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ckret2 · 4 months ago

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Chapter 60 of human Bill Cipher almost wasn't the Mystery Shack's prisoner but he's back here for some reason:

Everything you never even imagined about how Bill survived his execution.

(warning for cultists doing cultish activities in this chapter. and i don't mean "fantastical Blind Eye Society hijinks," i mean "discussing how to indoctrinate & isolate new recruits.)

####

"Hiya, Stan!" Bill Cipher beamed brilliantly. His gold tooth matched his new coat. "Didja miss me yet?"

Stan punched Bill in the nose.

Bill tumbled on his back, hand over his face. Voice tight with pain, he said, "Just so you know, I let you do that."

Stan's voice hit a pitch he hadn't been able to reach since puberty. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING ALIVE!"

Bill sat up gingerly. "Well, funny story—"

"NO! Nuh-uh, I'm finishing you properly this time!" Fists raised, Stan lunged at Bill.

Ford grabbed Stan from behind, one arm around his neck and one hooked up under his armpit. (Bill took the opportunity to scoot backward and get to his feet.) "Stanley! Stand down!"

"YOU!" Stan flung Ford's hands off and whirled around, pointing accusatorially at him. "You gave me your word! Tell me you didn't let Bill out."

"I didn't let Bill out."

Stan grabbed Ford's turtleneck. "Don't you lie to me!"

"I didn't let Bill out!" Ford ripped Stan's hands off his turtleneck. "He was already gone when I went into the kids' room."

"Then who— Who else would've known—"

Stan whirled around at a creak on the stairs. Dipper, halfway down the stairs, jumped when Stan saw him.

"DIPPER!" Stan stormed up to the stairs. "Did you help the demon escape?!"

"What, no!" Dipper took a step back up. "I don't even know how he got out! All I did was not say anything!"

"Well, who's left that could've helped him?!"

"BIIILL!" Mabel barreled down the stairs. "YOU CAME BACK!" She climbed on the stair railing, jumped off, and Bill—who'd crept inside behind Stan—was once more tackled to the ground.

Stan's hands twisted in the air like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to strangle someone, punch something, or pull out his own hair. He finally settled on curling them into fists and shaking them at God. "AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO DIDN'T KNOW THE DEMON'S ALIVE?!"

Soos, still sitting in the living room by himself, staring into space, voice hushed with horror, asked, "So who did I sweep into the flower vase..."

"Okay, family meeting!" Stan pointed at the living room, "Right now! You," he pointed at Bill, "upstairs! I don't wanna look at you and your—your stupid Las Vegas magician sequined coat!"

Bill sat up with a wince and grinned, "Oh, do you like it?" He took off his backpack and checked to see if its contents had been crushed when he was knocked down twice.

"You look like a circus clown!"

"I liked the Vegas magician thing better."

"GO!" Stan pointed up the stairs.

Bill raised his hands, rolling his eye as he started up the stairs. "Fine, fine—"

Stan grabbed Bill's wrist, making him drop his backpack. "STOP!"

"Make up your mind!"

Stan yanked one half of the enchanted friendship bracelets down over Bill's wrist. "You're not getting out again. Not on my watch."

Bill jerked his arm free, shot Stan a dirty look, and stomped up the stairs, umbrella clutched angrily in one hand and backpack in the other. Stan pulled the other half of the bracelet on.

In the living room, Ford, Dipper, and Mabel were lined up shamefacedly on the couch, like three students waiting to be lectured by the principal. Stan glowered at them each, fists on his hips. "Now, I wanna know why my own family all joined in some big secret conspiracy to help Cipher escape! Is it alien mind control?! Did you join a cult?!"

Mabel took a deep breath. "I saved him because he's my friend and I don't want him to die and he really is getting better and you'd all see it if you just gave him a chance to prove it and you just don't understand how he thinks like I do"—she took another breath—"and I promise he won't try to take over the world again just give him a chance!"

Stan's glare melted into something close to guilt. "You're... you're fine, pumpkin. I know you wouldn't have let your friend get hurt." He shot a glare at the other two conspirators. "Which is why we weren't going to tell her."

"Listen," Dipper said, "I still hate him and I don't trust him, but—but I heard part of a poem about Bill that I'm sure is a prophecy; which means he's important, we'll probably need him to save the town or something! So we can't let him die before then! He's already passed up chances to kill us and even saved Grunkle Ford and me, that proves he can restrain himself enough to be useful!" He winced, "Plus... I didn't wanna make Mabel sad. I have seen a future where she loses a friend, and it is not pretty."

Mabel leaned against Dipper. "Thanks, bro-bro."

Stan screwed up his face, but just muttered angrily under his breath about stupid prophecies and stupid life saving, and turned his glare on Ford. "Well? What's your excuse?"

Ford didn't answer, staring down at his hands, grimacing as he searched for an answer.

Stan pressed, "You told me that if you couldn't pull the trigger, you'd give me the gun. Why didn't you?"

"Because I could have pulled it! The situation was different, I—I only changed my mind because he wasn't there. If he had been, I'd have done it—"

"Would you? If you couldn't even tell me that he wasn't dead, do you really think that if he'd been right there, looking you in the eyes, you'd have done it?"

In his mind's eye, Ford could see Bill, hiding under a towel, grinning up at him with one bright eye. And Bill, collapsed beside the lake, shaking all over, sobbing so hard he didn't even notice he was clinging to Ford's stupid borrowed t-shirt like a lifeline. And Bill, staring tiredly across a chess board, telling Ford that the black king was taking the whole board down with him. And Bill, lighting up the room as he taught Ford's niece about his own long-extinct alien civilization.

And Bill, glowing golden, lighting up Ford's dream as he taught him about fifth-dimensional calculus.

Ford didn't answer.

Stan asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Softly, Ford said, "Because I don't want him to die."

Stan spread his arms in disbelief. "Well, why the hell not?!"

"Because—I'm—beginning to think that there might be a chance that Bill could..." he winced, "change. Maybe."

Stan's silence was deafening. Mabel leaned forward to stare around Dipper at Ford.

Ford rubbed his forehead. "I—it made sense yesterday, but it sounds stupid out loud."

Stan slowly shook his head. "Have you all lost your minds? You think he can change? You think he's part of some prophecy?! Y—Mabel, honey, you're the sweetest girl in the world, but you could do way better for friends than him."

Mabel sorta shrugged, sorta shook her head, sorta grimaced, and sorta nodded. "Yeah, but, I like him."

"WHY?!" Stan roared, making Mabel and Dipper both jump. "Why, why are any of you wasting your time on him?! Guys like him don't change! He's a dangerous, self-centered crook, and that's all he'll ever be. He's a rotten, greedy, lazy loser, he's only gotten as far as he has by conning guys smarter than him, he's got no regard for anybody but himself, all he does is cheat and lie, and if you let him stay in our lives he'll just ruin them! The best thing he could do for our family is—" Stan choked on a lump in his throat. "Is d-die."

The room was silent. Dipper and Mabel, leaning back into the sofa to get away from the rant, stared at him with wide eyes. Soos, over in an armchair bearing silent witness to this family drama, had his hands steepled in front of his face.

Stan couldn't look at Ford. He didn't know why Ford looked so sorrowful. Thickly, Stan asked, "All I want is to get rid of him—why don't you?"

He could hear Soos wince. "Oof."

Stan pointed at him. "Not a word. Not one word," he growled. "Fine—if none of you will deal with him properly," he cracked his knuckles, "I will."

Mabel flinched. Dipper moved to stand, "Grunkle Stan—" but stopped when Ford put a hand on his shoulder.

Stan stomped up the stairs. He'd wring that monster's stupid neck, and if it started the apocalypse then so be it—

He stopped halfway up the stairs. Bill was sitting on the steps, just around the landing corner, leaning against the wall, backpack in his lap. His soaked pant legs were dripping rainwater on the steps. "You," Stan snarled. "What are you doing?"

"What's it look like, genius? I'm trying to eavesdrop," Bill said. "So what'd they say?"

