lights. Vi had lingered, never quite ready to leave Caitlyn’s side—not that anyone was left to notice.

She perched on the edge of Caitlyn’s desk again, that signature cocky grin playing on her lips. “So,” she said, voice low and teasing, “we’re alone now. I’ve been waiting all day to ask—are we dating now?”

Caitlyn looked up from her hands, cheeks flushed, eyes searching Vi’s face as if trying to figure out if this was real or just another one of her jokes.

Before Caitlyn could even answer, she caught Vi’s wrist, pulled her forward, and pressed her lips firmly against hers.

The kiss was quick but electric—fierce enough to say I’m here, soft enough to say don’t stop.

When they pulled apart, Caitlyn’s cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with something hopeful and new.

Vi smirked, breath hitching. “Guess that answers it.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips was unmistakably real. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you,” Vi murmured, leaning in just a bit.

Chapter 29: My Place

By the time the office lights dimmed and the city outside settled into its evening hum, Caitlyn was still at her desk, and Vi was still perched on the edge of it, swinging her foot idly. Neither had much interest in leaving, but neither seemed to know what to say next either.

Vi stretched her arms overhead, a soft groan in her throat. “You wanna get out of here?”

Caitlyn glanced up. “Out where? In case you forgot, the entire city’s apparently invested in who I’m seen with right now.”

Vi smirked, tilting her head. “Not ‘out’ like paparazzi bait. I got a place. Private. Zero photographers.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “I thought you lived to post everything online.”

“Yeah, but not everything,” Vi shot back, grin crooked. “Nobody knows where I live. No tagged locations, no selfies on my couch, nothing. I’ve been careful.”

That... genuinely surprised her. “Why?”

Vi shrugged, eyes briefly dropping to her hands. “Gotta keep something for myself, y’know?”

It was quiet for a beat, but Caitlyn found herself softening. “Alright. Take me to this secret haven of yours.”

Vi’s grin bloomed, full and warm. “Yeah?”

Caitlyn only nodded once. “Just make sure no one follows us.”

“Scout’s honor.” Vi hopped off the desk and stretched again. “I got a guy. He knows how to avoid cameras.”

Mel must’ve arranged it, because when they slipped down the service elevator and out the rear exit, a low-profile car waited—windows dark, driver expressionless. No flashes, no waiting journalists. Just quiet streets, half-lit by street lamps.

The ride wasn’t long, though Caitlyn didn’t recognize the part of the city they coasted into. When the car stopped, Vi hopped out first and held the door for her.

“Here we are,” she announced with a mock bow. “Casa Vi.”

She led Caitlyn up two flights of creaky but well-maintained stairs. The building was older, but not run-down. Just... lived in.

Vi unlocked the door with a small flourish and pushed it open. “Okay, lower your expectations a bit.”

Caitlyn stepped inside—and paused.

It was a small apartment, probably one bedroom, maybe two if she squinted. But it was cozy in a way Caitlyn hadn’t expected. The floors were worn hardwood, the walls painted a warm, dusty gray, and the furniture was mismatched but clearly chosen with care. A couch that looked criminally comfortable, throw blankets tossed casually over the back. Plants crowded the window ledges, all alive and thriving. Art prints—some stylish, some downright nerdy—decorated the walls.

And in one corner, what looked like a makeshift home studio: a quality camera on a tripod, softbox lights, a small backdrop folded to the side. Nearby sat a small but serious-looking gym setup: a weight rack, yoga mat, resistance bands, and a punching bag hanging like a sentinel near the kitchen.

Caitlyn’s eyes roamed the space, absorbing the very Vi-ness of it. “You live alone?”

“Yeah,” Vi answered, flipping on a few warm-toned lights. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

“It’s nice,” Caitlyn admitted, crossing her arms as she stepped further in. “Comfortable.”

Vi looked sheepish, like she didn’t hear that compliment often. “Thanks. I don’t bring people here.”

Caitlyn arched a brow. “Anyone?”

Vi shrugged. “Not unless I really like them.”

That earned her a quick, raised eyebrow—but Caitlyn said nothing, choosing instead to stroll past the studio space, the gym corner, the photos scattered along a shelf—candid shots, some of herself, others of cityscapes, maybe a friend or two.

“I didn’t think you were the plant type,” Caitlyn said dryly, pointing to the leafy corner.

Vi chuckled, scratching the back of her neck. “Yeah, well, they don’t talk back.”

Caitlyn’s mouth twitched. “I’m starting to think that’s why you like me.”

Vi shot her a grin. “Maybe.”

They stood there, watching each other for a moment, the quiet between them soft instead of awkward.

Caitlyn finally exhaled. “So this is what you’re like when the cameras are off.”

Vi stepped a little closer. “Not disappointed, are you?”

“No,” Caitlyn said quietly. “Not disappointed.”

Vi’s grin turned smug. “Good. Didn’t want my first date to be a bust.”

“First date?”

“You kissed me when I asked if we were dating. Feels like the start of something.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but her smile was easier now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still here,” Vi shot back gently.

That silenced her. She was still here.

Vi stepped past her, into the kitchen nook. “You want something to drink? I got water... sparkling water... um. Tap water.”

Caitlyn laughed under her breath. “I’ll survive.”

Vi flashed a grin and started pulling two glasses anyway.

For the first time in days, Caitlyn didn’t feel the weight of the city watching her. Just Vi, in her little sanctuary, like they’d stumbled into some world entirely their own.

Caitlyn accepted the glass of water with a quiet thank you, the clink of glass the only sound for a moment as they stood there, neither quite sure what came next.

She didn’t expect her phone to buzz just then—half-worried it was more headlines or some scandal brewing anew. She thumbed the screen, eyes narrowing at the message.

Mel:

Don’t go home tonight.
Paparazzi all over your block. Like vultures.
Stay somewhere else. Stay hidden.

 

Caitlyn sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Vi clocked the change immediately. “Bad news?”

“Mel says my building is being swarmed,” Caitlyn muttered. “They figured out where I live.”

Vi’s brow furrowed. “Seriously? Already?”

“Apparently.”

There was a long pause before Vi cleared her throat. “You... uh. You can crash here. If you want.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, amusement barely hidden. “I thought you said you didn’t bring people here.”

“I don’t,” Vi said, rubbing the back of her neck again. “But... you’re kind of the exception.”

Caitlyn huffed a soft laugh through her nose, shaking her head. “Lucky me.”

“Yeah,” Vi grinned, half-awkward, half-cocky. “Lucky you.”

Caitlyn looked around again, thoughtful. It wasn’t the penthouse she was used to, but it was warm, and quiet, and—most importantly—safe.

She sighed, finally setting her bag down by the door. “Fine. Just for tonight.”

Vi’s grin widened. “Scout’s honor.”

Caitlyn shot her a look. “You were never a scout.”

“Still counts.”

Caitlyn chuckled softly, then let herself settle onto the couch, sitting primly as if unsure how to be casual in a stranger’s home. Vi watched her from the kitchen, leaning on the counter, enjoying the sight of Caitlyn Kiramman trying to pretend she wasn’t completely out of her element.

“You don’t have to sit like you’re waiting for a board meeting,” Vi teased.

“I don’t exactly lounge in strangers’ homes often.”

Vi crossed the room, plopping onto the couch next to her, a little closer than polite. “Guess you’ll have to get used to it.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Will I?”

Vi just grinned. “I’m counting on it.”

She got a roll of the eyes for that, but Caitlyn’s smile stuck. She wasn’t going anywhere—not tonight. And for once, she didn’t really mind.

Chapter 30: Sleep Over

Caitlyn stood from the couch and stretched, tilting her head toward the bathroom. “Mind if I use your shower? I feel like I’ve got the whole day still clinging to me.”

Vi blinked—caught halfway between ‘be cool’ and ‘oh god she’s gonna be naked in my apartment.’ She coughed into her fist, backing toward the kitchen. “Yeah! Yeah, of course. Towels are under the sink. Uh—water pressure’s a little intense.”

Caitlyn chuckled softly, gathering herself—even though she didn’t exactly have a change of clothes.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Vi stood in the middle of her tiny kitchen, eyes wide, brain short-circuiting.

Caitlyn Kiramman is in my shower.

The thought hit like a slap to the back of the head.

And she didn’t bring anything to change into.

Vi bolted for the bedroom like she was defusing a bomb, throwing open drawers with frantic energy.

“Okay, okay,” she muttered, flinging aside tanks, hoodies, gym shorts, “what the hell does someone like her wear to bed?”

She yanked out an old, washed-thin band tee—black, of course, with some faded graphic she couldn’t remember buying. That’ll hang off her shoulders. That’s hot, right? Right.

Then the shorts—the only pair she owned that were a little too long on her.

“Perfect. These’ll barely count as shorts on her.” Vi paused, mid-imagining Caitlyn’s long legs, those shorts hitting high on her thighs. She shook herself violently. “Focus, idiot.”

Then came the underwear dilemma.

Vi stared down into her pile of black briefs and boxers. Nothing even remotely cute. Just... practical. Comfortable.

“Shit,” she muttered, holding up a pair and turning them over like they might magically morph into something sexy.

She dropped them instantly. Too creepy. She’ll think I’m a creep. Or—

The bathroom door cracked open. “Vi?”

Vi spun around so fast she nearly tripped over herself. “Y-Yeah?”

Caitlyn peeked out, damp hair curling, towel secured tight under her arms. “I, uh... didn’t think this far ahead.”

Vi’s brain: empty. Naked. She’s naked under that towel.

“Oh! Right, yeah, hold up—I got you.”

She grabbed the shirt, the shorts—then hesitated, grabbed a pair of her cleanest black briefs, because surely she’d want something. She stood at the door, holding the bundle like an offering to a deity.

“Here. Shirt, shorts, and... you know. If you want them.”

Caitlyn’s brows rose, mouth twitching. “You brought me your underwear?”

Vi’s face burned. “I—politeness! Hospitality! I don’t know!”

Caitlyn took the pile, eyes sparkling. “Very hospitable.”

“No pressure!” Vi blurted. “You can totally—uh—go commando. Or not! Whatever! Comfortable! Be comfortable!”

Caitlyn bit back a grin. “You’re charming when you’re flustered.”

Vi made a strangled sound and fled back to the couch before she could say something worse.

She sat there, trying very hard not to picture Caitlyn in her shirt, in her shorts, in her underwear.

She failed miserably.

And then Caitlyn walked out—and Vi forgot how breathing worked.

The shirt hung off one shoulder, just long enough to tease the tops of her thighs. The shorts clung in all the right places, sitting indecently high. And barefoot, towel around her neck, hair still damp, Caitlyn looked... annoyingly good.

“You’re staring,” Caitlyn teased.

“Not staring,” Vi muttered. “Recalculating my life choices.”

Caitlyn wandered closer, lips curved slyly. “Does that recalculation include the part where you offered me your underwear?”

Vi groaned, hiding her face in a throw pillow. “It was polite!”

“Oh, sure. Polite.” Caitlyn leaned on the back of the couch, right behind Vi’s head. “Or a convenient excuse to picture me in them?”

Vi peeked out, flushed and flustered. “You’re evil.”

Caitlyn grinned wider. “Come on, Vi. You’ve seen me in less.”

“That was work,” Vi mumbled weakly.

“Was it?” Caitlyn purred. “By pose ten, you looked very invested. By pose nineteen, you had a knee between my legs.”

Vi let out a strangled noise and burrowed deeper into the pillow. “This is harassment.”

“And yet,” Caitlyn hummed, stepping back, “you’re still picturing me in your underwear, aren’t you?”

Vi made a weak little sound.

Caitlyn chuckled on her way to the bedroom door. She paused there, looking over her shoulder, deadly and gorgeous. “For the record,” she said, “they fit perfectly.”

The door shut behind her.

Vi let the pillow slide off her face and stared at the ceiling.

“I’m gonna die,” she whispered to no one.

And honestly? She didn’t even mind.

Vi lay on the couch, still reeling, still roasting alive under the weight of her own thoughts. She stared up at the ceiling like it might offer guidance. It didn’t.

She was halfway to convincing herself to pass out when Caitlyn’s door creaked open.

She looked up—only to see Caitlyn padding out barefoot, hair still damp and messy, that band tee slouching even lower off her shoulder now. She stood there for a second, eyes adjusting to the low light.

Vi sat up immediately. “Hey, you okay?”

Caitlyn crossed her arms loosely, like she wasn’t sure if she was cold or just restless. “I’m fine. Just... you sure about sleeping out here?”

Vi chuckled. “Yeah. Couch and I are old friends.”

“You could’ve joined me,” Caitlyn said casually—but even in the dim light, Vi caught the glint in her eye.

Vi grinned but shook her head. “Nah. Not happening.”

Caitlyn quirked an eyebrow. “Not happening?”

“Yup.” Vi swung her legs off the couch and stood, stretching with an exaggerated groan before stepping past Caitlyn toward the bedroom.

Caitlyn blinked after her. “You’re...?”

Vi emerged with her pillow in hand, smirking as she passed her again. “Getting my backup pillow.”

She plopped back onto the couch, plumping it dramatically.

“I’m not about to share a bed with you on the first night you’re here, looking like that, wearing my clothes,” she said, wagging a finger at Caitlyn. “That’s a trap.”

Caitlyn laughed. “You think I’m luring you?”

“I think,” Vi said, grinning, “I’m too smart to find out.”

Caitlyn lingered in the doorway, amused and maybe a little impressed. “Restraint isn’t exactly your strong suit.”