"What? What did who say about what?"

"About leaving me alive. Why did they say they don't want me dead?"

He asked like he was genuinely curious. Like he didn't know.

Stan stared at Bill.

"I have a good idea for Shooting Star, but the other two...?" Bill made an uncertain gesture with his hand. "I've got my top guesses, but I want to know what clinched the deal."

Stan couldn't kill him, either.

He'd already lost this fight. Pathetic lonely dead con artist who'd rather lose a tooth than look scared, how could Stan take him out? He understood too well. "Just—shut your stupid mouth, take off that stupid circus outfit, and get out of my sight, Cipher."

Bill bristled. "Hey." He stood. "What's that for? It's not like I did anything wrong. Sure, I got your whole family in on a conspiracy, but that's their mistake! I was just doing what I had to! You can't blame me for—"

"I don't blame you," Stan said.

"You d— You don't." Cautiously, Bill asked, "You... don't?"

"How can I?" He shrugged heavily. "It was self-defense. Ford should've known better—but I can't blame you. I'm not an idiot, I don't expect you to just lay down and die for us."

"Oh." Bill squinted at Stan, like he thought this was a trick and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Oh. Okay." After a pause, voice uncharacteristically small and confused, he asked, "So I'm... not in trouble?"

Stan's face did a gymnastics routine. "Heck," he muttered. "No! I guess not! I don't like it, but I'm not gonna punish a guy for saving his own miserable worthless hide! Just... stay out of my way, I don't wanna see your stupid face."

"I'm just minding my own business," Bill said. He sat again and leaned on the wall, arms crossed, staring into space thoughtfully. (He didn't know what to do with a reality where he'd done something everyone hated, but nobody blamed him for it.)

Stan trudged back downstairs. Everyone was where he'd left them. He glowered at his family. They quietly waited. "Well," Stan said. "We're stuck with him now. Since somebody wasted the only bit of fuel we had that could kill him. Is everyone happy."

Nobody seemed particularly happy. Ford shifted on his seat. "Kids... you should go to bed. Stan and I need to talk."

Dipper and Mabel quickly took the opportunity to slide off the sofa and escape the room.

"Oh! Oh you bet we need to talk! You have no idea how much we need to talk—"

"Downstairs," Ford said firmly.

"What, you don't want everyone else to hear exactly what I think of your crazy stunt?"

Ford lowered his voice. "Downstairs where he can't overhear. It's important."

Stan's face twitched with the effort of suppressing more shouting; but then he growled, "Fine! But this had better be worth it. Lemme get my bathrobe, your stupid underground office is like a freezer..." He trudged from the room, grumbling. "Hey, demon! Take off your bracelet, I'm done being tied to your sorry hide." After a moment, the thread reappeared on the stair steps as they both took their ends off.

Dipper glared at Bill as he and Mabel passed him going up the stairs. Bill gave him a tiny, cheery wave. Dipper grumbled, "I can't believe you finally escaped like you wanted just to come right back."

"Hey, it wasn't my idea! Blame your sister!"

Mabel hugged him again. "Thanks for coming back."

Bill said, "Thanks for absorbing Stan's wrath for me!" He laughed.

The kids ran upstairs.

And Bill placed the tip of his broken umbrella on the stair step and quietly walked back down, winding the enchanted bracelets' thread into loops as he went.

####

Soos looked at Ford and shyly raised a hand. "So... when you said the kids should go to bed, did that include..."

"Yes, Soos," Ford said. "You should go too."

"Yes." He quietly pumped a fist. "One of the kids." As he left, he said, "Hey, Bill. Sweet coat."

Ford looked over. Hovering in the shadows of the entryway, almost glowing gold from the living room's light, Bill peered into the room. He was by the coat rack, hanging the bracelets back up. Bill said, "Fancy meeting you here."

Ford sighed irritably. "I'm not in the mood to talk, Cipher."

"Don't flatter yourself, I'm not down here for you." Bill gestured at the sofa Ford was on. "I want my bed back."

Right. Ford stood so Bill could retrieve the cushions.

As he grabbed the first cushion, Bill smirked at Ford. "So..." (Not here for you. Sure.) "What was it that swayed you?"

Ford just glowered at Bill.

Bill pressed, "Was it that handy list of starter spells I gave you? I doubt it was my chess prowess, that wasn't my best playing." He laughed, "What am I asking for! You humans are suckers for a life debt. You can consider it paid off—a life for a life, fair and square—"

"It wasn't any of those."

Bill's smile disappeared. "Then what?" he asked. "Don't tell me you did it out of the goodness of your heart, I've seen enough of yours not to buy that—"

"It was Mabel."

Bill dropped his first cushion on top of the second and awkwardly tried to get his arms around both. "What'd she say about me?"

"Nothing." Nothing that had changed Ford's mind, anyway. "It's how you treat her."

"How I—?" Bill was so baffled that he almost looked offended. "What are you talking about? I haven't been treating her any way at all! I'm just... just goofing around with her. She's a fun kid."

"Exactly," Ford said. "If you can treat just one odd little girl with kindness, for no reason—then maybe, just maybe, there's hope for you." He sighed; he felt the sternness in his face slacken. He felt tired. "At least... I want to hope there is."

There was a flash of something Ford couldn't recognize in Bill's face. Something like pain; something nearly like guilt. It was gone almost as soon as he saw it.

"Well, sure," Bill said flatly, glancing away like Ford had lost his interest. "Why wouldn't I be nice to her? I like weird freaks." He managed to stand with his awkward armload and turned away, cutting the conversation off. "Anyway. It's been a long night. I'm going to bed. You should too," he shot back over his shoulder from the bottom of the stairs, "when's the last time you got decent sleep? Your eye bags are more... bag than... eye." Bill cringed at himself. "Don— Don't say anything. I'm tired." He headed up the stairs, his umbrella hooked over his left elbow. They'd have to get that umbrella back.

Tomorrow. Ford couldn't be bothered tonight. Bill wasn't killing anybody before morning.

Ford leaned on the doorframe where he could still see Bill. "I hid your hoodie in the box of spare bedding in the loft. Under the spare pillows."

Bill stopped halfway up the stairs and turned back toward Ford. "You didn't incinerate it?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I assumed you'd be back here eventually. I thought you'd want it."

Bill's face was unreadable.

He turned away from Ford and continued upstairs without saying a word.

Mabel's crayon drawing of Bill—"YOU CAN CHANGE. I BELIEVE IN YOU!"—felt like it was burning a hole in Ford's pocket.

####

Saturday, 7:52 a.m.

Bill stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar and timed his exit so he walked out of the Triple Digit Truck Stop just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

Gravity Falls really was a charming little town. Behind the times. The Triple Digit Truck Stop had expanded significantly in the past decades to add a convenience store and additional amenities for travelers, but the diner that made up the heart of it had barely changed. Same patchy grassy parking lot, same giant lumberjack sculpture watching over the cars... same public pay phones around the left side of the building.

He put in a few coins, punched in the number he'd memorized, and leaned against the wall while he waited to be answered. "Hey, Sue! Guess who?" A smile curled across his face. "That's right. Hey, how many people can say they've been personally called by god?" He laughed. "My Star Boy told you what preparations to make, right? Good. It's time. Midnight. Just north of the county line. I'll see you there."

Then he hung up the phone, left the clearing around the diner, and vanished into the trees.

Unless something dramatically changed, he'd be meeting his dear devotee that night.

####

9:30 p.m.

Something had dramatically changed.

His disloyal devotee had saved him.

It was a long walk to the county line. If Bill wanted to make his midnight meeting with his cultist, he had to leave before sunset.

He was still up on the cliff when the last of the light left the valley, pacing restlessly back and forth—first toward the side of the cliff overlooking the town (he could see the Mystery Shack's roof through the trees), then toward the side aimed away from the valley, toward the county line.

He should go. He needed to go. He needed to go now. He needed to go two hours ago.

He'd spent three out of the last four days hiking all over this town's forests and caves. In the last thirty-six hours he'd barely gotten a quick nap. (In the morning, when Mabel heard that Ford had covered for Bill, she'd come straight here.) He told himself he didn't have the energy for the hike to the county line. (What if Mabel got here and couldn't find him?)

If he didn't show up tonight, surely his cultist would try again tomorrow night. He'd go tomorrow.

It was fine. Everything would work out for him. Everything always worked out for him.

####

Sunday, 4:10 p.m.

He'd been right. Mabel had come straight here. As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched her wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

Don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth? Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?

Interesting question.

####

8:30 p.m.

It was a long walk to the county line. Bill packed his supplies—he didn't have that much to pack, he'd only ever needed enough food and shelter to last him a couple of days. He flung one backpack over each shoulder, closed and concealed the alien ship fragment, and shrunk his floating platform with the height-altering flashlight so he could wrap it in a shirt and stuff it in his second backpack.

And then, under the cover of the rain and the falling night, he began the hike north.

####

10:45 p.m.

Even to Bill's eyes, the weirdness barrier around Gravity Falls was typically invisible. He could only see it where something touched it or passed through it, making waves travel out in circles from the point of contact. The circles glowed a dull coppery color at their peaks. Tonight, with the rain falling, the barrier rippled as though the rain were falling on the surface of a lake, and the whole thing glowed a faint filmy orange.

Precisely in the middle of the barrier was a sign marking the border of Roadkill County.

Ten feet beyond the barrier, just off the edge of the road, headlights and engine off and lurking beneath the trees, was a black car.

Bill walked straight through the weirdness barrier as though it wasn't even there. He didn't feel a thing.

The car engine started and the headlights turned on. Bill didn't even blink. The driver's door flew open and Sue popped out, fumbling to open an umbrella as she did. "Bill Cipher?"

"Hiya, Sue! You made it early."

"Oh, thank goodness." She hurried up to him. "I was so worried—I didn't know if I'd come to the wrong place, or if something had happened... And when I didn't hear anything from you the next day, and Gideon didn't know anything..." (Great, she'd gotten Gideon involved?) She started to offer Bill her umbrella, realized he was already holding a closed umbrella as a cane, looked up as she registered that no rain was falling on him, then stared at him in wonder.

"Yeah, sorry about that—an unavoidable emergency came up, I couldn't get out and couldn't call." And he'd gotten a pretty good night's sleep. "But look at you, loyal enough to come try again the next night! You're a rare sort of human soul, you know that? This world could use more people like you."

Sue flushed with pleasure. "Oh... thank you, I..."

Bill tilted his head toward the car. "Let's not talk out in the rain, huh? Another car's coming by in about a minute, I think we shouldn't be seen."

"Right! Of course, my lord." She hurried back to the car.

"There's a terrific diner just a few minutes up the road. We can talk there, it's safe enough. Cute decor, too—have you ever seen a twenty foot tall lumberjack...?" He paused uncertainly by the car. "Hey, Sue? This'll sound silly—but I'm gonna need you to get the passenger door."

The car's interior lights flashed on as Sue opened the passenger door, long enough to catch the glittery purple nail polish on Bill's fingers. Sue gave it a curious look. Even though they'd just gotten painted three days ago, the polish was already scuffed again from his escape; but a few tiny flower stickers were still sticking to his nails.

Bill grinned. "There's a thirteen-year-old staying in the shack. Sweetest thing. She's a real artist."

"Oh! I see." A smile stretched across Sue's face. Bill suspected it wasn't for Mabel. That's right, your god's good with children. He lets little girls give him goofy manicures and proudly shows them off. Chicks dig that kind of thing.

When they were both buckled in, Sue hesitated, holding the steering wheel. "Lord Cipher... I wanted to say... if my... actions the last time we met were out of line in any way, I want to apologize—"

Bill placed a finger under her chin, turned her face toward him, and kissed her lightly. (He was so smooth. He mentally congratulated himself.) "Sorry if you got confused. I had to keep the outsider from getting suspicious, get it?"

She sucked in a small breath. "I... yes. Yes, of course."

"Don't trust anything I say or do when unbelievers are listening. The only time you can be sure I'm telling the truth..." his voice dropped to a near whisper, "is when we're alone."

He could see the goosebumps raise on her arms. "Yes, my lord."

He was so good—and his worshipers were so, so stupid. That was why they followed him. "Now, let's get to that diner, huh?"

As they got on the road, he studied his nails; to a normal human it was too dark to see, but to Bill's eyes they still glittered bright purple. The question Mabel had asked him earlier had been playing over and over in his mind all afternoon: Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?

Naive, trusting kid.

She really thought she was his best option.

######

"... And then, as if directly launching a psychic attack on my ethereal essence and forcing me into a mortal fleshly form wasn't bad enough," Bill said, "they imprisoned me! And get this: just to rub salt in the wound, they thought it would be funny to take a divine muse who's spent an eternity helping mortals build doorways between dimensions—and curse it so it can't open doors. I have to ask my kidnappers to open the fridge for me. Have you ever heard something so condescending?"

"Insane. That's just sadistic," Sue said. "After all you tried to do for them."

"You don't know what a comfort it is to hear a human say that."

They fell silent as someone approached. A waitress stopped next to their table. "Hey, I—Goldie!"

"Dani Miranda! Hey, how's it going! I see you found the treasure map I left you."

Dani was wearing two large gold earrings, two heavy gold necklaces each with a large gem-encrusted pendant, and four rings. "Yes, oh my gosh. I cannot believe you knew where a whole treasure chest was and you just gave it to me? That's the nicest thing ever?"

That's right, it was. "What are you doing working here! You can retire on that kind of money. Unless you want to rebury all that gold yourself?" He'd respect that.

"I'm still getting it appraised. Besides, I like talking to the late night travelers."

Bill ordered a strawberry banana shake, the monthly pancake special—which meant three quarters of the pile covered in stripes of strawberry sauce and cream cheese frosting and one quarter covered in a big puddle of blueberry sauce—floppy bacon, three eggs prepared "any way except scrambled," a cup of bleu cheese dressing, a cup of salsa, and a bottle of hot sauce. Sue ordered a water and a small grilled chicken salad.

(Bill tried to remember whether the Death Valley girls were one of his "purify the flesh by practicing harsh asceticism" cults or his "hedonistically revel in the pleasures of the senses" cults, in case he needed to make up a justification for why god was ordering pancakes instead of practicing what he preached—something something a human body containing a divine soul burns through much more energy, maybe—but no, he had the Death Valley girls on psychedelics, that was a hedonism cult. He kept them controlled through drugs, exhaustion, and poor air conditioning, not starvation. Small grilled chicken salad, indeed. The only thing stronger than cult brainwashing was diet industry brainwashing.)

When Dani was safely out of earshot, Sue lowered her voice and asked, "'Goldie'?"

"My captors decided to keep my identity secret so an angry mob won't execute me before they get the chance," Bill said. "The entire town's against the All-Seeing Eye named Bill; but only a handful know there's anything unusual about the handsome human in the Mystery Shack they've been calling Goldie."

She looked taken aback at the angry mob comment. "The entire town's against you?" Her gaze roved around the Triple Digit Truck Stop, taking in a lone trucker several tables away and a bored waiter scrolling on his phone behind the counter. "Is there anyone we can trust?"

"Gideon's on our side, of course—good kid—but, well... he isn't completely reliable. You know what happens with child celebrities. The fame and fortune spoils 'em a bit."

"I never would have guessed from his television appearances. He seems so... gracious."

Bill choked back a laugh. "He'll grow up all right—he's just going through a phase. But I'd rather not trust him with more involvement than necessary until he... matures a little."

"I understand." Sue sighed. "It's too bad the dawn of the new age didn't begin closer to us, where we could have assisted your work."

She didn't have the guts to question her god, but Bill heard the implicit question: why here? Why in some tiny tourist town that didn't even like tourists, buried in a forest in the middle of nowhere, amongst the ignorant ungrateful masses? "Yeah—too bad," Bill agreed with a shrug. "But hey, I didn't choose where the veil between worlds would be thinnest! There's energy in this town like nowhere else on your planet. It's the only place where a machine built with modern human technology is strong enough to punch through dimensions—and that's with the help of extraterrestrial equipment."