Vi threw her arms behind her head. “You’re special.”

That caught Caitlyn off guard for a half-second—but she smiled softly, eyes a little warm. “Goodnight, Vi.”

“Goodnight, Cupcake.”

Caitlyn disappeared back into the bedroom. Vi exhaled slowly, letting the grin fall away into something softer.

She could’ve joined her. She wanted to. But... not yet.

She wanted this to last.

Chapter 31: Good Morning

Vi woke up to the smell of her own apartment — cheap coffee and old hardwood, faint laundry detergent — and the unexpected sound of quiet movement from the other room.

For a half-second, she forgot why that mattered.

Then she remembered: Caitlyn. In her bed. Wearing her clothes. Sleeping just feet away.

Vi scrubbed a hand over her face and sat up slowly on the couch, neck aching from the shitty angle she'd passed out in. She caught movement near the kitchen — Caitlyn, standing barefoot on the cold floor, poking curiously at Vi’s sad little coffee maker like it might bite her.

“You’re supposed to let it finish before you pour,” Vi croaked, voice scratchy from sleep.

Caitlyn startled slightly, then turned, already smirking. “I figured that out when half of it sputtered onto the counter.”

Vi groaned, pushing up from the couch. “Shit, sorry. I should’ve warned you. The thing’s got a mind of its own.”

“I gathered.” Caitlyn’s hair was a soft, wavy mess, still a little damp at the ends from her shower the night before. She was drowning in Vi’s oversized band tee, her legs bare down to her knees where Vi’s loose gym shorts hung just a little too high on her thighs.

She looked disgustingly good in Vi’s clothes. Unfairly good.

Vi rubbed at her face, trying not to stare. “I can make something better. Ish. Pancakes, maybe.”

Caitlyn’s brow lifted. “You cook?”

“‘Cook’ is a strong word,” Vi admitted, wandering past her to the cabinets. “I assemble things that resemble breakfast.”

“That sounds... promising.”

Vi glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “Careful. I’m trying to impress you.”

Caitlyn leaned against the counter, crossing her arms — the motion making the hem of Vi’s shirt slip even further off one shoulder. “Well, you’re off to a good start. I got a shower, clean clothes, coffee that may kill me — the essentials.”

Vi chuckled under her breath, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet. “See? Hospitality.”

They worked around each other easily in the cramped kitchen — Caitlyn abandoning the coffee to sit at the tiny counter while Vi poured batter onto a chipped frying pan, humming something low under her breath. For a while, it was just that — the sizzle of batter, the quiet clink of utensils, the occasional chuckle when Vi flipped something poorly.

It wasn’t awkward. Just... easy.

Vi slid a plate of lopsided pancakes toward her, mock-bowing. “For you, my lady.”

Caitlyn picked up her fork, inspecting the stack like it might still be alive. “They’re... unique.”

“Yeah, well, you get what you pay for,” Vi grinned. “Which is nothing. So.”

Caitlyn actually laughed — not a polite chuckle, but something real and warm, catching Vi completely off guard.

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Not terrible.”

“High praise.”

They ate together in companionable silence until Caitlyn sat back, stretching her legs out under the tiny table.

“I don’t remember the last time I had a morning like this,” she admitted softly. “No running late to work. No expectations.”

Vi watched her for a beat. “Me neither.”

Their eyes caught across the table — quiet, but loaded — and Caitlyn gave her a small, almost shy smile.

Then her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, brow furrowing.

“Mel,” she said aloud. “Texted me... paparazzi still outside my place.”

Vi frowned. “Seriously? It’s been all night.”

Caitlyn set the phone down with a sigh. “They’re relentless.”

“You can hang here longer,” Vi offered. “If you want. Or... whenever. Door’s always open.”

Caitlyn looked at her then, eyes soft, like the offer meant more than either of them wanted to admit.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

They stayed like that for a moment — coffee between them, pancakes mostly eaten, and something new sitting heavy in the air. Something comfortable.

Vi grinned lazily. “Besides, you’re technically still wearing my underwear. I gotta keep an eye on it.”

Caitlyn chuckled, flicking a crumb at her. “I’m not giving them back.”

“Yeah,” Vi said, resting her chin on her hand, grinning wider. “I was counting on that.”

 

Caitlyn stood barefoot by the bed, holding up her blouse from yesterday, inspecting it critically.

Vi poked her head in from the hallway, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. “You’re not seriously about to wear that again.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “And what would you have me wear? One of your gym tanks? Maybe that crop hoodie?”

Vi crossed her arms, leaning on the doorframe with a grin. “Look, you’re a high-class CEO. You can’t roll into work looking like you just stumbled out of a one-night stand with your unreasonably attractive girlfriend.”

Caitlyn scoffed, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. “That’s not what this is.”

Vi smirked wider. “Sure, but do you think they’ll believe that when you show up in yesterday’s clothes? That’s literal walk-of-shame attire.”

Caitlyn made a thoughtful noise, still eyeing the blouse. “I suppose the coffee stains don’t help.”

Vi stepped fully into the room, plucking the shirt from her hands with a little shake of her head. “Nope. Hand it over. You’re getting the full hospitality package. Laundry service included.”

“You have laundry service?”

Vi wiggled her brows. “You’re looking at her. Premium. Same-day turnaround.”

Caitlyn laughed, surrendering the blouse. “Fine. But I’m not waiting around all day for it.”

“You won’t have to.” Vi gathered the slacks, too, eyeing the fabric. “These are nicer than anything I own. If I screw them up, you’re never coming back, huh?”

Caitlyn tilted her head with a sly smile. “Depends. You might be worth the dry cleaning bill.”

Vi flushed red immediately, heading for the hallway. “Yeah, okay. This is harassment.”

“You’ve seen me in less,” Caitlyn called after her.

“And you’re never letting me forget it!” Vi shouted back.

 

Vi stood in the laundry nook, clutching a carefully folded stack of Caitlyn’s clothes. On top, nestled like a dark secret, was the infamous lingerie set. She hesitated before unfolding it, her fingers tracing the intricate black lace woven with glimmering gold threads.

The bra was a masterpiece of delicate mesh and floral embroidery, structured just enough to command respect but sheer enough to be tantalizingly forbidden. The matching briefs were a daring blend of vintage elegance and modern boldness, hugging hips like a second skin with gold lace edging that seemed to shimmer with silent power.

She wears this under her suits, Vi thought, her mind racing. Under that cool, untouchable CEO exterior, this is what’s really holding her up—this murder lingerie, this secret armor of seduction and strength.

Her heart sped up, imagining Caitlyn slipping out of a sharp blazer after a long day, revealing those delicate pieces, the way the gold thread would catch the light just right.

Vi smiled to herself, a little breathless. “No wonder she’s so damn captivating.”

Vi emerged from the laundry room, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Your murder lingerie is officially in the wash.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Murder lingerie? That sounds… ominous.”

Vi sauntered over, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, it’s exactly what it sounds like. The kind of lingerie that could take down an empire—or at least a CEO.”

Caitlyn smirked and leaned in, planting a quick, playful peck on Vi’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

Vi’s breath hitched, eyes darkening with something deliciously charged. She couldn’t help the image flashing through her mind—Caitlyn, poised and powerful, wearing that dangerous lingerie beneath her suits, every curve wrapped in silk and lace made to kill. “Guess I’m gonna have to keep my guard up around you.”

Caitlyn just smiled—dangerously beautiful and completely in control. “Good luck with that.”

Vi’s grin deepened, voice low and teasing as she leaned in close. “Though… I might like getting caught.”

Chapter 32: Fan Wars

Caitlyn tugged on her blouse, buttoning it up with careful precision, and checked herself in the mirror. The clothes were clean, but the memories clung to the fabric — the smell of Vi’s detergent, the way her underwear still felt a little scandalous under the sleek exterior. She smoothed down the blouse, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the living room.

Vi was waiting, already dressed in her usual casual layers, but grinning like she had a secret.

“Ready?” Caitlyn asked.

Vi grabbed her keys off the counter and spun them on her finger. “More than ready. I hope you trust me.”

“Why would I need to trust you just to get to work?”

Vi’s grin sharpened. “Because we’re not taking a cab.”

She stepped aside to reveal her helmet resting on the couch. Caitlyn’s eyes dropped to it, then flicked up sharply.

“No,” she said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” Vi sang, already pulling her jacket on. “We’re taking my bike.”

“You ride a motorcycle.”

“Uh, yeah.” Vi snapped the chin strap of her helmet. “How else do you think I get around? TikTok fame doesn’t pay for Ubers.”

Caitlyn stared at her, weighing her dignity against practicality — and time. The thought of pulling up to work on a bike, wind in her hair, clinging to Vi's back... it was ridiculous. And yet, the glint in Vi’s eye was daring her to refuse.

“Fine,” Caitlyn sighed. “But if I die, it’s on you.”

Vi tossed her a spare helmet. “If you die, at least you’ll look hot doing it.”

Out on the curb, Vi swung onto her matte black motorcycle with effortless ease, revving the engine just enough to make it purr. Caitlyn stared a beat longer, then climbed on behind her — carefully, awkwardly, like someone who’d never straddled anything in public before.

“Put your arms around me,” Vi called over the rumble of the engine.

Caitlyn hesitated — then rested her hands lightly on Vi’s hips.

“Tighter,” Vi teased. “Unless you want to slide right off.”

With an exasperated groan, Caitlyn looped her arms around Vi’s waist, trying not to think too hard about it. Vi’s body was warm and solid, her grin almost audible even with her helmet on.

“Hold on, Cupcake,” Vi chuckled, revving the throttle. “This is gonna be fun.”

They took off, the wind rushing past, Caitlyn gripping Vi tighter than she intended. The city blurred around them, buildings whipping by, and despite herself, Caitlyn laughed — loud and unguarded, the sound whipped away by the air.

She hadn’t felt this reckless in years.

By the time they pulled up to the corporate building, Caitlyn’s hair was a windblown mess, cheeks flushed with both cold and thrill. Vi killed the engine and twisted around, smirking behind her helmet.

“See? Not dead.”

Caitlyn pulled her helmet off, shaking her hair back into some semblance of control. “No, but my reputation might be.”

“Worth it,” Vi winked.

They strode into the building together, and if people stared — well, Caitlyn was used to that. What she wasn’t used to was the flush in her cheeks and the grin she couldn’t quite suppress.

Mel met them in the lobby, eyebrows arching. “Motorcycle? Really?”

Vi just shot her finger guns. “You’re welcome.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. “We’re here. Let’s work.”

The conference room was already buzzing when Caitlyn and Vi stepped inside. Mel was at the head of the table, tablet in hand, Dominique and Victor flanking her with their own devices. Jayce was still settling in, but the screens on the wall already displayed headline after headline.

Gossip sites. Fashion blogs. Paparazzi shots. And trending polls.

Mel barely looked up. "Morning, lovebirds. Have a seat."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "Is that our official title now?"

Mel smirked. "You should be grateful. I've seen worse."

Caitlyn sighed, smoothing her jacket as she sat. "Let's just get on with it. What's the damage?"

Mel swiped to the first slide: a collage of Vi and Caitlyn's public appearances, side by side with the now-viral gala photos. And right next to them—fan edits of Vi and Matilda from their first shoot.

"First off," Mel began, tapping the screen, "public loves you two. The statement worked, the majority response is positive, but there's... factions."

She swiped again, revealing a pie chart labeled Public Sentiment Breakdown.

"We've got Team CaitVi, all in on the IRL couple. Plenty of hearts, lots of support. Then there's Team ViTilda—hardcore shippers, convinced your chemistry with Matilda is unmatched."

Vi whistled low. "Not wrong."

Caitlyn glared at her. "You're not helping."

Mel chuckled. "Then there's the conspiracy theorists. People who are dead-set on Matilda being you, Caitlyn. They're dissecting every photo, every frame, every interaction."

Jayce shook his head. "Because the internet has nothing better to do."

"Exactly," Mel grinned. "But hey, free publicity. Now, here's where it gets fun."

She tapped to the next slide—a poll screenshot with tens of thousands of votes.

Who does Vi belong with?

Caitlyn Kiramman ❤️

Matilda 🖤

Both. Definitely both. 🔥

 

The 'Both' option was winning by a landslide.

Vi chuckled, kicking her feet up on the chair next to her. "So when do I get both?"

Caitlyn shot her a look, cheeks tinged pink. "Not in this building."

Mel cleared her throat with a smirk. "Glad you asked. The fan demand is clear—so, we spin it. We schedule a Matilda comeback shoot. Give the people what they want: more ViTilda chemistry on camera."

Dominique chimed in, grinning. "And it'll drive traffic back to CK. We can soft-launch a new line under Matilda, keep the mystery alive."

Caitlyn crossed her arms, contemplative but intrigued. "And public appearances?"

Mel shrugged. "You two keep doing you. The more the public sees CaitVi, the more the fantasy of ViTilda thrives in contrast. It's a win-win."

Victor added, "Plus, it throws the conspiracy theorists off. Feed the mystery. They'll keep guessing."

 

They’d gathered in the design boardroom—fabric samples and moodboards spread across the table like a war council. Caitlyn stood at the head of it, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. Beside her, Vi leaned back lazily in a chair, one foot hooked on the seat, grinning like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Mel was flipping through a digital lookbook, Dominique scribbled notes, and Victor scrolled through his tablet checking early press mock-ups.

“People are eating up the Vi and Caitlyn headlines,” Mel summarized, “but we’re getting just as much traffic on the Matilda edits. They want a comeback shoot.”