Besides, he didn't like Death Valley.

Dani returned from the kitchen. "One chicken salad, and one breakfast combo with the pancakes of the month."

"Great! I'm starving." Bill picked up the little plastic cup of salsa and dumped it into his shake. Sue choked on her water.

Dani's brows shot up. "Is—is that good?"

"What can I say, I've got the palate of an alien." (Sue choked on the sip she'd taken to recover from her first sip of water.) Bill poured the bleu cheese over his eggs, then started drizzling hot sauce on his pancakes. "Anyway, it keeps people from stealing my food."

"I guess so!" Dani laughed. She hovered near their table a little too long; and then she said, "Okay, I've got to ask: how did you know where to find buried treasure? I mean...!"

"I know lots of things." He fought down a smirk. "I happen to be psychic."

"No way." But she looked curious. She wanted to believe.

Bill had had a hunch that giving her that treasure would pay off. Nice to know his understanding of human nature was still sharp, even when he couldn't double-check the far future to see how his meddling would turn out. "If I wasn't psychic, would I have known your last name? Or where that treasure chest was?" he asked. "Or that you keep three pictures of tarantulas and a Canadian twenty in your wallet? Or that you have recurring dreams of trying to hide in sewer manholes from a fire-breathing dragon?" While he waited for her to process that, he triumphantly dug into his pancakes. He had a feeling he wouldn't be eating much more before his food got cold.

Dani's smile had disappeared. The blood drained from her face. "How...?"

"I'm... let's say, connected to a higher plain. I can see dimensions most humans can't."

"It's true," Sue piped up. (Bill took the opportunity to dig into an egg. Oh, the bleu cheese was a great choice.) "The insights h—she's offered me and so many others have been... life-changing. World-changing." Good girl.

"Insights?" Dani asked weakly.

Bill shrugged modestly. "You could call me a 'spiritual teacher,' I suppose, but that makes it sound like I'm preaching some kind of religion! All I do is teach people what I know and tell people what I see if I think it'll help 'em. Like if I see a bunch of buried gold that could change the life of a nice kid working minimum wage."

Dani reflexively touched one of her necklaces.

"You didn't think going to parties in togas was my full-time job, did you?" Bill laughed.

Dani laughed feebly too. She hadn't moved away. She was closer now, her thigh leaning against the edge of the table. "That's... wow. I've never met an actual psychic before. I mean—I went to one of Lil Gideon's live shows, but that was before the big scandal and his arrest."

"You hate to see a pillar of the community go down like that, don't you?"

"What..." Dani swallowed hard, lowered her voice, and asked, "What kinds of things does a psychic 'teach'?"

Got her. "It depends! Everyone's got different lessons they need to learn, right?" He slid out of his seat, nodded toward Sue, and said, "Excuse me ladies—I'd love to elaborate, but I'm afraid I need to hit the restroom. Sue, why don't you tell her what you've learned about, give her a concrete idea of what I do."

"It would be my honor."

As Bill passed Sue, he leaned over and whispered, "Don't mention triangles." And then he got out of her way, to let Sue do what his Death Valley girls did best.

####

When he returned to his seat, Sue leaned over the table and murmured, "I got her phone number and email."

"Good work. I bet she'd be an easy recruit."

"I bet. She's already asking how much lessons cost."

"What'd you say?"

"You offer your help to others for free, but cover your living expenses and travel costs with donations."

"Attagirl." It had been easier to use that line when he was a triangle—of course our great mentor and muse doesn't need money, he's above such earthly concerns; his mortal devotees who spread his word, though, subsist on donations... It was better for his image. They'd just have to modify their fundraising pitch for a while. "This is exactly what I hoped would happen when I invited you to this diner. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Sue's face. "I'll follow up with her by phone. It's a pity we don't have enough time to really put the pressure on her in person."

"Why not? I bet we'd win her over in less than a week."

"I've already contacted the main compound in Death Valley. We've got plane tickets for first thing in the morning."

(Bill's blood ran cold. Somehow, it hadn't dawned on him until that moment that escaping Gravity Falls meant leaving Gravity Falls.)

"I have a motel room a few towns over, it was the closest I could find to Gravity Falls," Sue went on. "It's a straight shot to the Portland airport in the morning. Everyone's so excited—"

"Hold on," Bill said, figuring out what he was about to say next as he went. "There's been a last minute change of plans. I'm staying in Gravity Falls."

Sue stared at him. "But—my lord! You're a prisoner here, why wouldn't you come home to the people who love you?"

Love you, love you, love you. The word love alone was nearly enough to make him change his mind again. How he missed being revered. He could picture them now, these zealots who adored him so much they'd willingly bend their bodies into a throne to lift him up—and he didn't even need to turn them to stone first. It would be so easy to get away from all his human enemies forever...

Don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?

He shook his head. "Two reasons," he said. "One: no matter what, eventually I'll have to come back. The Age of the Triangle can only dawn in Gravity Falls. Staying makes it that much easier to get things started again. And two... I'm—working on a couple of potential recruits." He was? Wow. He was impressed at himself.

"You mean Gideon, or...?"

"No, others. One's the girl who helped me escape." He drummed his fingers on the table, calling attention to his purple fingernails. "She's a good kid. Lots of potential. Could be a real leader someday—she's a natural fit for our new world. She's got a few strings, but I'm working on helping her untie 'em."

Strings was a term that Mary, the leader of the Death Valley compound, had come up with and spread to the other girls: it meant petty mortal concerns that could tangle and tie you up, dragging you away from pursuing true spiritual growth and preparing for a better, liberated world. Your childhood religious beliefs were a string. The misguided ideas about morality you learned from the secular world were a string. Your job was a string. Your spouse was a string. Your family was a lot of strings. The intervention where your friends sat you down and told you they were worried about how much you'd changed lately and they were afraid you'd joined some kind of cult was a string. You had to cut them all.

And then Bill could tie on his puppet strings in their place.

"How old is she?"

"Thirteen. Fourteen at the end of the summer."

"Oh, wow—younger than I thought. That's great, kids are more open-minded," Sue said. "Though if she decides to join, it'll be hard to get her away from her family without a kidnapping charge..."

"Ugh, you don't need to remind me. I remember how we almost lost Karen and Jennifer. The legal system in this country is a mess." Bill had needed to torture that divorce court judge with nightmares for weeks before he caved and awarded Jennifer's mother sole custody so they could move to the Death Valley compound together. "But hey, got some good news: the other potential recruit. You remember the 'ex-cultist' who gave you gals my location. He turned on the humans who are pushing to execute me. He's almost back on our side. And he just so happens to be the girl's great-uncle. The family trusts him. If we can get 'em to pass her to him as her guardian, then she's ours. We can work out how to get her to the compound later." That was a lie. Bill was never handing Mabel to the Death Valley girls. She was better than them.

Sue looked less enthusiastic for this ex-cultist than she had for the girl. "Is he one of your captors...?"

Bill waved off her concerns, frowning. "Look. He's obviously been corrupted by the outside world. I lost contact with him for thirty years and he came back with more strings than a mop head. But I don't think he's beyond purification. He's already shown major improvement, now that he's once again under the shining light of my influence."

"But, this town..." Sue shook her head doubtfully. "Cipher, my lord, they nearly killed you once. You'd risk staying just to try to recruit two people? One who's already betrayed you—?"

"Yes!" Bill snapped. Sue flinched. "They're worth it." (He didn't question his own vehemence, his own anger at their value being doubted. He rarely questioned himself. If he asked questions, he might get answers.) "Don't you dare let this face fool you—I'm still your all-seeing god and I know what I'm doing better than you do. These two are perfect. The Age of the Triangle needs them. The traitor will repent. He WILL worship me again."

Sue stared at him with wide eyes; for a split second her breath froze in fear. She gave him a tiny nod. "Of course, my lord. My apologies."