“They want Matilda,” Dominique added, “but with Vi. Side by side, same heat.”

Victor tapped his screen. “And if we don’t deliver, people will just keep recycling the last shoot. We should control the narrative with something intentional.”

Caitlyn sighed. “Fine. But it needs to be different. The last shoot was... fire and ice. Distance, tension. I’m not doing the same thing twice.”

Vi hummed, pretending to ponder, though she absolutely wasn’t pretending. “Then flip it.”

Caitlyn glanced at her, skeptical. “Flip what.”

Vi grinned. “Last time, I pinned you.”

The room got just a bit quieter.

“What if this time... Matilda’s the one doing the pinning? Seems fair. She’s the big bad dominatrix now anyway.”

She said it mostly to tease—but when Caitlyn didn’t immediately shoot her down, Vi’s grin grew.

“C’mon,” Vi leaned forward, chin propped in her hand. “The fans want a rematch. Last time I climbed you like a jungle gym. This time you knock me flat.”

Dominique perked up, pointing her pen. “Actually, that contrast works. The last shoot had Vi in control—the seducer. If Matilda turns the tables, that’s a whole new dynamic.”

Mel snapped her fingers. “We could build a ‘power shift’ theme. Not just poses, but styling. Vi in something more vulnerable, Matilda sharper, darker.”

Victor nodded. “Balance the visuals. The last was ice and fire. Let this one be... steel and velvet. Hard and soft.”

Caitlyn’s lips twitched at that, considering. She was quiet long enough that everyone paused to see if she’d shut it down.

Instead, she said, “I’d need final say on the styling.”

Mel grinned. “Obviously.”

“And the choreography of the shoot,” Caitlyn continued. “If Matilda’s in power, I want her to look it.”

Vi laughed under her breath. “Someone’s invested.”

Caitlyn shot her a flat look. “You suggested it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d like it.”

“Shut up,” Caitlyn muttered, though her cheeks colored slightly.

Mel clapped her hands. “Okay, so: steel and velvet. Matilda pins Vi. Flip the script. Sharp tailoring for Matilda, softness for Vi—without compromising her edge.”

“We’ll moodboard this,” Dominique confirmed, scribbling notes. “Textures, lighting, poses. Flip the dynamic but keep the tension.”

Caitlyn nodded slowly, already mentally arranging the shots. “Good. Let’s aim for two weeks.”

Vi stretched, smirking. “You sure you’re up for it, Cupcake? You’ve got to commit if you’re gonna step on me.”

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tempt me.”

The room burst into laughter, and Caitlyn’s eyes flicked back to the moodboard—but her mind was already elsewhere.

Already imagining exactly how she was going to pin Vi down.

Chapter 33: Tethered

Caitlyn stood over the drafting table, pencil in hand, surrounded by swatches of silk, mesh, and matte jersey. The moodboard was projected on the wall: a collage of chiaroscuro lighting, structured silhouettes, and just enough skin to imply power without sacrificing taste. Across the top, in bold serif font:

TETHERED

Dominique sketched alongside her, already roughing out garment lines with clinical precision. Viktor and Mel lounged nearby, quietly debating marketing taglines. It was a process. Structured. Controlled.

Until Vi wandered in, smoothie in hand, acting like she belonged there.

"Heard there was a fashion emergency," Vi announced, hopping up onto the corner of the table, her bare knee dangerously close to Caitlyn’s fabric samples. "I assume my role is to look hot and offer terrible ideas."

Caitlyn didn't look up. "You weren't invited."

"And yet. Here I am." Vi slurped obnoxiously on her straw. "What are we calling this one?"

Viktor tilted his tablet toward her. "Tethered."

Vi's grin spread. "Kinky."

Caitlyn sighed sharply through her nose, dragging the pencil in a clean, cutting line down her sketch. "It’s about control and connection. Not whatever debauchery you’re envisioning."

"Right, right. Control," Vi echoed. "Like how you’re absolutely going to put me on my knees again."

"With better posture this time," Caitlyn muttered, flipping to a new page.

Dominique was already translating Caitlyn’s intent into shape: a deep, structured bodysuit for Matilda. Sheer side panels, built-in corsetry for silhouette, but smooth and modern. Long matte silk gloves. A redesigned mask—sleek, faceted, commanding.

"Stilettos or boots?" Dominique asked.

"Stilettos," Caitlyn answered immediately. "Sharp. Clean. She should look untouchable."

"And me?" Vi asked, chin propped on her fist. "What humiliation couture am I getting?"

Caitlyn looked her dead in the eye. "Soft silk blouse. Deep neckline. High-waisted tailored shorts. Barefoot."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "Barefoot? Kinky."

Mel, without looking up from her phone: "It's contrast. Power imbalance. Read a book."

"We need texture contrast too," Dominique said. "Matilda's in structured lines. Vi should look... touchable. Soft but unruly."

"Story of my life," Vi muttered.

Caitlyn kept sketching, her strokes sharp and intentional. "She'll wear a delicate chain. Just the necklace. No other jewelry."

Vi perked up. "No collar? Missed opportunity."

"This is a luxury brand, not a strip club," Caitlyn snapped.

Vi grinned wider. "Says the woman designing thigh-highs and masks."

Dominique chimed in, flipping her sketchbook. "Pose ideas?"

Caitlyn didn’t hesitate. "First, Matilda standing. Vi seated on the floor at her feet, arm resting on Matilda's knee. Direct gaze up."

She flipped the page. "Second, close-up. My—Matilda's gloved hand tipping Vi's chin. Direct eye contact. Still."

"I like it," Mel said. "We need one more. Something dynamic."

Caitlyn's pencil hovered, then moved. "Matilda behind Vi. One hand covering her eyes. The other... here." She marked the waist. "Possession without force."

Vi let out a low whistle. "Damn. Thought you weren't into performance art."

Caitlyn, not looking up: "This isn't art. It's inevitability."

Vi kicked her feet idly. "Do I get a safe word, boss?"

Caitlyn looked up just enough to level her gaze at Vi, her mouth curving into the faintest smirk. "You're lucky I haven't designed a muzzle. Yet."

Vi's grin widened, undeterred. "Bet you want me quiet. Good luck with that."

Viktor muttered to Mel, "Do we need to schedule the set fumigation after or just assume the tension burns it down?"

Mel: "Oh, it's already on the calendar."

Caitlyn snapped her sketchbook closed. "We're shooting in three days. Don't be late."

Vi smirked, lazy and dangerous. "I'll only be late if you make me."

Caitlyn looked her dead in the eyes. "You'll be on your knees if I have to."

The room was very, very quiet.

Then Viktor cleared his throat. "So. Marketing copy? Or should we just write hot people, power struggle, buy our shit?"

"Leave," Caitlyn ordered.

Everyone moved. Fast.

Vi stayed perched on the table, grinning. "You're really gonna wreck me, huh."

Caitlyn gathered her sketches, not looking up. But she heard it—the challenge, the invitation, the certainty in Vi's voice. And for just a breath, Caitlyn allowed herself to imagine it: Vi laid out exactly how she'd drawn it, breathless, eyes defiant but yielding.

"That was the plan," she said, voice low. And she didn't need to look up to know Vi was still smiling.

Vi hopped off the table then, stretching her arms overhead. "You done with work for the night, boss?"

Caitlyn eyed her warily. "Why?"

"Because I’m kidnapping you," Vi said, already walking backwards toward the door. "Come on. You need a break. And I need to prove to you that not every date has to end in a corporate hostage situation."

Against her better judgment—and because the idea of quieting Vi anywhere other than the office was dangerously appealing—Caitlyn followed.

And Vi held the door open, grinning like she'd won something.

 

The rooftop bar was all glass and steel and sky.

Vi guided Caitlyn past the velvet rope like she owned the place, flashing a grin at the bouncer who didn’t bother asking for a name. They'd arrived on Vi's motorcycle, same as that morning when Vi had picked Caitlyn up for work. Caitlyn had grumbled about helmet hair and inappropriate transportation for a CEO, but she'd still wrapped her arms around Vi's waist, still leaned in when the wind got too sharp. Now, under city lights, her hair was tousled, her pantsuit slightly creased from the ride, but she walked in like she owned the place anyway.

The elevator ride up had been smooth, silent, and Caitlyn still pretended she wasn’t impressed. She did, however, pause at the threshold, taking in the view: the city stretching out in all directions, lights blinking like scattered jewels.

"You're staring," Vi said, nudging her gently forward.

"It's higher than I expected," Caitlyn admitted. "Not bad."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as glowing praise."

They claimed a corner booth, half-shadowed, overlooking the skyline. A low hum of jazz drifted from the live band tucked in the far corner, the bass thrumming easy under conversation. A server materialized with a curated menu, but Vi waved it off.

"Bring us a skyline," Vi said. The server smiled knowingly and disappeared.

Caitlyn gave her a skeptical look. "You ordering by vibe now?"

"Always," Vi replied. "And you’re gonna love it. Trust."

The first round arrived fast: sleek glasses with pale gold liquid, something citrusy and biting. Caitlyn took a careful sip. Then another. Then a deeper one, because the first taste was sharper than she'd expected but the second went down smoother.

Vi nursed hers casually, elbow on the table, watching Caitlyn with an easy grin. "You pace yourself, Cupcake. I’m not carrying you home."

Caitlyn huffed. "I can handle my liquor."

Vi’s grin widened. "That why your cheeks are already pink?"

Caitlyn rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. The night breeze picked up, cooling the tips of her ears, which she was sure were equally flushed.

By the time they were halfway through the second round, Caitlyn had loosened, shoulders less stiff, mouth freer. She tilted her glass and mused, "I am looking forward to it, you know."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "To what?"

"The shoot." Caitlyn waved her hand vaguely. "Being in control."

Vi chuckled. "Yeah? I figured. You seemed... enthusiastic with the sketchbook."

Caitlyn gave her a sidelong look, lip curling slightly. "It’s a relief, honestly. At work, I have to be measured. Matilda gets to be..."

"What, unhinged?"

"Decisive." Caitlyn's smile was sharp. "She takes."

Vi’s grin grew, slow and deliberate. "That supposed to scare me?"

"Should it?"

Vi leaned forward, eyes glinting under the warm lights. "Nope. It’s making me wanna misbehave."

Caitlyn's laugh was quieter, but genuine. The alcohol hummed warmly in her bloodstream, loosening her tongue further.

"Sometimes I wonder," Caitlyn murmured, swirling what's left in her glass, "if I let her out too often... I won't want to put her back."

Vi whistled low. "That's dangerous talk, Cupcake."

"You like dangerous." Caitlyn shot back, but it was softer than she meant.

Vi tapped her glass to Caitlyn's gently. "Yeah. I really do."

By the time Vi was flagging down the check, Caitlyn was well past tipsy and rapidly approaching drunk. She insisted she was fine. She was not.

"We need to get you home," Vi said, catching Caitlyn's glass just as she reached for it again. "You’re pinker than a sunrise."

"I can still count," Caitlyn argued, which was not the defense she thought it was.

Vi chuckled. "Yeah? Count to ten, smartass."

"One, two... wine," Caitlyn hiccupped, blinking up at her own joke like she'd just solved a riddle.

"Cool. We're done here." Vi stood, tossing cash on the table. "Come on, princess. Up you get."

"I have to go home," Caitlyn insisted, staggering to her feet with Vi's steadying hands on her waist. "I've been wearing this for two days."

Getting her on the bike was a feat of patience, but eventually Vi managed, hands firm on Caitlyn's hips to keep her steady. The whole ride back, Caitlyn's arms were wrapped snugly around Vi's middle, mumbling occasionally into her shoulder.

When they reached Caitlyn's building—all polished marble and glass—Vi half-carried her through the lobby, nodding awkwardly at the doorman who wisely chose not to comment.

Inside Caitlyn's apartment, the air smelled faintly of clean linen and something floral. Vi barely had time to admire the floor-to-ceiling windows before Caitlyn, still swaying, started stripping.

"No," Caitlyn muttered to herself, pulling off her blazer with shaky hands. "Too warm."

"Hey, hey," Vi tried, hands up. "I can go. You just... tell me where your pajamas are."

"Closet," Caitlyn said, tugging at the buttons of her blouse. "Or drawer. Somewhere."

Vi hovered, torn between helping and maintaining some shred of dignity. Caitlyn was down to her bra and slacks now, hair mussed, eyes heavy.

"You need water," Vi said.

"You need to shut up," Caitlyn replied, but there was no heat in it. She stumbled toward her bedroom, waving Vi vaguely after her. "You get lost in there, I'm not rescuing you."

Vi sighed, following. "If I die in your closet, tell them I went heroically."

Caitlyn just laughed, collapsing onto the bed face-first, mumbling into the sheets. Vi stood there, watching her for a beat longer than she should've, before sighing again and going to find those damn pajamas.

Chapter 34: Headache

Caitlyn woke to the distant ache of dehydration and the immediate horror of not knowing where her clothes were.

She sat up abruptly—too fast—and paid for it with a pounding headache and a dizzy sway. She was in pajamas. Someone else's doing. She remembered slurring something about being too warm, collapsing onto her bed—and then... nothing.

On her nightstand: a glass of water, two aspirin, and a folded note, Vi’s messy scrawl across the front.

“Hey Cupcake —
You were about two breaths from passing out pantsless, so I figured I’d help you not die of wardrobe malfunction.
Water + aspirin = survival.
I only dressed you in pajamas because I’m respectful like that.
Promise I didn’t peek. Probably.
I left once you were out. Didn't wanna stay over uninvited.
See you soon. Two days, right? Don’t be late. Don’t puke on set.
Also, you said ‘wine’ instead of three while counting to ten, and I’m never letting that go.”

—Vi

Caitlyn exhaled hard, scrubbing her hands down her face. She was going to murder her. Slowly. Politely. In Prada.

She threw back the aspirin with half the water, then eyed the rest of the room—her discarded blouse and slacks, her blazer draped over the back of a chair. She remembered Vi’s hands, warm and steady, guiding her into something softer. Pajamas. She must’ve had to help. Caitlyn didn’t even want to think about how ungraceful that process must’ve been.

Shower. Coffee. Then work.

Two days until the shoot. Two days to forget Vi’s hands on her waist and the way she’d smiled—warm, fond, and just a little smug.

Matilda wouldn’t be caught dead looking flustered. And neither would Caitlyn.

 

By the time Caitlyn arrived at the studio, she’d managed a shower, coffee, and an outfit that implied she was neither dead nor dying. She still looked like hell.

Mel was the first to clock it. "Christ, you look like a headache in a pantsuit."

"I’m fine," Caitlyn muttered, breezing past, sunglasses still firmly in place.

"You sure? Because you’re giving ‘powerful but recently deceased.’"

Viktor, glancing up from his tablet, added, "She does look paler than usual. Which is impressive."

Caitlyn shot them both a glare over her lenses and made for the drafting table, where Dominique was already laying out fabric swatches and garment mock-ups. The Tethered moodboard still loomed, a stark reminder of the control she was supposed to embody—and currently felt nowhere near.

She slid off her sunglasses and winced at the lighting. "Update me."

Dominique didn't look up. "Mock-ups are finalized. Fabric shipment is scheduled to arrive today. Shoes are here—two heel options, both capable of puncturing egos."

She gestured to a nearby pedestal, where two pairs of stilettos sat like weapons on display.

"Lighting rig’s being tested," Viktor chimed in. "Set’s on schedule. The only variable is you."

"I’m fine," Caitlyn repeated, sharper now.

Mel, leaning against the rigging, raised an eyebrow. "Did you lose a fight with a bottle or a person? Just so I know if we’re expecting a lawsuit."

Caitlyn straightened her shoulders. "Neither. Don’t you have tasks?"

"Plenty," Mel said, still eyeing her. "But if you keel over, we’re stopping for popcorn."

Caitlyn sighed and raked a hand through her hair. She didn’t bother dignifying it with a response.

Dominique flipped her sketchbook open and held up a new mask design—sleeker, more faceted, with sharp, commanding angles. "Mask revision. Sign off?"

Caitlyn stepped closer, focusing past the throb in her temples. The lines were perfect. Authoritative, elegant. She nodded. "Approved. Proceed."

Dominique scribbled a note, satisfied. "Good. If you changed your mind, I was prepared to riot."

Mel chimed in, eyes still vaguely amused. "So… you gonna tell us what actually happened last night? Or do we have to guess how you showed up looking like you drank your way through a divorce?"

"I worked late," Caitlyn lied flatly.

Mel snorted but let it go. Viktor mumbled something about "functional alcoholism chic."

Caitlyn turned toward the half-constructed set, metal scaffolding rising like a skeleton of control. She had two days to pull herself back together. Matilda wouldn’t show up looking like she’d been trampled by regret.

"Keep everything moving. I want full status reports tomorrow," she ordered. "I’ll be back to supervise final prep."

She put the sunglasses back on before anyone else could comment, then left with as much dignity as the headache would allow.

And no one needed to know that Vi had been the one to help her into pajamas.

 

Vi sprawled across her bed, legs dangling off the edge, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles overhead. She hadn’t moved much since dropping Caitlyn off the night before—not because she was tired, but because she couldn’t stop thinking.

About Caitlyn. About the shoot. About all of it.

She thought back to that kiss inside the restaurant—their kiss. Soft, sure, and full of things neither of them had said yet. And Caitlyn hadn’t pulled away. Not then. Not when Vi asked if they were dating. Not when Vi suggested they lay low together at her place. She’d stayed. She’d slept in Vi’s bed, even if nothing happened, not really. But it was... something.

And now? They were trending. The company had issued their little respect our privacy statement, and yeah, that was fine. But there was no privacy. Not really. The public wanted them—Caitlyn and Vi, Vi and Matilda. All of it tangled up together.

She was glad she knew the whole truth now—that Caitlyn was Matilda. It made her want to laugh, honestly. That Caitlyn had been side-eyeing her all this time while pretending she wasn’t the one in the mask pulling her strings. But Vi wasn’t mad. She liked both versions. She liked Caitlyn. And the more time they spent together, the harder it was to keep pretending this was just fun.

And then there was the shoot. The Matilda shoot. She was supposed to kneel again. She was supposed to let Caitlyn tower over her, gloved hand on her chin, all control and distance—but now she knew what that hand felt like when it wasn’t gloved, when it was steadying her on a bike, or on the sidewalk after a kiss. She’d felt Caitlyn’s hands guiding her into pajamas, gentle and careful even when Caitlyn thought she wouldn’t remember.

And god, she wanted to see that look again—the one Caitlyn gave her when she slipped, when she wasn’t fully Matilda or CEO Kiramman, just Caitlyn, pink-cheeked and fond, fighting a smile.

Vi groaned, dragging a pillow over her face.

“This is dumb,” she mumbled into the fabric. “You’re getting soft.”

But it was too late. She wanted more. She wanted Caitlyn tipsy and clinging to her arm, wanted Matilda telling her to kneel with that clipped, commanding voice. She wanted every version of her, all at once.

And yeah, she was a little excited to see if Caitlyn would still hold herself together when Vi smiled up at her from the floor in the shoot.

Vi grinned into her pillow.

Yeah. She’s gonna crack.

And Vi couldn’t wait.

Chapter 35: The Shoot

Back in her private dressing room, Caitlyn sat perfectly still while the hair and makeup team worked around her with quiet efficiency. The room smelled faintly of hairspray, powder, and something floral—probably whatever scented oil the stylist always dabbed on her wrists to “set the mood.”

On the table before her rested the Matilda wig: platinum blonde streaked with soft auburn, a sharp, angled bob that hit just below the jaw. The color caught the light with every shift, almost metallic, almost flame.

The stylist pinned Caitlyn’s natural hair flat, tucking each coil tightly against her scalp.

“You’ll have a headache in an hour,” the stylist muttered, securing the last pin. “But you’ll look like a queen who bites.”

“Perfect,” Caitlyn replied, voice cool.

The makeup artist worked with precision—carving shadows along Caitlyn’s cheekbones, deepening the hollows of her eyes with smoke and steel. The lip color was a dusky, muted wine—just dark enough to look dangerous, not garish.

Once the wig was set, snug and seamless, Caitlyn glanced in the mirror. The platinum and auburn shimmered, the harsh cut framing her face like armor.

She didn’t look like herself anymore.

She looked like Matilda.

And yet, she could still hear Vi’s voice in her head. That low, knowing chuckle. The little comments. The promises.

She shook it off, standing to pull on the structured bodysuit, matte silk gloves. Every piece built her back up. Every layer a defense.

When Dominique fastened the last button at her neck, she gave Caitlyn an appraising nod. “No one survives this look.”

Caitlyn lifted her chin. “Good.”

But under it all, her pulse was already thrumming.

Vi was waiting on set.

And Caitlyn wasn’t sure how long she’d last before she slipped.

 

Across the studio, Vi lounged in the makeup chair, one leg casually draped over the other. Her stylist was running fingers through her hair, coaxing it into loose waves that framed her face just right—effortless, approachable, yet undeniably magnetic.

“Try not to outshine Matilda,” Mel teased from nearby, scrolling through her phone.

Vi smirked. “Good luck with that.”

Her makeup was light but deliberate: warm bronzy tones highlighting her cheekbones, a subtle smoky eye that softened her gaze, and a swipe of gloss that caught the lights with every smile. Nothing overdone—just her.

As the stylist clipped a delicate gold chain around her neck, Vi caught her reflection in the mirror and grinned. Barefoot, with her silk blouse slightly undone at the collar and high-waisted tailored shorts, she looked every bit the approachable rebel Matilda might allow at her side.

Mel leaned in, voice low. “You ready to drive her crazy?”

Vi shrugged, eyes sparkling. “Already have.”

She stretched, stood, and slipped into the soft fabrics, the chain settling just so against her collarbone. This was her armor—soft but untouchable, a perfect contrast to Matilda’s sharp edges.

“Let’s wreck this,” she whispered.

Vi was mid-stretch, hands clasped overhead, when the sound of stilettos on polished concrete caught her ear. Sharp. Measured. Dangerous.

She turned—grin ready—and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Caitlyn crossed the floor with unhurried confidence, a deep charcoal robe cinched tight at her waist, but it didn’t hide much. The cut of the bodysuit peeked at her collar, gloves already on, and those platinum and auburn strands of the Matilda wig gleamed under the studio lights—sleek and severe, the angles slicing around her jaw like they’d been forged to fit her.

But it was the way she moved—like she owned the space, the room, the world—that left Vi standing there, actually dumbstruck.

Vi let out a low whistle, eyes sweeping head to heel. “Damn, boss. You show up like that, I’m gonna forget every line of fake submission I practiced.”

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked over her, cold and appraising behind the mask, but Vi felt the pause when Caitlyn’s gaze settled on her legs, her chain, the way the silk blouse dipped just right.

“If you ever knew any,” Caitlyn replied smoothly, her voice all Matilda—velvet and command.

Vi’s grin cracked wider. “Fair point.”

Mel snorted nearby, muttering, “You’re already toast.”

But Vi didn’t care. She stood a little straighter, smiled a little sharper. She was ready.

And as Caitlyn passed her by, robe swishing with every sharp click of her heels, Vi couldn’t help but murmur under her breath, just loud enough for Caitlyn to hear—

“That’s one hell of a villain origin look.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer, didn’t have to.

But the slight tilt of her head, the barest twitch of her mouth?

Vi saw it.

And she knew—today was gonna be fun.

 

The studio air was warm, too warm under the lights, but Caitlyn—Matilda—stood like a statue. Except inside, she wasn’t still. She was seething—with focus, with control, with the kind of roiling tension that made her gloves feel too tight, her skin too hot beneath silk.

Vi knew it. She had to. She sat at Caitlyn’s feet, chin in her hand, staring up like she was already planning how to make Caitlyn break. The worst part? Caitlyn didn’t trust herself not to.

Jayce’s camera clicked, the shutter rhythm steady. “Beautiful. Caitlyn—more weight in the gaze. I want it to hurt.”

She locked eyes with Vi. She imagined it, made it real: Vi beneath her heel. Vi smirking up as though she’d won anyway. Caitlyn’s jaw clenched.

“Chin tilt next.”

She raised Vi’s chin with two gloved fingers. Vi’s skin was warm, the pulse under her touch steady, unconcerned, like she knew just how far she could push.

Vi’s grin was barely there. “You gonna crack, boss?”

Caitlyn’s lips pressed tight. She wanted to say something, but every word in her throat sounded like a confession.

Jayce was circling them with his camera. “Perfect. Now blindfold her.”

Caitlyn moved behind Vi, her body aching to touch more. The glove covered Vi’s eyes, the other hand sliding to her waist—contact that should have been clinical, but Vi’s waist was warm and soft and yielding.

Vi shivered, like she felt that Caitlyn was losing it.

Vi tilted her chin up, throat exposed. “You could just ask if you wanna bite.”

Caitlyn’s breath hitched.

Jayce didn’t even interrupt. The tension was better than anything he could have staged.

The lap pose didn’t help—Vi on her knees, head resting on Caitlyn’s thigh like she belonged there. Caitlyn’s hand hovered, then tangled loosely in Vi’s hair, pretending to pose her, but really just holding on.

Vi let her eyes flutter shut, a pleased hum in her throat.

“Boss,” Vi murmured just for her, “you’re shaking.”

Caitlyn was. Barely. But enough.

She swallowed hard, focusing on Jayce’s instructions—next the standing command. She gripped Vi’s jaw from behind, too tight at first, had to ease up.

The hand at Vi’s abdomen was meant to be placement, nothing more—but Vi pressed back slightly, the friction making Caitlyn ache.

Then—the chain pull.

Caitlyn gathered the chain in her gloved hand, wrapped it tight around her fingers. She pulled, just enough to tilt Vi’s head back, just enough to feel the tension.

Vi gasped softly, breath catching.

Caitlyn’s body was molten. Every part of her screamed to end this charade. Her hand trembled at Vi’s throat—just enough to feel it.

Vi whispered, “Gonna keep pretending, Cait?”

That was it.

She didn’t hear Jayce call cut. She didn’t care.

Caitlyn unwrapped the chain, seized Vi’s wrist, and dragged her off set, her stilettos snapping against the floor with purpose. She didn’t say a word, but her grip said everything.

Mel’s mouth opened, then closed. She just watched them go.

Viktor muttered, “We probably shouldn’t follow.”

Jayce, dazed, just kept the camera rolling. “I’d pay to.”

Mel shook her head, half-awed, half-scandalized. “They’re either gonna fight or fuck. Either way, that office is a hazard zone.”

Notes:

Fair warning the rating changes after this ;)

Chapter 36: My Office

Caitlyn’s grip on Vi’s wrist was iron, leading her through the empty halls like she was hauling a captured prize. Vi didn’t resist—she never resisted. She followed with easy steps, a pleased hum in her throat, like she was already savoring whatever was about to happen.