Dani appeared at their table again. "Hey, how was everything?"

And Bill was immediately all good cheer. "Terrific, thanks!"

"Great!"

As Sue reached for her wallet, Dani waved her off. "Oh, don't worry about it—it's on the house." She winked. "I think I can afford to cover it."

Already making donations to the cause. Pretty soon all the profits from her treasure chest would be in one of Bill's bank accounts.

As they headed back out into the rain, Sue said, "So, we're staying in town at least long enough to pick up another three recruits?"

"Maybe four," Bill said. "There's another kid in town I think needs some help finding a direction."

"Another? Is this one old enough to leave home alone?"

"Not for a couple more years—but she's dying to get out just as fast as she can," Bill said. "I think you can handle her."

####

They parked just up the road from the Mystery Shack and turned the headlights off.

"Here's everything Gideon said you wanted," Sue said, handing over a paper bag. "Candles, matchbook, knife, pens, spare notebooks, five thousand dollars, a burner phone, new clothes..."

Bill pulled out a flashy golden sequin-covered coat. "Oooh!" He dug around until he also found a button-up shirt and a pair of black opera gloves. He shrugged on the shirt.

"That's... what Gideon said you requested, right?" Sue eyed the tacky, gaudy coat uncertainly.

"As long as I'm in this body, I don't have the benefit of showing up glowing in people's dreams when I have something they need to hear! I need to make them pay attention any way I can." Also, normal people had boring tastes and sequins were fantastic. He buttoned up the shirt.

"I also brought—I—thought you might want..." She held out a large pendant on a thin chain. It was an eye inscribed inside a triangle inscribed inside a circle; rays radiated out from the eye, as though it were the sun. Bill's heart leaped into his throat at the sight of it.

He realized this was the first time since his death that he'd seen his own face in any form other than a thirteen-year-old's artwork—and his own corpse. His face was ubiquitous on this planet; it was plastered on everything from money to buildings to common consumer goods. Its conspicuous absence in Gravity Falls was uncanny.

"I'm not sure if it's inappropriate—"

"It's perfect." Bill snatched the necklace from her and fiddled with the clasp until he got it on. "Exactly what I need. What did I always say about your intuition?" He considered the gloves, decided he wasn't ready to pull them on quite yet, and shrugged on the coat instead.

She restrained a pleased smile at the flattery. "Thank you, my lord."

She looked out the windshield. Just up the road was a flock of wooden signs and arrows pointing which way to turn to reach the Mystery Shack. Bill wondered whether Sue's eyes had adjusted enough to the dark that she could see their silhouettes. Sue said, "If you're not coming back to us yet, then I suppose it's time to..."

"Hold on a minute," Bill said. "You've been a bigger help tonight than you know. If it weren't for your loyalty and diligence, I wouldn't have been able to consider escaping." Blah blah blah. The truth was he'd been soaking in her reverence for the past hour and a half, like a dehydrated cactus under a cloudburst, and he wasn't leaving until he'd sucked every drop from her. "There isn't a lot I can do for you right now, trapped in this form, but you deserve a reward." He leaned toward her, his elbow against her car seat, hand on the headrest. "Let me express my gratitude the way I would have if we hadn't been interrupted during our last meeting." He tilted his head toward the back seat.

She froze as she processed the offer; and then she leaned in to kiss him hungrily.

####

"The tide's changing in this town," Bill said, pulling on his gloves, smoothing his hair back into place, putting his new coat back on. "The dawn is coming. You should stay in town now that our enemies are losing their teeth."

"Yes, Lord Cipher," she said breathlessly, still trying to get her wits about her.

(From what Bill had eavesdropped between her and Dani while he was pretending to be in the restroom, he was right that she'd been one of his "dissatisfied housewife" converts. This was probably the first time she'd ever been touched by somebody who understood anatomy. Unfortunately, she didn't know how to return the favor. But he'd been touched by reverent hands, he'd tasted tears, he'd heard a voice whine "Bill, my god, my god, my god—" That would have to hold him for a while.)

"And ditch the rental. Buy a used car," Bill said. "There's a place in town called Gleeful Auto Sales. Ask Bud for the best car on the lot, pay whatever he asks—and tell him Mr. Locke sent you."

"'Gleeful' as in...?"

"His father. My Star Boy was the only person in town who supported me—and the town's turned on his family for it. They could use our help."

Sue pursed her lips in displeasure. "Of course."

Bill gestured toward his door. "I think we've put this off long enough."

While he waited for her to get his door, he slung his two backpacks over each shoulder. Under his breath, he muttered, "'Coffee break's over; back on your heads.'"

Sue opened the door; he picked up his umbrella and stepped out into the rain.

As he walked back to his prison, he tucked his necklace beneath his shirt.

Bill reminded himself that he didn't have anything to be afraid of. Ford had thrown away the one shot that could have killed him. He was safe.

####

1:20 a.m.

As Stan followed Ford into his underground study, he shot a glance at the barren far end of the room. He grumbled, "Nice to see you haven't started putting triangle posters back up."

"I'm not..." Ford sighed in irritation. "Never mind."

"So what's so important that you had to drag me down to your nerd cave? If this isn't good—"

"I didn't waste our shot."

"What?"

At his metal worktable, Ford unlatched the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case and opened it. "You said I wasted the only fuel we had. I didn't." He detached the NowUSeeitNowUDontium's fuel tank and held it out. The needle on the side indicated it was about a quarter full—nowhere near its full capacity, but enough for one shot, and just as much as they'd brought home from Fiddleford's.

Stan gaped. "But... hold on—we saw that shot through the walls. How the heck did you fake...?"

"Before he started developing a process to generate Dontium, Fiddleford came up with a power adaptor that could plug into the town's electricity." Ford picked up the power cord wound up in the carrying case. "He determined that it only gave the Destabilizer enough power to operate like a laser, not destroy matter and energy, so we still needed to develop the Dontium... but, I still had the cord on hand."

####

Saturday, 12:07 p.m.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

He slid out its fuel tank, returned it to the case, and pulled out the cord.

He climbed down to the bedroom; unplugged the room's air conditioning unit from its dedicated higher voltage wall socket; and plugged in the Quantum Destabilizer's cord.

In the loft, trying to figure out how to plug the other end of the cord into the Quantum Destabilizer, he was suddenly struck by the hair-raising feeling that someone was watching him. He whipped around; the eye on Bill's hood stared at him resentfully.

Ford stared back at it a moment; then he stood, pulled the hoodie off the dummy, and stuffed it into a nearby box.

He knelt. He plugged in the cable. He carefully lined up the shot with the dummy.

He fired.

####

12:09 p.m.

The atmosphere abruptly grew eerily quiet and still as the unplugged air conditioning unit fell silent. There was a shrill, whistling shriek and a blast of blue-white light so brilliant it pierced the cracks of the wooden boards in the attic bedroom's walls.

Every light in the house went out as the Quantum Destabilizer's power adapter drained every drop of electricity in town.

####

12:10 p.m.

The air was hot, stagnant, and stuffy. There was a pile of ashes three feet in front of Ford's knees.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done:

The Quantum Destabilizer, at full power, completely destroyed all matter and energy.

It didn't leave behind ashes.

####

Monday, 1:23 a.m.

Ford said, "Bill left a letter in the attic asking me to help cover his getaway. If I didn't fire the gun, Bill would have known I'd told you he escaped. But if he could see the Quantum Destabilizer firing, he'd think I'd chosen his side. The only way to lure him back to the shack was by making him think I'd used up the only substance we have that could destroy him." He muttered, "Granted, I'd assumed he'd try to contact me secretly rather than knock on the door in the middle of the night, but..."

Stan gaped at Ford. Then he burst into loud laughter. "Sixer, you tricky sonova! I don't believe it!" He socked his arm. "I oughta retire from the conning business and hand it over to you!"

A smile slowly crept up Ford's face.

Stan pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at the elevator. "So we can go up there and finish him off now, right? Just wait for him to fall asleep, and...?"