“No rush, boss,” Vi teased. “You trying to get me alone or are we making a getaway?”

Caitlyn said nothing. She couldn’t. Her pulse was roaring in her ears. Every step in her stilettos echoed too loud against the polished floor. She could still feel the chain in her hand, the weight of Vi’s throat against her glove, the sound of that soft gasp.

Vi chuckled low behind her. “Y’know, you’re the one who dressed like that,” she murmured, voice dripping with heat. “Stilettos, gloves, that body suit—you built a fantasy and then got mad when I wanted to live in it.”

Caitlyn’s shoulders tensed, but she didn’t slow.

Vi leaned in, voice a near-whisper. “Or is this part of it too? Dragging me somewhere dark and private so you can really put me in my place?”

Caitlyn’s breath stuttered, but she didn’t look back.

Vi grinned. She was getting to her. She could feel it, the tremor in Caitlyn’s control. She pushed further, letting her voice drop to a rough, hungry purr.

“Gonna throw me against a wall, Cait? Strip me down right here, or make me beg first? I’ll be good, promise. But I want you to make me ask.”

That was the crack. Caitlyn stopped cold, yanked Vi forward by the wrist, and slammed her back against her office door. The impact rattled Vi’s breath loose, but she was grinning wide, eyes bright and pleased.

Caitlyn pressed in, her hand pinning Vi’s shoulder hard, close enough their bodies nearly touched—but not quite.

“You don’t shut up, do you,” Caitlyn hissed, voice low and sharp, barely holding the leash on herself.

Vi licked her lips, gaze dropping to Caitlyn’s mouth. “Not when you look at me like that.”

Caitlyn’s other hand braced beside Vi’s head, caging her in, mask casting shadows over her face. She wasn’t even sure if she was Caitlyn or Matilda right now—maybe both, maybe neither—but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the heat of Vi’s breath, the defiant rise of her chin, the way she was inviting this.

Caitlyn’s breath came shallow and fast. “You wanted this.”

Vi’s smile was slow and smug. “I still do.”

That’s when Caitlyn kissed her—hard, possessive, claiming.

And Vi, of course, kissed back.

Caitlyn kissed her like she wanted to devour her, mouth hot and punishing, and Vi loved it. She grabbed fistfuls of Caitlyn’s bodysuit, pulling her closer until their hips collided, gasping against her lips just to feel her teeth catch on Vi’s lower lip in return.

Caitlyn’s gloved hands slid into Vi’s hair, tugging just enough to make Vi’s breath hitch. “You’re infuriating,” Caitlyn muttered, her voice frayed, her mask tilted just slightly askew now.

Vi grinned against her mouth. “You like me like that.”

Caitlyn shoved her harder against the door, the sound a thud of bodies and want. Then she grabbed Vi’s wrist again and pulled—dragging her into the office, the door slamming shut behind them, the lock clicking into place.

Vi barely caught her balance before Caitlyn was on her again, pushing her back against the desk this time, scattering papers in her wake.

Vi reached up, grabbing a fistful of the Matilda wig, tugging just enough to loosen it.

“You gonna keep pretending with that thing on?” Vi breathed, tugging the wig again. “Or are you finally gonna let me fuck you?”

Caitlyn’s breath caught. She could feel the lace cap of the wig slipping, the strands tangled between Vi’s fingers.

Vi yanked it off with a grin, throwing it carelessly onto the desk. Caitlyn’s real hair spilled out beneath, tousled, slightly damp from the heat of the studio and the weight of control snapping.

Vi ran a hand through the loose strands, fingertips brushing Caitlyn’s scalp. “There’s the girl I wanted.”

That did it. Caitlyn grabbed Vi by the front of her shirt and kissed her again, deeper, rougher, hands fumbling now—desperate.

She was done pretending.

Caitlyn kissed her like she was making up for every minute she’d denied herself, hands greedy, pulling Vi closer by the collar of her shirt until their chests slammed together. There was no space, no pretense anymore—not here, not now.

Vi broke the kiss just long enough to catch her breath, grinning, her voice rough. “You gonna admit it yet?”

“Shut up,” Caitlyn snapped, but it wasn’t sharp—it was desperate.

She shoved Vi back onto the desk, scattering everything in a clatter of pens and papers, and climbed up after her, straddling Vi’s hips. Her hands went to Vi’s face, holding her there like she was something precious and infuriating all at once. She stared down at her, breathing heavy, hair falling in her face now that the wig was gone.

“You’re a menace,” Caitlyn muttered.

Vi just smiled. “You love it.”

She did. God help her, she did.

Caitlyn kissed her again, slower this time, but deeper—like she was trying to map the shape of Vi’s mouth with her own. Her gloved hands slid down Vi’s sides, the fabric catching slightly on skin, and Vi shivered beneath her.

“I wanted this,” Caitlyn admitted, voice rough. “I want you.”

Vi’s grin softened, eyes dark and warm all at once. “Took you long enough.”

“I was trying to stay in control,” Caitlyn confessed, biting down on Vi’s lower lip before releasing it. “You made that impossible.”

“Good.”

Vi sat up slightly, hands on Caitlyn’s waist, then slid up her back, fingers catching on the zipper of the bodysuit. “Let me see you, Cait.”

For a moment, Caitlyn hesitated. But Vi’s eyes were steady—no mockery, no games. Just want.

Caitlyn nodded once. Vi pulled the zipper down slow, dragging it over the curve of her back, feeling Caitlyn tremble under her hands.

The bodysuit peeled away inch by inch, exposing bare skin, flushed and freckled, until Caitlyn was sitting in her lap half-dressed, breath shaky.

Vi kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then lower—down her neck, just above the collarbone, where Caitlyn gasped and tilted her head to give her more.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Vi murmured against her skin.

Caitlyn laughed, breathless, fingers tangling in Vi’s hair. “You’re shameless.”

“Absolutely,” Vi agreed, nipping lightly where she knew it would make Caitlyn squirm.

Caitlyn rolled her hips down in response, drawing a low curse from Vi’s throat. “You're not the only one.”

Vi looked up, eyes wild and dark. “Then prove it.”

Caitlyn’s smile was sharp. She pushed Vi flat against the desk, climbing over her, shedding the last of the bodysuit like a second skin. Vi helped, greedy hands on her thighs, her hips, her waist—like she couldn’t touch enough fast enough.

Caitlyn straddled Vi again, pinning her down properly this time, her hair falling wild around her face. “You’ve wanted this too.”

Vi’s laugh was ragged. “You have no idea.”

Caitlyn kissed her, deep and filthy, grinding down just enough to make Vi groan.

“Good,” Caitlyn whispered against her mouth. “Then don’t hold back.”

Vi’s hands were already everywhere, hungry and bold, roaming over Caitlyn’s bare waist, up her ribs, fingertips grazing just under her bra. Every time Caitlyn shifted, every subtle grind of her hips, Vi let out a low, desperate sound—like she was barely holding it together beneath her.

“Off,” Vi muttered, tugging at Caitlyn’s bra strap. “Come on, Cait. I want all of you.”

Caitlyn hummed, amused despite the heat thrumming through her veins. “You could ask nicely.”

Vi grinned, teeth bared. “Please.”

Caitlyn slid the straps off slow, teasing, until the bra was tossed somewhere behind them. Vi’s eyes locked to her chest like she’d just been handed something holy. And then her hands were there—palming, squeezing, thumbs brushing over her nipples just soft enough to make Caitlyn gasp, her spine arching.

“You’re unreal,” Vi murmured, thumbing again just to watch Caitlyn twitch. “How was I supposed to survive this?”

Caitlyn shivered, but her smirk was wicked. “You’re assuming you will.”

Then she pushed Vi flat again, palms firm on her shoulders, claiming space like it was hers to take. She kissed Vi rough, teeth clicking, hands dragging down to the hem of Vi’s shirt—pulling it off without ceremony. The sight made her breath catch—Vi’s torso, all toned muscle and scars, spread out for her, eyes half-lidded and wanting.

“Shit, Cait,” Vi whispered, eyes on her like she was something dangerous. “Don’t stop.”

Caitlyn didn’t intend to. She slid down, kissing across Vi’s chest, biting lightly at the swell of her breasts, just enough to leave a mark. Vi gasped, hands knotting in Caitlyn’s hair.

And then Caitlyn’s mouth closed around her nipple—hot, wet, sucking slow and deep. Vi swore, her back arching, thighs twitching against Caitlyn’s hips.

“Fuck—you’re killing me,” Vi breathed.

Caitlyn hummed against her, pleased, before shifting down further, nipping at Vi’s stomach, her hips, every patch of skin she could reach. She didn’t need permission to pop the button on Vi’s pants, dragging them down with her underwear in one pull, eyes hungry, taking in everything.

Vi was flushed already, pupils blown wide, breath coming shallow.

“You’re staring,” Vi said, almost bashful.

“You’re gorgeous,” Caitlyn muttered, then kissed the inside of Vi’s thigh—slow and purposeful.

Vi’s hips jerked. “Cait—”

Caitlyn didn’t give her the chance to finish. She pressed in, tongue flat against Vi’s slit, slow and savoring, then circled her clit with practiced precision. Vi let out a strangled noise, hips bucking, but Caitlyn’s hands pinned her down—no escaping.

“Oh my god—” Vi gasped, hand flying to Caitlyn’s hair, tugging hard.

Caitlyn moaned into her, the vibration making Vi curse again, thighs tightening around Caitlyn’s shoulders. She didn’t relent—licking deep, then flicking just right, reading every twitch, every broken sound.

“Cait, I’m—fuck—I’m close,” Vi warned, voice wrecked.

Good. Caitlyn doubled down, tongue relentless, until Vi cried out, thighs clenching, body shaking through her orgasm. She kept going, easing her through it, slowing only when Vi slumped back on the desk, chest heaving, lips parted.

Caitlyn wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, sitting back on her knees between Vi’s legs, watching her fall apart. It was intoxicating.

Vi opened her eyes, dazed but grinning. “Holy shit.”

“You’re not done,” Caitlyn said, voice low, shaking with want.

Vi blinked up. “What?”

Caitlyn stood, peeling off the rest of her bodysuit until she was completely bare. She stepped out of her heels last—still towering, still commanding.

Vi’s eyes darkened instantly. “Oh, fuck. Come here.”

Caitlyn climbed back onto Vi, hips settling flush against her. Vi groaned, hands flying to Caitlyn’s ass, squeezing, pulling her closer.

“Want you,” Vi muttered. “Want to feel you.”

Caitlyn reached between them, guiding herself—grinding slow against Vi’s thigh, dragging slick heat over her skin until she was gasping, shaking. She wanted more. She wanted all.

Vi caught her mouth again, messy and open, biting Caitlyn’s lower lip until she whimpered.

“Ride me,” Vi whispered against her mouth. “Please.”

Caitlyn shuddered, guiding herself lower—until she slid down onto Vi’s fingers, Vi having slipped two between them without even asking. She moaned sharp, clutching Vi’s shoulders.

Vi’s grin was vicious and reverent all at once. “There she is.”

Caitlyn rode her—slow, grinding, breath hitching every time Vi curled her fingers just right. She couldn’t stop the sounds—half moans, half curses—her control gone, scattered somewhere across the desk.

Vi was watching, transfixed. “You’re so fucking hot like this. Cait—fuck—I’m not gonna last if you keep making those sounds.”

“Good,” Caitlyn gasped, moving faster, chasing her high, skin flushed head to toe.

Vi kissed her, deep and hard, fucking up into her fingers as Caitlyn rode, the slap of skin on skin loud and filthy.

When Caitlyn came, it was sharp and sudden—her whole body tensing, a cry punched out of her, riding Vi through it until she was shaking, collapsing forward onto her.

They lay there a minute—sweaty, breathless, still tangled.

Vi kissed her temple, voice hoarse. “You should lose control more often.”

Caitlyn laughed weakly. “Shut up.”

Vi just grinned, hands tracing lazily down Caitlyn’s back. “We’re definitely doing that again.”

Caitlyn was inclined to agree.

Chapter 37: Name

The weight of what they’d just done didn’t hit Caitlyn immediately. Not until her gaze swept the room—the trail of clothing, the half-rumpled bodysuit hanging off her hips, her gloves abandoned somewhere under the desk. Vi, still bare-legged, her silk blouse gaping open, was lounging across the desk like she owned it.

The panic came swift and cold.

“Oh my God,” Caitlyn whispered, hands flying to her hair, which was a wreck, Matilda’s wig askew on the floor where Vi had yanked it free.

Vi sat up, watching her with a lazy, satisfied smile. “There she is. I was starting to think I broke you.”

“We’re at work,” Caitlyn snapped, voice rising. “We’re at my company. I—God, Vi—what did we just—”

Vi’s brows lifted. “Uh. Each other?”

Caitlyn glared. “This isn’t funny.”

Vi stood slowly, tugging her blouse into place—not that it helped much, the silk was still wrinkled and her bra was probably still under the damn desk. “Hey. Cait. Breathe.”

Caitlyn shook her head, moving to grab her gloves, her mask—something to restore any sense of dignity, though her skin still burned where Vi had touched her. “I just—I can’t believe I let that happen. Here. In my office.”

“You didn’t let anything happen,” Vi said gently, watching her flail around the room. “You wanted it. You wanted me.”

“That’s the problem!” Caitlyn hissed, shoving her arms into her jacket, gloves be damned. “I wanted it so badly I lost control.”

Vi stepped closer, cautious but steady. “And what’s wrong with that?”

Caitlyn spun on her, eyes sharp. “Everything. I’m supposed to be professional. I’m supposed to be composed, in charge.”

Vi’s voice dropped, lower, softer. “You were in charge.”

Caitlyn faltered.

Vi kept going, warm and slow, like coaxing a nervous animal. “You decided you wanted me. You decided to take me upstairs. You decided how that went. That’s not losing control, Caitlyn. That’s exercising it.”

Caitlyn’s pulse was still frantic, but Vi’s words threaded through the noise, grounding her just a little.

“I don’t regret it,” Vi added. “And you shouldn’t either.”

Caitlyn swallowed hard, struggling to believe that. She tried to smooth down her hair, which was impossible without a brush. “We can’t—this can’t happen here again.”

Vi smiled, soft and sure. “Okay. Next time, we’ll wreck my place.”

That earned her a glare, but the corner of Caitlyn’s mouth twitched, almost involuntarily. She hated that Vi could make her smile when she was actively spiraling.

Caitlyn stooped to collect the Matilda wig, brushing it off, trying to reassemble herself piece by piece. “We have to go back down.”

“I’m ready when you are,” Vi said, grinning. “You still look hot, by the way. Just... you know. Debauched.”

“Helpful,” Caitlyn muttered.

Vi stepped in, adjusting the neckline on Caitlyn’s shoulders, fingers brushing lightly over her arms. “You don’t have to be perfect every second.”

Caitlyn froze under the touch, the words catching her off guard.

“I like you like this too,” Vi said softly. “When you’re not holding the whole world up on your own.”

It made Caitlyn’s throat tight, so she shrugged Vi’s hands off, weakly, and mumbled, “We’re late.”

Vi smiled to herself, pleased. “Yeah, we are.”

 

By the time they made it back to the studio floor, Caitlyn had managed to fix the Matilda wig back into place, though her hair underneath was unsalvageable. She’d smoothed her gloves, and held her chin high, stiletto clicks measured and sharp. Vi, of course, was all lazy swagger, her silk blouse still wrinkled, hair a little mussed but face bright and entirely too smug.

They didn’t even make it three steps inside before Mel’s voice cut through.

“Well, well. Look who decided to return to the land of the living.”

Dominique glanced up from her clipboard, took one look at Caitlyn—flushed, lips too pink, wig slightly off-center—and hummed under her breath. “That’s not the walk of someone returning. That’s the walk of someone thoroughly ruined.”

Caitlyn’s cheeks burned instantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on,” Mel laughed. “You disappeared with your ‘model’ in the middle of the shoot, Caitlyn. Then you come back looking like you’ve been defeated.”

“Thoroughly,” Dominique added, grinning. “Also, your top’s buttoned wrong.”

Caitlyn looked down, muttered a curse, and fixed it. Mel waggled her brows at Vi, who just smiled like the cat that got the cream.

“Do you want us to schedule in ‘desk time’ for the next campaign?” Mel teased. “We can work it into the production calendar.”

“Don’t,” Caitlyn warned, voice tight—but the flush in her ears betrayed her.

Vi, still radiating satisfaction, slung an arm loosely over Caitlyn’s shoulder. “I’m just saying, if y’all are offering more props, we’re open to experimentation.”

“Vi,” Caitlyn snapped, shrugging her off.

But even as she tried to reclaim her distance, Caitlyn could feel it underneath—the echo of Vi’s hands on her, the hunger she’d finally, finally stopped denying. She hadn’t lost control.

She’d taken what she wanted.

That realization anchored itself beneath the shame, coiled and warm in her chest. She adjusted her wig, straightened her spine, owned it.

“Back to work,” Caitlyn said sharply. “Photoshoot’s not done.”

But her voice lacked its usual steel—because despite everything, the corner of her mouth kept threatening to curl up.

Mel caught it and grinned wide. “Oh, we’re definitely not done.”

Dominique muttered, “Neither are you.”

Vi just beamed, smug and stupidly pretty, and whispered near Caitlyn’s ear, “Told you. You didn’t lose control. You owned it.”

Caitlyn didn’t respond.

But she didn’t correct her either.

 

The morning news played low in the Kiramman estate’s sunlit breakfast room, but Cassandra Kiramman wasn’t listening. She was fixed on her tablet, each flick of her finger over the screen sharp and deliberate, her mouth a thin, unimpressed line.

The headlines were everywhere.

Caitlyn Kiramman Caught Kissing Sapphic TikTok Star Vi — CEO Scandal Incoming?

Caitlyn Kiramman and Vi Spotted on Public Date, Kiss Caught on Camera

Matilda x Vi vs. Caitlyn x Vi: The Internet Can’t Decide Their Favorite Ship

Cassandra exhaled, controlled but cold. She had, begrudgingly, tolerated her daughter’s fashion endeavors, even her insistence on running around with designers and models instead of respectable politicians or financiers. But this—a public affair with a viral sensation, some feral little internet celebrity? A lesbian scandal on every tabloid front page?

Humiliating.

But then, she caught a glimpse of another headline.

Who is Matilda? Internet Sleuths Say the Mysterious Masked Model Looks Suspiciously Like Caitlyn Kiramman.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. She opened the article, scrolling past the garish fan-edits and speculation threads until she reached the side-by-side comparisons: Matilda on one side, masked and ethereal; Caitlyn on the other, at some red carpet months ago.

She would have dismissed it—except for the posture. The way Matilda held herself, shoulders pulled back just so, chin tilted with that particular Kiramman pride. Even beneath the mask, Cassandra could see it—the poise she had forced into Caitlyn since childhood.

Her stomach turned.

If Caitlyn was Matilda—and Cassandra was becoming certain she was—then her daughter wasn’t just shaming the family by dating a woman. She was parading around in costume, playing some debauched game in public, selling sex behind a mask while the world cheered.

She set the tablet down, steepling her fingers, eyes cold and focused.

Cassandra Kiramman had built her life on legacy, on discipline, on controlling the narrative. Caitlyn might have built her little empire of silk and smoke, but she was still a Kiramman. And if she thought she could make a fool of herself—and by extension, her family—without consequence?

She was sorely mistaken.

Cassandra would remind her daughter, in no uncertain terms, exactly where she came from. And who she answered to.

Chapter 38: Dinner Invite

The morning after the shoot, Caitlyn sat at the glass conference table in CK’s top floor office, posture perfect, hands gloved and folded, not a single hair out of place.

But her lips were still swollen.

Her desk looked clean—professional, curated—but she could still see the ghost of last night’s chaos: Vi’s knees pressed to the wood, the crumpled bodysuit, the heat of hands in her hair and hips grinding her into a loss she hadn’t planned.

Across from her, Mel, CK’s Head of PR, was already in motion—airdropping posts, pulling up analytics, talking faster than anyone should on three espressos.

"Engagement is off the charts,” she said, tapping through her tablet. “Matilda x Vi is global. We’ve got fan edits, viral audio, international accounts reposting in multiple languages. Someone made an edit of Vi licking Caitlyn’s jaw with fire emojis. You're welcome.”

Caitlyn winced. “Please don’t say ‘licking’ in meetings.”

Dominique, Head of Design, didn’t look up from her sketchbook. “It’s accurate.”

“CK is in the spotlight,” Mel continued, undeterred. “Matilda is now the top-searched lingerie muse in over fifteen countries. And people are thirsty. Do we lean into the dom-sub branding? Or do we pivot soft-power goddess next shoot?”

Caitlyn massaged her temples. “We lean into dignity.”

Vi, slouched in a chair with one leg over the other, hair still a little tousled, smirked. “Define dignity. Was I undignified when I begged for your—”

“No,” Caitlyn snapped.

Vi just grinned. Mel snorted behind her hand.

Dominique muttered, “God, you two are exhausting.”

Before Caitlyn could muster a reply, the elevator pinged.

A courier emerged — polished suit, white gloves, long black box balanced delicately like he was carrying an heirloom.

He crossed to the table and gave a shallow nod.

“Miss Kiramman?”

Caitlyn stood halfway. “Yes?”

The box was set before her like a trap. “Per request of Lady Cassandra. Hand-delivered, no intermediaries.”

Vi’s body stilled.

Mel stopped scrolling.

Dominique looked up, finally interested.

Caitlyn opened the box with slow fingers. Inside lay an envelope of thick ivory cardstock, edges edged in violet foil. Embossed at the top: The Kiramman Family Seal.

She unfolded the note.

Caitlyn,

You and your companion will attend dinner tonight.

7 PM.

At home. No public venues.

No PR. No staff. No excuses.

— Mother

The silence was immediate and sharp.

“‘Companion’?” Mel repeated, raising a brow. “That’s new.”

Dominique snorted. “That’s code for ‘what is this gay nonsense I just found online.’”

Vi leaned over to read the letter upside down. “So… she’s calling me a plus-one without acknowledging I’m a person?”

“She’s acknowledging a problem,” Caitlyn said under her breath.

No one said anything for a moment.

Then Mel whistled softly. “That’s not an invitation. That’s a summons.”

“Which means she’s furious,” Caitlyn murmured, folding the parchment shut. Her hands were too steady, which meant she was trying not to shake.

Vi leaned back in her chair, mouth drawn into something half-dry, half-dark. “You gonna warn me before she calls me a street rat with WiFi?”

“Vi—”

“No, really,” Vi said, smiling a little too wide. “It’s fine. I love being addressed like a minor scandal.”

Mel arched a brow. “Do you want me to draft a public statement in case something leaks?”

Caitlyn shook her head. “No statements. Not yet.”

Vi stood slowly, her chair scraping the floor. “I’ll be ready.”

She hesitated a moment, eyes meeting Caitlyn’s. There was something in them — unspoken, but clear.

Pick me. Defend me. Don’t let me stand alone in that room.

But Caitlyn couldn’t say anything.

Vi’s smile turned just a hair brittle. “Tell your mother I’m great at dinner conversation. Especially with people who think I’m beneath them.”

She turned and walked out, hands in her pockets, head high.

Caitlyn stared down at the letter.

No PR. No staff. No excuses.

No one to hide behind.

Just her, and Vi.

And the mother who had never once called her by name unless it was to remind her who she should have been.

 

Later that afternoon, Caitlyn found Vi alone in the design lounge — legs kicked up on the armrest of one of CK’s ridiculous leather sofas, phone in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in the other.

Vi didn’t look up when she walked in.

Caitlyn stood awkwardly for a second. “We need to talk about tonight.”

Vi tapped her phone screen off. “Figured we might.”

Caitlyn crossed the room and sat on the opposite end of the couch, stiff and upright, a stack of notecards in her hand.

“First of all,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “don’t wear denim.”

Vi blinked. “Wow. Starting strong.”

Caitlyn shot her a look. “I’m serious. This isn’t a media dinner, or a casual thing. This is my family’s estate. There’s a dress code.”

“Let me guess,” Vi drawled. “Black tie, no feelings, and absolutely no gays.”

Caitlyn winced. “Vi—”

Vi held up a hand. “Okay. Fine. No denim. What else?”

Caitlyn shifted, flipping through the cards she’d clearly written that morning. “She may… refer to you as my companion.”

Vi arched an eyebrow. “That’s cute.”

“She doesn’t mean it to be,” Caitlyn said tightly. “Just—don’t rise to it. The more composure you show, the less satisfaction she gets.”

Vi stared at her. “So I’m not allowed to wear jeans, not allowed to react, and not allowed to be offended when your mother calls me a glorified plus-one?”

Caitlyn hesitated. “It’s not about you.”

Vi’s smile was cold. “It is about me, Cait. That’s the whole reason we’re going. She saw the pictures. She saw you kissing me. This is damage control.”

“She doesn’t even know what she saw,” Caitlyn snapped, then winced. “I mean—she doesn’t understand…”

Vi leaned back, arms crossed. “You mean she doesn’t want to understand that her daughter is a lesbian who likes her lingerie models.”

Caitlyn looked away.

The silence stretched.

Vi sat forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “Look. I get it. You’ve spent your whole life building CK to be bulletproof. No cracks. No slips. No headlines you didn’t approve.”

She paused. “But I’m not your brand, Cait. I’m not a campaign. I’m not a logo you can control.”

Caitlyn’s voice was small. “I know.”

“Do you?” Vi asked, softer now. “Because I’m about to walk into a mansion full of judgmental stares, and the one person I’m doing it for is asking me to act like I don’t exist.”

That landed harder than it should have.

Caitlyn looked up, finally meeting her eyes. “You do exist. You’re…” She faltered. “You’re important to me.”

Vi nodded slowly. “Then let me show up as myself.”

A beat.

Caitlyn swallowed. “Just… wear a jacket.”

Vi gave her a half-smile, all edge and affection. “You’re lucky I clean up well.”

She stood, brushing crumbs off her shirt. “You want me to survive your mother’s dinner without flipping a table? You’re buying the drinks after.”

Caitlyn’s smile almost cracked through. “Deal.”

Vi leaned in, her voice low and close. “Try not to flinch when she calls me your companion.”

Caitlyn said nothing.

And Vi walked out again — jacketless for now, but already carrying the weight of the night to come.

Chapter 39: Dinner from Hell

The Kiramman estate had always been beautiful in the way mausoleums were — immaculate, silent, and built to outlast the people inside them.

Caitlyn stepped out of the car first, jacket buttoned, every inch of her armor intact. She hadn’t been back in over a year. And the air still smelled like polished silver and judgment.