Ford's smile disappeared. "No."

"N—What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I..." He took a deep breath as he chose his words. "I was serious, earlier, when I... said I want to give him a chance."

"Wh—? Still? Ford, come on, you can't think he deserves it?"

"No. Of course not. Not even close." Ford didn't hesitate. "But... does he need to deserve a chance to get one? I wonder if maybe Mabel's on to something. If he could be better, he can't show us unless we give him the second chance—before he's earned it." He sounded like a lunatic. "He can't earn it if he's dead."

Stan looked for a moment like he wanted to argue; and then something painful flashed through his eyes; and then he looked away from Ford, scowling to himself as he thought. He sighed heavily. "Yeah. Okay. Fine. Darn it, I don't wanna do it either. The creep's actually starting to grow on me. Like some kind of foot fungus."

Ford huffed. "What's important is, if we give him a chance and he throws it away, I haven't left us unarmed." He gestured to the unplugged fuel tank.

Stan looked at the tank; then looked at Ford. "You could've told us about the power cord trick yesterday, and you didn't." Stan crossed his arms. "Be honest. Do you really think, if it came down to it, you'd be able to pull the trigger now?"

"No." And again Ford didn't hesitate. "I want to believe I could; but I... don't trust myself. Yesterday morning, I never would have thought I'd decide against executing him for any reason. I know Bill's playing games with me, and yet I'm still playing along—so what else might I do?" He shrugged helplessly. He hated that Bill could still take control of his mind—even when he couldn't physically get inside it. "To some extent, he's gotten into all our heads."

Stan grimaced, but he didn't argue.

"That's why I think Fiddleford should keep the Quantum Destabilizer. He's never been taken in by Bill's tricks. If it becomes necessary, he won't hesitate."

"You know the situation's bad when Old Man McGucket's the voice of reason," Stan muttered. "But, I like that idea. We can drop it off with him in the morning."

Ford sighed. "He's probably spent the last two days thinking Bill's dead. He won't be happy to see us."

As they walked back to the elevator, Stan said, "Maybe leaving Bill alive isn't an end-of-the-world bad idea. How much trouble can he get in when he can't escape that magic barrier around town?"

"That's true," Ford said. "He's essentially harmless—at least to the rest of the universe."

Ford didn't have anything to be afraid of. Bill was trapped in the weirdness barrier; and he couldn't even leave the shack without help. They were safe.

####

As fancy as his new coat looked, Bill was was grateful to crawl back into the comfortingly formless body-obscuring shelter of his hoodie. He pulled his hood over his face, curled up on his usual cushions (sigh) in his usual spot (sigh), and quickly fell asleep.

And began to dream.

And, in his dream, saw through his nearby eyes.

In his sleep, he could see the attic from where he lay on his cushions. He sat up, realized his vision was crooked, straightened out his hood, and stood; and he began sleepwalking.

He crept silently downstairs. He walked backwards into the gift shop. He walked up to a spinning rack of keychains that Soos had set up on the display case, took off his necklace, and hung it from one of the hooks.

He pulled aside the curtain hiding the ladder to the roof.

Bill was very good at lying. Bill was very good at lying to himself. No, that wasn't true—Bill had never lied to himself in his life, and he was willing to kill anyone who tried to say he had. Bill didn't tell himself lies; he told himself what should be the truth. Believing in a new reality was the first step toward making it real. All you had to do was lie until you weren't lying anymore—and then, you'd never lied at all. It was very simple.

He'd spent billions of years swimming in and out of dreams, until he was more comfortable with how reality worked in dreams than he was with how reality worked in actual reality; and there was no other state of existence where the line between truth and lie was blurriest. Unlike the physical world, where altering reality tended to require a little more actual work, in a dream, lying until it came true really was as simple as thinking about your new truth.

That was all it took. One bright, lucid thought to shine order through the confused fog of the subconscious.

Bill was getting good at lucid dreaming.

Bill was dreaming now.

A couple of weeks ago, Bill had heard Wendy called the trap doors in the ceiling "roof lids."

No, that wasn't true. A couple of weeks ago, Bill had heard Wendy call the roof lids "roof lids," because that was what they were. Bill couldn't open doors, didn't have the first idea of what to do with a door, but he could open lids. Jar lids. Pot lids. Toilet lids. He'd practiced with toilet lids—they had hinges, that made them the most similar to roof lids. If he could open all those lids, he could open these lids.

As he stared, the trap doors changed, in the way that dream images had of swimming and shifting dizzily before your eyes, into roof lids.

He climbed the ladder, pushed up the roof lid, climbed through; and then opened the second one that led onto the roof. He moved so silently. The rickety rungs and old wooden boards didn't even creak beneath his footsteps. He climbed out, sleepwalked his way to the roof hangout spot, and jumped off the roof.

He descended, slow as a feather, to land lightly on the ground, as though gravity hardly touched him.

Almost a month ago, on his birthday, Stan had taken off his gold chain and chucked it off into the forest so he could put on his birthday gift instead. Bill had watched enviously from the window. Now, triumphantly, he scooped up the long-coveted chain and wrapped it several times around his wrist.

And then he went to the tree where he'd hung up his second backpack full of contraband and retrieved it.

There were several pine trees right next to the shack. As near-weightless as Bill was in his dream, it was easy for him to climb one of the trees and get back on the roof.

In the gift shop, the vending machine swung open as Stan and Ford returned to the house level. They went into the living room, heading toward bed. The All-Seeing Eye hanging on the keychain rack watched as the door swung shut behind them. After waiting a few more seconds to ensure they were gone, Bill slid down onto the ladder, shut the roof lid, and jumped noiselessly to the floor. He retrieved his necklace from the keychain rack.

This was a vending machine. It wasn't a door. It clearly wasn't a door. Bill punched in the vending machine's code and stepped back as it swung aside for him. He crept down the stairs.

This was an elevator. The elevator had doors, and he didn't know how to open them, but he wasn't worrying about those. The doors would sort themselves out somehow. All he cared about was the elevator. He was NOT trying to open the doors. He wasn't even thinking about opening the doors. He pushed the button to call the elevator.

The elevator doors slid open. See, just like he'd thought: the doors took care of themselves.

He pushed the button for the lowest floor. The doors slid shut.

As he rode down, he wove his new necklace's thin chain between the links of Stan's much thicker chain. Oh yeah. That looked much better.

The doors opened again into the interdimensional portal's control room.

He put on his necklace and stepped out. It was about time he made it back here. Bill really should have taken more time to check this place out at the start of summer. Why had he been in such a rush to kill the Pines? He'd had time travel. He could have rebuilt the entire portal by himself, won the lotto in Texas, spent a week in a seven star hotel, watched the Titanic sink, become President Trembley's First Lady, gotten Mysterious Mo's autograph, planted a NASA rocket in an Aztec temple just to give those ancient alien morons an undeserved but funny win, and then come back to finish the job.

Well, hindsight, whatever. At least he had a list of things to do if he ever got his hands on that time tape again. Anyway, he was back now.

He didn't think he'd need to be asleep to get back into the gift shop, and he probably needed his full brain turned on for the task ahead. He pulled his hood off, opened his eyes, and woke up.

The world looked so much less malleable.

He fished a notebook and red and black pens from his backpack, picked his way through the rubble of the portal, and began taking notes in Plaintext on how many parts were salvageable. Every few minutes, he flipped a page forward to begin work on blueprints for a new portal.

####

(And that concludes... season 1. idk out of how many seasons, but it sure feels like a season finale, don't it?

Next week's The Book Of Bill y'all! I'll be posting a chapter, but which chapter depends on TBOB. If TBOB is either compatible with the backstory I've got for Bill, or so wildly incompatible that there's no way I can reconcile my backstory so don't bother trying, I'll be posting a flashback chapter! But if TBOB is compatible enough that i MIGHT be able to reconcile it with my backstory with a lot of editing, I'll be posting the first chapter of "season 2" to give me time to edit the flashback. We'll find out next Tuesday!