Vi followed — sleek black suit, no tie, a chain at her neck just to irritate someone. She looked confident, but not careless. Unapologetic.

The butler led them to the formal dining room in silence.

And there, at the head of the long, lacquered table, sat Cassandra Kiramman, still and statuesque, like she’d been carved from ice.

She didn’t rise. She didn’t smile.

“Caitlyn,” she said crisply.

“Mother,” Caitlyn answered, as formal as ever.

Cassandra’s eyes flicked to Vi. “And your… companion.”

“Vi,” she said, stepping forward. “No title necessary.”

Cassandra’s lips thinned. “Of course.”

The meal arrived in pristine waves — silken soup, meaningless conversation. No one really ate. Not until the silence cracked.

 

Cassandra set down her wineglass with deliberate grace. “You’ve become very theatrical, Caitlyn.”

“It’s a creative industry,” Caitlyn said, voice smooth.

“It’s a sex business,” Cassandra corrected. “Let’s not pretend it’s art. Your brand used to be tasteful. Now it looks like something you’d find in a nightclub basement.”

Caitlyn inhaled sharply. “CK is successful. Profitable. Recognized.”

“By who?” Cassandra snapped. “Horny teenagers? People who don’t know the difference between couture and cosplay?”

Vi shifted in her seat.

Caitlyn’s tone tightened. “You’ve never cared for what I built.”

“No,” Cassandra said coolly. “Because I didn’t raise you to sell yourself.”

The silence was sudden and sharp.

“I raised you,” she continued, “to be someone worthy of respect. A Kiramman. Not a mascot in latex with her thighs out on a billboard. And now this. Public....lesbianism. Do you know how many people called me asking if the rumors were true?”

Vi’s chair creaked slightly.

Cassandra turned her gaze to her, slow and deliberate. “And you. Do you think this is real?”

Vi blinked. “Do I think what is?”

“This arrangement. This performance,” Cassandra said. “I suppose you think you're part of something meaningful. That this—” She gestured vaguely at Vi’s body, her clothes, her presence. “—isn’t just another rebellion. Another bad choice Caitlyn will eventually grow out of.”

Vi’s smile was gone now. Her voice low. “Wow. You really don’t hold back.”

Cassandra went on, undeterred. “I’ve seen your kind before. Women who mistake attention for talent. Who trade on looks and noise and call it value. You float through fame like it owes you something, and then what? You fade. You vanish.”

“Mother—” Caitlyn started, but her mother didn’t even look at her.

She was locked on Vi now, precise and vicious.

“You’re not a partner. You’re a phase,” she said coolly. “A moment. And when Caitlyn finally wakes up from whatever fantasy this is—when she remembers who she really is—you’ll be gone. Just like all the others who thought they could matter.”

Vi’s hands clenched in her lap.

She didn’t speak right away. Just stared at Cassandra, then at Caitlyn.

Caitlyn opened her mouth—but nothing came out.

That was it.

Vi stood, slow and sure. “No.”

Cassandra blinked, almost amused. “Excuse me?”

Vi’s voice shook, but not from fear. “I was willing to sit through the subtle shit. The quiet insults. The looks. Hell, I’ve been through worse on red carpets.”

She leaned forward slightly. “But you just made it real clear. I’m not welcome. I’m not wanted. And the person I came here for—” she flicked her eyes to Caitlyn, “—isn’t doing a damn thing to change that.”

Caitlyn stood. “Vi, wait—”

Vi shook her head. “You said you weren’t hiding me. But you sat there and let her tear me down like I was furniture. Background noise.”

“I was trying to keep it from escalating.”

“It already was escalated,” Vi snapped. “You just didn’t want to make it messy. Well, newsflash: your mother made it messy. And you let her.”

Caitlyn’s jaw clenched. “She would’ve said worse if I’d fought her.”

“She already did,” Vi whispered, voice low and cutting. “And you said nothing.”

She turned and walked out of the room.

Caitlyn froze.

Cassandra let out a soft, satisfied exhale. “There’s the door.”

Caitlyn turned slowly, looked at her.

“She’s not nothing,” she said, voice shaking.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “She’s a fantasy. A mirror. She lets you pretend you’re powerful.”

Caitlyn’s voice dropped to steel. “She makes me feel powerful.”

That stunned Cassandra for half a second.

Then Caitlyn walked away.

 

They walked the marble hall in silence, footsteps echoing too loud.

At the front door, Vi stopped but didn’t turn around. “You didn’t say a word.”

“I was trying to keep things from getting worse.”

“They were already worse,” Vi said, her voice tight. “You sat there and let her gut me like I was disposable.”

Caitlyn looked down. “She would’ve said worse if I fought her.”

“I don’t care what she would’ve said,” Vi snapped. “I care what you didn’t.”

She paused—long enough to breathe, long enough for her voice to shift, softer, deeper.

“She tore into you, too. You know that, right?” Vi asked. “Everything she said? About your work, your life, who you are?”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

“I know you’re hurt,” Vi said. “I watched you take every word like a punch and still try to keep your back straight. I get it. You’ve been surviving this woman your whole life.”

Caitlyn’s throat worked, but nothing came out.

Vi turned to face her fully now. Her voice was quiet, but no less certain. “But you didn’t just let her tear me down. You let her tear you down. And you didn’t fight for either of us.”

Caitlyn’s voice cracked. “You think I don’t care?”

Vi stepped closer. “No. I think you care too much about what she thinks. About what everyone thinks.”

Caitlyn’s shoulders tensed, a flicker of defiance rising — but Vi didn’t back down.

“I think you’re scared to be seen choosing me,” Vi said, softer now. “Because once you do, you can’t un-choose it.”

Caitlyn finally looked up, her eyes wet, jaw tight.

Vi didn’t move. “But I also think you want to choose me. I think you already have. You’re just too scared to live with what it means.”

That silence stretched again — fragile and electric.

Then Vi added, not angry now, just… honest:

“Stop acting like you’re ashamed of wanting me.”

Caitlyn sucked in a breath like it hurt.

Vi opened the door. The cold hit them instantly.

She didn’t look back as she walked out into the night.

And Caitlyn stood there, still in her mother’s house, shivering under the weight of everything she hadn’t said.

Chapter 40: Distance

Caitlyn came into CK before sunrise.

She didn’t need to. The building was still dark, the studio cold. The janitorial staff hadn't even finished their sweep, and a single lamp lit the executive floor.

She didn’t flip on the rest of the lights. Just walked slowly to her office, heels too loud in the silence, and sat at her desk like a ghost trying to haunt her own life.

Everything was exactly where she’d left it. Her sketch tablet still open. Her mug with the lipstick mark. Vi’s lip balm still on the corner of her desk.

She stared at it for a long time before sliding it gently into a drawer.

By 8 a.m., the office was alive again.

Mel swept in like a force of nature, latte in one hand, phone in the other. She barely looked up before saying, “Okay, the Matilda x Vi shoot has officially cracked twenty-five million engagements. TikTok is calling them ‘iconic sapphic royalty,’ and someone started a Change.org petition to get them on the cover of Vogue.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Great.”

Mel stopped mid-scroll. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“I’m glad it’s doing well,” Caitlyn said carefully, staring at her screen.

Mel didn’t move. “Still haven’t heard from her?”

“No.”

Mel set the coffee down. “You want to tell me what happened?”

Caitlyn hesitated.

Then: “My mother invited us to dinner. She called Vi a phase. And me a disgrace.”

Mel’s brows rose. “Oof.”

Caitlyn swallowed. “And I… didn’t say anything. Not until it was too late.”

Mel exhaled. “You froze.”

“I folded,” Caitlyn said quietly. “Like always.”

There was a long silence.

Then Mel asked gently, “Do you want to fix it?”

Caitlyn looked up. “I don’t know how.”

Mel didn’t smile. “Figure it out. Because that woman fought for you in rooms you wouldn’t even enter.”

Mid-afternoon, Caitlyn stepped into the studio floor. Dominique was pinning a new design to one of the mannequins — high leather collar, sheer paneling, brutal and beautiful.

Caitlyn stopped nearby.

Dominique didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Exactly.”

Caitlyn winced.

“I know what that dinner was,” Dominique said quietly, still pinning. “And I know how hard it is to stand up to family. But she didn’t just insult Vi. She humiliated you. In front of someone who loves you.”

Caitlyn swallowed. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“Yeah, well, you did,” Dominique said flatly. “And now you’ve got a choice to make: keep pretending Matilda’s enough, or figure out who you want to be when the mask comes off.”

Caitlyn didn’t answer.

Dominique finally looked at her. “You know how rare it is to be loved like that, right?”

That night, Caitlyn sat on the floor of her bedroom with the lights off.

Her phone glowed in the dark.

She typed:

I’m sorry. I should have defended you.

Waited.

Nothing.

The next morning, she sent another.

Please talk to me.

Still nothing.

She scrolled through their old messages. Voice notes. Photos. The one from the rooftop bar — Vi’s face tilted back in laughter, neon light painting her hair pink and gold.

Caitlyn locked the phone and set it screen-down on the bed.

Days passed.

CK buzzed on without Vi. Her name came up in meetings. Mel and Dominique stayed polite, but both watched Caitlyn like they were waiting for her to implode.

She didn’t.

She just… went quieter.

When Mel suggested pushing a second Matilda x Vi shoot to capitalize on the hype, Caitlyn nodded without speaking.

When the social team brought in proofs for new promos, she approved them.

She even pulled out the Matilda wig.

Laid it across her desk.

Touched the hair.

And then closed the box.

She couldn’t put it on.

Not anymore.

On Thursday night, she came home late to an apartment that felt colder than usual.

She didn’t change out of her suit.

She didn’t turn on music.

She poured a glass of wine and sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch, still in heels. The city lights flickered outside the windows — glittering, oblivious.

She thought about Vi’s voice in the hallway. Low. Cracking. True.

I walked into that house for you. I let her call me a companion like I’m your fucking pet. I can handle being hated. But I won’t be hidden. Stop acting like you’re ashamed of wanting me.

The words replayed in her head on a loop, too sharp to ignore.

She finished the wine.

Pulled her knees to her chest.

And finally let herself cry.

The tears came slow at first. Controlled. Almost polite. Then faster—throat tight, shoulders trembling, her hand still clenched around the empty wineglass like she could hold herself together if she just didn’t let go.

No one was watching.

No mask to adjust. No perfect posture to maintain.

Just Caitlyn. Hurt. Humiliated. Hollow.

When the sobs finally slowed, she let her head fall back against the couch, eyes staring at the ceiling, breath shaking in and out.

“I should’ve said something,” she whispered.

The words felt thin in the air, like they knew how late they were.

But still—she said them.

And that, maybe, was a start.

After a long moment, she reached for her phone again.

Not to text.

Not yet.

Instead, she opened her photo gallery.

Scrolled past shoot pics, press clippings, Matilda snapshots.

Stopped on one.

Vi in Caitlyn’s kitchen, barefoot and grinning, sleeves rolled up, holding a knife in one hand and a burnt grilled cheese in the other, looking completely unbothered by the smoke alarm going off behind her.

Caitlyn stared at the photo for a long time.

Then, without thinking, she set it as her lock screen.

A small thing.

Private.

But not nothing.

She set the phone down again, not face-down this time, and finally stood.

Slowly, she moved to her closet, peeled off her suit jacket, unzipped her skirt, let the perfect lines of her day fall to the floor.

She stepped out of her heels, one at a time.

And stood there barefoot, bare-faced, in silence.

Still herself.

Maybe finally ready to be just that.

Notes:

I skipped this chapter. Oops.

Chapter 41: Show me you want me

Caitlyn left her apartment quietly, locking the door behind her with a soft click that sounded far too loud. The city was already awake, headlights slicing through the early evening haze, but she barely noticed. Every step toward Vi’s place felt weighted, like she was carrying the dinner, every harsh word from her mother, and all the nights she’d spent staring at her phone, waiting for a reply that never came.

Her hands fidgeted with the edge of her coat as she walked. The subway was crowded but distant—voices a dull hum against the pounding of her own heartbeat. Every red light felt like a pause in time, giving her a chance to second-guess herself. Do I deserve to be here?

When she finally reached Vi’s building, Caitlyn lingered at the bottom of the steps, breathing through the tight knot in her chest. She wasn’t just stepping into an apartment; she was stepping into all the tension, hurt, and hope she’d been carrying for days. She wanted to knock. She wanted to text. But she wanted this to be real, unmediated, unfiltered.

She climbed the stairs, floor by floor, each one counting down to the moment where she’d either break or be broken. Her hand hovered over the doorbell, hesitated, then pressed.

Vi opened the door. For a second, neither moved. Caitlyn drank in the sight of her—the faint lines of tension around her eyes, the way she leaned against the door, arms crossed, the faint scent of citrus and lavender she’d memorized months ago.

"So," Vi said, voice low, measured. "Why are you really here?"

Caitlyn’s hands clutched her coat sleeves. She hadn’t rehearsed this. No script, no clever words. Just truth, raw and difficult.

"Because I miss you. Because I’m sorry. Because I should have said something when—" Her throat tightened. "When I didn’t."

Vi’s gaze softened slightly but didn’t let go of her guard.

"That all?" she asked, arms still crossed.

"No," Caitlyn whispered. Her voice trembled. "You said you needed to know that I wanted you. That I wasn’t ashamed."

Vi’s jaw tightened. "You don’t have to say anything. But you do have to show me."

Slowly, Caitlyn stepped closer. Her hands found Vi’s, pressed them to her chest, letting her feel the rapid beat of her heart. Every breath, every small tremor was unfiltered truth. Caitlyn noticed the slight hitch in Vi’s exhale, and it made her chest ache with longing. I’m here. I’m finally here.

Vi’s other hand cupped Caitlyn’s cheek, thumb brushing over flushed skin. Caitlyn shivered under the touch, warmth blooming along her spine. She realized with a pang that she’d missed this intimacy—missed feeling chosen.

"No," Vi whispered, husky. "But I want more than this."

Caitlyn’s lips curved into a small, shaky smile. "Then take it."

Their mouths met, tentative at first, lips brushing and teasing, tasting, exploring. Caitlyn’s mind caught on the feel of Vi’s lips, the scent of her shampoo, the faint warmth of her skin. She exhaled slowly, letting herself sink into the kiss. Fingers threaded into hair, pulling gently, tracing the curve of neck and shoulders. Small gasps slipped out, tiny sounds of relief and desire.

"Missed me this much?" Vi murmured between kisses, voice teasing.

"Always," Caitlyn whispered, smirking despite herself.

Hands roamed over ribs, sides, and back, exploring slowly, deliberately. Caitlyn felt every inch of Vi’s palms, the firmness, the softness, the way they cupped her as if memorizing her curves. Each small shiver beneath Vi’s touch made her heart skip.

Step by step, they moved backward to the edge of the couch, breaking the kiss just long enough for Vi to murmur, "Bedroom. I want to see all of you."

Caitlyn’s pulse thrummed in her ears. Every step was a choice. Every step was trust. Each footstep down the hallway was deliberate, aware, full of anticipation. The salt lamp’s warm glow reflected on the bedspread, casting soft shadows. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something earthy—Vi’s signature touch. Every subtle creak of the floor heightened Caitlyn’s awareness.

Once there, Vi guided Caitlyn close. Fingers traced coat buttons, lingered over the curve of her waist and shoulders. Caitlyn noticed how her own hands trembled slightly when touching Vi, the tiny shiver running down her spine at each lingering touch. Her mind flitted to memories: their first kiss, the rooftop bar, the laughter, the quiet moments they’d stolen.

"You said you wanted me to show you," Caitlyn whispered, voice trembling. "Let me."

"Tell me what you want," Vi murmured.

Caitlyn hesitated, then whispered, "I want you to fuck me. Like you mean it. Like you know I chose this."

Vi’s eyes darkened, sharp, fierce. "Say less."

She retrieved the leather harness and strap. Caitlyn’s pulse raced, heat pooling low in her belly. Vi shed shirt and pants with fluid intimacy, skin gleaming in the soft light. Caitlyn followed every movement, memorizing the tension in Vi’s muscles, the way her breath caught when she reached for the strap, the small shiver of anticipation.

Vi crawled onto the bed, lips capturing Caitlyn’s in a slow, deep kiss. Caitlyn clung, fingers digging into shoulders, tracing every inch of skin, memorizing the warmth, the tremble, the vulnerability finally allowed to be seen. Each shudder, each soft moan, was mirrored in Caitlyn’s chest, echoing her own desire.

"Bet you didn’t think I’d be this patient," Vi teased, whispering against her ear.

"Shut up," Caitlyn breathed, laughing shakily. "I’d be the same if it were you."

Vi guided the strap into place, brushing Caitlyn’s inner thighs, the tip teasing at the entrance. Caitlyn gasped, hips lifting instinctively. This is what I wanted. This is what I need.

"Please," she whispered.

Vi’s lips brushed her ear. "Then don’t ever let me feel like your secret again."

"I won’t," Caitlyn breathed, trembling.

Vi guided the strap into place with deliberate care, brushing Caitlyn’s inner thighs, letting her feel the weight and presence of control shift. Caitlyn gasped, hips lifting instinctively, the heat pooling low in her belly not just from desire, but from the trust she was offering. I’m letting her lead. I’m letting go.

Vi crawled onto her, lips capturing Caitlyn’s in a slow, deep kiss. Caitlyn clung, fingers digging into shoulders, tracing every inch of skin. She felt the tension in her own chest begin to ease, replaced with something vulnerable, unguarded—a surrender she’d never allowed herself before. Every shiver, every soft moan was not just pleasure, but a silent promise: I trust you. I choose you.

Vi’s eyes softened as she pressed against Caitlyn, inching forward. "I want you to feel this. I want you to let me in."

Caitlyn’s breath hitched. “I… I do,” she whispered, voice trembling with both fear and anticipation. She realized, with a sudden pang, that surrender didn’t mean weakness—it meant trust. I’m letting her hold me. I’m letting her take the lead.

Vi entered her slowly, inch by inch, each movement deliberate, each press a reminder of the power exchange Caitlyn had agreed to. Her breath hitched with the initial entry, soft whimpers escaping. Thoughts flitted across her mind: I’m choosing her. I’m giving myself over. I’m hers—and she’s mine.

"God, you feel so good," Vi murmured, voice low and fierce. "I could get used to this."

Caitlyn moaned softly, letting herself melt into the sensation, the rhythm, the trust. Every small pause, every lingering brush of fingers, emphasized her choice: she was allowing herself to be seen, to be vulnerable, to relinquish control.

Hands tangled, bodies pressed together, breaths mingling. Caitlyn arched instinctively, every thrust sending warmth and electricity along her spine. Tiny pauses—just a shift of weight, a lingering touch—kept each sensation vivid. Soft moans, whispered names, gasps, small exclamations of relief and pleasure filled the room.

The pace deepened, faster, harder, yet still tender, deliberate. Caitlyn clung to Vi, nails grazing her shoulders, breath hitching with every movement. Sweat gathered at their temples, skin glistening in the soft light. Caitlyn’s mind swirled with gratitude, desire, and relief: I’m seen. I’m chosen. I’m surrendered. And I am still me.

When they climaxed together, Caitlyn trembled, body quaking in Vi’s arms, moans and whispers spilling over each other. Vi pressed a hand to her cheek, tilting her head, brushing lips to her temple, murmuring praise, love, reassurance. Caitlyn whispered brokenly, "I’m yours… I’m yours."

They collapsed together, tangled, spent, and shivering. Caitlyn rested in the afterglow, her body still tingling from both the pleasure and the trust she had offered. Vi brushed Caitlyn’s hair from her forehead, fingers tracing her spine, holding her close. Caitlyn pressed into Vi, heartbeat echoing in her ears.

"I’m here," she murmured, voice raw, tears threatening.

"I know," Vi whispered, lips brushing hair, hands grounding her, holding her safe in the power exchange they’d shared.

They lay there, breathing, touching, whispering names, feeling warmth, trust, and love. Every lingering hand, every gentle kiss, every whispered word confirmed it: they were together, fully, unapologetically, chosen, and chosen again—Caitlyn having embraced vulnerability, surrender, and intimacy in equal measure.

Chapter 42: Behind the mask

Caitlyn woke before Vi did — or at least before Vi pretended to wake. She’d learned by now that Vi could sleep through anything except Caitlyn shifting even half an inch away from her.

And right now?

Vi was wrapped around her like she’d been engineered in a lab for the sole purpose of being the world’s most devoted human restraint system.

One strong arm cinched low around Caitlyn’s waist.
A warm thigh locked between hers.
Breath soft against the hollow of her neck.
Fingers lazily splayed under the hem of Caitlyn’s sleep shirt, like they’d tunneled there in the middle of the night with firm intention and zero shame.

It should’ve felt clingy.

On Vi, it felt like being held together.

Caitlyn smoothed her hand down the ridges of Vi’s spine, slow enough not to wake her, gentle enough to savor. Muscle under warm skin. A faint scar brushing under her fingertips. The steady heartbeat pressed against her back like a promise.

“I have a shoot today,” she whispered.

“Mmm.” Vi’s voice vibrated against her throat. “Cancel.”

Caitlyn let out a soft laugh — the kind that warmed her from the inside. “I can’t.”

Vi’s hold tightened, body molding even closer. “Fine. Then I’ll just keep you here forever.”

The sincerity in her sleep-rough voice nearly derailed Caitlyn right then.

She kissed Vi’s forehead. “You can hold me later. I’m doing this shoot.”

“Matilda shoot?” Vi mumbled, still buried in her. No teasing. No bravado.
Just a soft, lingering bruise of memory — the last time they’d been in a studio together.

Caitlyn swallowed. “No. As myself.”

Vi’s eyes snapped open like she’d been electrocuted. She lifted her head, studying Caitlyn in the pale wash of morning light filtering through the blinds. Her hair was a mess, her eyes soft but alert, and she looked at Caitlyn like she was seeing a star untangle itself from a constellation.

“You’re serious,” Vi breathed.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” Caitlyn said. Her voice trembled, but her resolve didn’t. “Not from the industry. Not from the world. Not from you.”

Vi exhaled — slow, reverent — like someone saying a prayer.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

The certainty in her tone anchored Caitlyn in a way nothing else could.

 

The second Caitlyn stepped into the building with Vi beside her, everything shifted like someone had dropped a lit match into a room full of gossip-grade oxygen.

Dominique looked up from her sketchbook, froze, then snapped her pen clean in half. “Oh. So the cryptid model returns.”

Mel was flipping through a stack of mood boards like they’d personally wronged her. “THANK GOD. I’m running out of ways to ‘no comment’ without sounding suspicious. I’m one caffeine patch away from violence.”

Jayce had his camera strap halfway around his neck and went completely still. “…We’re… not doing Matilda today?”
He whispered Matilda like he feared she might materialize behind him if he said it too loudly.

“Correct,” Caitlyn said.

Dominique arched a brow so sharp it could surgically remove an ego. “You’re shooting as yourself.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s here?” she asked, tilting her chin toward Vi — who had taken her position as hottest, most dangerous emotional support guard dog against the wall.

Caitlyn didn’t flinch. “She’s here.”

Mel clapped once. “Fantastic. I’m locking the door. No leaks, no witnesses, no interns breathing too loudly.”

While Dominique adjusted Caitlyn’s outfits, pinning and smoothing and muttering about “silhouette integrity,” Jayce battled a temperamental softbox that flickered like it owed him money.

Through it all, Vi stayed close.

Not hovering.
Not crowding.
Just… present.

A steady weight at Caitlyn’s back.
A pair of eyes she could find in any room.
A quiet, grounded warmth she could always lean toward without even realizing she’d moved.

Every time Caitlyn looked over, Vi was watching her — not hungry, not territorial — but with a soft, open pride that made Caitlyn’s breath stutter in her throat.

The last time they’d stood on a set like this, Vi had been half-naked and nervous; Matilda had been untouchable; they’d built a fantasy together only to shatter it in Caitlyn’s office with hands and lips and laughter and whispered yeses.

This wasn’t that.

This was steadier.
Realer.
Something that felt like a future instead of a secret.

Someone — a well-meaning intern with far too much enthusiasm — rushed up holding the Matilda mask in both hands like it was a sacred relic.

Caitlyn looked at it.

Not with longing.
Not with fear.
With stillness.

She reached out, took it gently, and set it down on the metal cart beside her.

No ceremony.
No apology.
Just done.

The entire room froze like a collective lung holding breath.

Vi’s exhale came first — a soft, warm sound, like she’d been waiting years for this exact moment.

Caitlyn stepped onto the backdrop with a stride that wasn’t Matilda’s curated glide.

It was hers.
Unmasked. Unpostured. Unperformed.

Jayce raised his camera, then lowered it again because apparently he needed a second to emotionally cope.

“Holy… okay, do not move.”

He took the shot so fast his camera beeped in protest.

“Caitlyn,” he said, voice quieter, “you look like you’re breathing for the first time.”

Caitlyn smiled — and there was nothing Matilda about it.
It was imperfect, bright, real.

From across the room, Vi murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Caitlyn’s hyper-attuned senses to catch:

“That’s my girl.”

Caitlyn’s heel almost caught on the floor tape.

Her phone buzzed during a wardrobe change.

Her mother.

Caitlyn froze.

Last time…
Last time, her mother’s words had nearly broken her.
Nearly broken them.

She answered anyway.

“Caitlyn, what on earth are you doing? Mel just posted a teaser and—”

“Mom,” Caitlyn whispered, gentle but immovable, “stop.”

Silence.

“I’m not calling for permission,” Caitlyn continued. “I’m calling to tell you this is who I am. I’m done performing the version of me that makes everyone else comfortable.”

Another silence. A longer one. Heavy.

“I don’t like this,” her mother finally said.

“I know,” Caitlyn replied softly. “But I’m not asking anymore.”

She hung up before the ache in her chest could spread.

When she looked up, Vi was in the doorway.

Waiting.
Patient.
Steady.

Caitlyn walked straight into her. Vi cupped her cheek with a thumb brushing under her eye.

“You good?” Vi murmured.

Caitlyn nodded. “I’m choosing me.”

“And I’m right here,” Vi whispered.

 

Jayce called, “Okay, Caitlyn? Last one!”

She stepped onto the backdrop again — hair slightly mussed, makeup softened, outfit simple but stunning.

Jayce inhaled sharply. “Oh… wow.”

This time, Caitlyn didn’t pose at all.

She just… existed.

Whole. Bare. Present.
A woman stepping out of her own shadow.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound of freedom being documented frame by frame.

From the corner, Vi watched her with the most openly soft expression Caitlyn had ever seen on her. Pride warming her jaw. Admiration softening all her edges.

This wasn’t Matilda’s world anymore.

This was Caitlyn’s.

And Vi looked like she’d follow her into it without hesitation.