In the meantime, a whole lot happened in this chapter, and I can't wait to hear what y'all think—about this chapter, about everything that's happened so far, about what's coming up, whatever!)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #grunkle stan #mabel pines #dipper pines #soos ramirez #(tagged mostly for the art but like they're in the chapter too lmao)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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rafeny · 1 year ago

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Can I Tell You...about my Fall / Winter 2023 Collection.

Rafé New York Takes Us To A Dazzling Reimagining Of Studio 54

By Chelsea Sarabia for Vogue Philippines

Rafe Totengco on his Fall / Winter 2023 Campaign and the sweet homecoming of Filipino creatives that went on behind the scenes.

In setting out to design any collection, Rafe Totengco prefers to work off a feeling.

With his brand Rafé New York, the designer has carved out a niche in the clutches and evening bags sect of fashion. He attributes its global acclaim to one sentiment: anyone can carry a Rafé bag. Over an illustrious two-decade-long career, he notes a sizeable shift in the landscape that mirrors this attitude, with trends that transcend any one type of person—so long as it fits their tastes.

“With social media, we’ve become a very small world. Everyone sees everything instantaneously, and they also see what other people are wearing,” he says. “Ultimately, that’s also what I love about handbags: it’s a very democratic piece of fashion. You can be young, you can be old. It’s not size-specific, it’s not age-specific.”

For his Fall/Winter 2023 collection, Totengco doesn’t design with a particular muse in mind but a mood; he paints a picture of a radiant hour in a bar in Bushwick, tapping into the sparkling glamour and the freeing sense of style of eras past.

The designer expands, “I’m hoping that with one of these bags from the next season, [wearers] get a sense of confidence, independence, and strength, and a kind of boldness [that says] ‘I want to stand out from the crowd. I don’t want to be like everybody else. I’m going to walk in and turn heads. Yes, I’m going to own the space.’”

Inspired by Studio 54 and Helmut Newton’s photographs of the Yves Saint Laurent Le Smoking suit, Totengco wanted to shoot in a location that captured the vibrancy of New York City at night. It seemed nearly impossible to find within the city’s cluster of crowded streets and the time demanded of shooting a full-blown campaign; that was, until his team found the perfect spot: a Brooklyn bar with the makings of what could have been a stylish speakeasy from the 1920s.

“The bar provided us with so many vignettes that I was super happy with because it kind of gave you the feeling that ‘She’s inside…somewhere,’” he muses. “You don’t necessarily see her friends, but it doesn’t matter. It’s almost like she’s there [just arriving]. There’s this anticipation of, like, ‘Something fun is about to happen.’ And you can just imagine the rest.”

Styled in Marcel waves and ‘70s-reminiscent jumpsuits, Rafé’s femme fatale lounges over black leather booths, carrying an array of evening bags in malleable rhinestone mesh and sequins that spill over her fingertips.

“We have [them in] magenta, gold, and silver—you know, classic rhinestone colors, [and they’re] all individually done by hand in India,” he says of the collection. “They’re fun evening bags, party bags. When you see them, they evoke that sense of frivolity and ‘Ooh, look at this sparkly thing!’ I always believe a little sparkle never hurt anybody.”

For his campaign, Totengco worked with New York City-based Filipino creatives whom he shares he met through serendipitous encounters. In New York City, it seems, most Filipinos are distanced by only “two degrees of separation.”

He met photographer Selwyn Tungol after he had taken a picture of one of his bags during a Fashion Week years ago and the multi-disciplinary creative Lorenz Namalata at the recent opening of the Silverlens Galleries in Manhattan. Following what the designer calls a “trail of connectivity,” he finds that the bar Namalata scouted for him was Filipino co-owned, too.

“It was just funny. We had a whole crew of other people who were assisting who all came from Manila, all based here now, and it just became this thing. All of a sudden, we were talking in Tagalog in Sleepwalk, a bar in Bushwick, and we were like, oh my God, wait, where are we? What are we doing?” he laughs. “It’s also, in a way, representative of New York now. It really is a melting pot, and I love that—that a new generation of creatives is coming up.”

For Totengco, a predominantly Filipino crew was a refreshing departure from where he first started in the industry. He says, “It was kind of this moment of solidarity where it was like, ‘Well, I didn’t have this before.’ Without even realizing it, it’s happening, and, really, it’s a nice feeling. You feel at home. You feel like you’re a part of something.”

#Vogue Philippines #Rafe New York #Rafe Totengco #Filipino creatives #Studio 54 #fall winter collection #Fall Winter 2023 #evening clutch #evening bag #Sequined clutches #Minaudiere #Rafe clutch #Rafe bag #Rafe minaudiere #Rhinestone bags #Rhinestone clutches #Diamante clutches #Filipino Americans

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chasingrainbowsforever · 11 months ago

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~ Pink and Orange ~

#fashion #sequins #clutches #bags #pink orange

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peeweekey · 7 months ago

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super graphic ultra-modern girl like me!

pairing: haley x reader

wc: 2k

tags: mature (NOT explicit) , closeted lesbian haley , both of you are drunk , making out

synopsis: where sharing lipstick with your best friend haley makes you feel… things.

a/n: reader: oh ho ho, i sure hope kissing my bff doesnt awaken anything in me! (it did)

i wrote this listening to super graphic ultra modern girl by chappel roan! haley fits so many of her songs its insane

your head is aching, spinning like you were sent to another dimension that consists of disco flashing lights and the nauseating smell of spilt vodka—all thanks to the sheer amount of alcohol you consumed in the past 5 hours. it’s pushing 3 AM—the strappy 4 inch heels are chafing your feet, the skimpy skirt clinging to your hips ride up in a way that would scandalize the small village mothers, and body glitter covering every inch of your skin.

you feel light, weightless as you flutter and float through the rhythmic bass engulfing the club. you nod your head to the beat of the music, swaying your hips that loosen with every sip of the sweet alcoholic drink in your hand.

you’re bouncing up and down to party rock anthem when your phone buzzes. fishing it out of your pocket, you squint your eyes to make out the notification. you bow your head, trying to make out the message over the flashing lights.

an amused laugh bubbles out of you. haley.

—> go 2 thr bathroon rn

—> hurry or else

you turn and wobble out of the middle of the dance floor, swaying to the beat while maneuvering the sea of sweaty bodies. the bathroom is in an isolated corner by the entrance of the club. you push the door open, stumbling slightly when it takes a little less effort than you expect.

you enter the club bathroom, shutting the ornate door behind you. it slams with a resounding slam, dampening the loud candy pop songs blaring through the party outside.

your heels click against cool marble as you saunter to the long, seemingly endless, stretch of mirrors and faucets. twisting the knob, a rush of tap water flows freely; it contrasts satisfyingly with the heated skin of your hands. you wet your fingers, dabbing your cheeks and neck with cool water. you sigh, shivering with the instant relief it brings.

as you cool yourself off, you think—you do wonder what haley’s predicament is, she texted you with much urgency.

perhaps she fell into the toilet—or maybe she’s drunk herself to the point of spewing her guts out in one of these very cubicles. the latter though makes you giggle. a notification buzzes from your phone, as if the sound of your laughter summoned it.

—> idiot

—> i can hear u laughing from here

you snort.

suddenly, without warning, you feel a warm hand pull you into a stall. it’s a sudden jerking motion, and you almost lose your balance to fall flat on your face. a gasp rips out of you as you clutch on to the very warm, very soft thing that keeps you from falling and twisting your ankle. before you even register the situation, you’re being dragged in to sit on the closed lid of the toilet.

you’re frazzled, knocked off balance by a rude and very disrespectful stranger who obviously has no morals. you feel your blood boil, ruthless insults ready at the tip of your tongue—

—then you look up, and that feeling dissipates. instead, a cheshire grin splits your face, “haley.”

she’s the living breathing stereotype of a wild party girl like this; blonde hair in waves down her back that smells sweetly of strawberries, nails buffed and painted a pretty baby blue, and make-up done up to the absolute nines. her sequin skirt sparkles and winks as she shifts. pretty, you’ll ask if you could borrow it next time—

manicured fingers snap and you’re pushed out of your own thoughts. haley crosses her arms, standing in between your thighs, looking down at you with a displeased expression. “took you long enough.”

you offer a sheepish smile. “i was busy.”

“yeah,” she sneers, locking the stall door behind her. “busy shaking your ass to trashy zuzu club songs.”

you ignore the sharp jab with a roll of your eyes. “what’s up?” you ask, your words slur slightly, almost tapering off into incomprehensible gibberish. “didya you puke or something?”

“ew. no,”the loud is just making my head hurt,” she replies, massaging her temples. “stick your legs together, i’m gonna sit on your lap.”

she knocks your thighs together with her knee. haley maneuvers you to her liking, your bare thighs pressing together when she spins and sits perpendicular to your lap.

“hm.” you feel the weight of her settle on top of your thighs. the warmth of her skin meeting yours under the cut of her skirt. you barely repress a shiver at the heat radiating off her skin. “woah! okay now you really have to tell me what’s going on.”

you're met with a faceful of strawberry-scented blonde hair when she shifts away—ignoring you. good news for her, your drink-addled brain doesn’t seem to care. in fact, your drunk brain figures it is a perfect time to shamelessly flirt. your tongue is loose enough, and your brain has completely thrown away its filter. as friends, of course; building camaraderie as people say.

“you smell nice, did you use that strawberry shampoo i gave?” you murmur, brushing the locks away from your face. you feel haley squirm in your lap. you know she used it, the pride bubbles up in you at the thought.

it’s overly warm, that plus the buttloads of alcohol brewing in your gut makes your skin feel on fire.

haley growls. “stop talking, dumbass.”

you roll your eyes, pinching her thigh. she yelps, high and breathy, swatting your hand away. she meets your eyes, her blonde brows furrowed.

“geez…” a lazy smile playing on your lips. “just take the compliment, hales.”

a ghost of a smirk appears on her cherry colored lips. glossy and pink. you wonder if they taste as sweet and tart as real cherries do—

you wince internally. thinking like that is not a good idea. damn your alcohol foggy brain, making you think of the inane idea of lusting after your best friend.

you knock your forehead into her shoulder. “so are we just going to sit here all day?”

“i just need to touch up my lipstick,” she says. facing you with an expectant look. “then we can go back.”

“and that’s why you called me,” you raise a brow. your gaze trails to the cherry coat on her lips—it looks perfectly fine to you. in fact, she looks absolutely darling like this.

“you need some?”

“…are you offering?”

“why not? we share all my shit anyway,” you shrug. “i think it’s somewhere in my purse—”

“where’s your purse?”

“i left it with the others, i think it’s with abby, i'll text her.” you say. fumbling for your phone, you reach in the hidden pocket of your skirt. the walls enclosing the cubicle restrict your movements; you bump your elbow against the flimsy wood as you dig deeper into the flimsy pocket. your skirt is skin-tight against your hips, you feel the woman above becoming increasingly agitated as your attempts to fish out your phone come out fruitless.

haley huffs above you, shifting; making your wary gaze snap back to her. she looks down at you with a pout—you’re damn sure she’s just as hammered as you.

“too far,” she whines, taking a firm grip of your jaw. your cheeks puff with the force of her squishing them, you feel the pointed tips of her nails digging into the fat there. she swings a leg over you, her hips bracketing your waist as she sits atop you.

this position feels strangely intimate; like all your senses are overwhelmed with only haley. the heady scent of her skin, the short sounds of her breathing in your ears, the burning feeling wherever she touches—it’s all her, her, her.

which shouldn’t make you feel the way it’s making you feel; like you're buzzing with adrenaline. you feel the blood coursing through your veins at race car speeds—spreading all throughout your body. your cheeks feel hot, you feel dizzy with all your senses stimulated by your best friend.

the reverberating bass from the music outside shakes the walls; like some sort of finality as it thumps, thumps, thumps.

“hales,” you start, your mouth dry. “what—”

she stares at you, her crystalline eyes shining in the dim light of the bathroom. a pretty pink flush paints her cheeks til the tips of her pearl-adorned ears. you feel her breaths against your cheek—short and warm. “stay still, the gloss you have on your lips will do.”

your ears have to be fucking with you… your eyes widen and you swear you feel your heart jump up into your throat. “huh—”

“what?” she says in response to your wide-eyed expression. her tone drops to something akin to a purr. “your lipstick is such a pretty shade.”

helping is what friends are for, right? maybe this is merely the alcohol talking; because she doesn’t like you like that, totally—and the disappointment you feel is not because of that either.

you swallow the heavy lump in your throat; your voice is strangled and stuttery when you speak. “f—fine.”

“perfect,” she grins. “hold still.”

this is the least you were expecting when you walked into the club bathroom; who knew you’d end up with haley in your lap and hovering over for what is technically a kiss. you will your eyes not to close, burning the view of her leaning over you into your brain. you shudder; this is not a sight that will leave you for months to come.

you squeeze her hip as her face hovers closer, palm lingering at her scratchy sequin miniskirt. you crane your neck, anticipating the brush of her lips against yours. your other hand travels to her upper back, stroking her locks of golden hair; under your ministrations, you feel her tremor slightly.

it feels like eternity when you finally connect.

sparks fly the moment you feel the plush softness of her mouth against yours, moving in a salacious rhythm that you doubt is for only sharing lipstick.

her lips are sticky with what remains of that cherry lip gloss; it smears all over your own lips, spreading your deep red lipstick everywhere; at the corner of your lips, at your chin. your eyes flutter shut, a contented sigh escapes your mouth and haley uses that as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. she drags her hand up and up, curling her fingers into the base of your neck.

you jolt, the pleasure fogs your mind; your thoughts are muddy, the only coherent thing is of haley.

your tongue swipes at her bottom lip, chasing the fruity flavor of cherry cola on her lips. it’s sweet, she’s sweet. you feel lightheaded with the overwhelming sensations of it. sure, you’ve kissed once or twice—but it never felt like this; soft and desperate and hot and tingly, affecting you all throughout your body.

your breaths are labored when she pulls away and you feel it's too soon. a clicking wet sound when her mouth disconnects from yours that makes you shiver. you feel dizzy with warmth; heat is pooling low in your belly, a low buzzing sensation overwhelms everywhere haley touches.

her lips as wine-red as yours. the same color lipstick smeared messily on her lips. haley wipes the corner of your cupid’s bow, where some of the color had smudged, her breathing heavy and pupils dilated as you stare. her hands feel delightfully warm and soft against your skin. golden strands of hair brush against your cheeks, making you squirm in your seat.

you can barely restrain your delighted giggle, in awe of the absurdity of the situation. haley laughs too, a light sound like a tinkling bell. you slump against the cold tile wall behind you, boneless and in disbelief— did you really just make out with your best friend? and at a grimy club bathroom no less.

time seems suspended here, cramped in a stall with only the sound of heavy breathing. there will be a lot more questions when you leave, lingering glances at your pleasure-pulled hair and smeared lipstick.

this is what friends do, what you and haley do. your eyes track her every move, unabashedly staring as she readjusts her top. haley catches your eye, smiling like the cat that got all the cream.

she cranes her face to your ear, whispering. “thanks for the touch up, babe.”

#stardew valley #sdv #x reader #sdv writing #sdv haley #stardew haley #stardew valley haley #haley sdv #haley x farmer #haley x reader #stardew valley fanfic #stardew oc #stardew farmer #sapphic #sdv fanfic #fanfic #stardew valley writing #stardew valley fic #key’s-vault

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brummiereader · 27 days ago

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Binding Love (Part Two/Dark!Tommy)

Summary: After a morning of relentless mulling over your fractured marriage and place in the world, you make a quick dash out the front door before Tommy learns of your plans for the day. But when your daughter's inquisitive mind reveals your intentions, Tommy's paranoia turns its ugly head.

Warnings: Dark!Tommy, language, violence, psychological mind games, controlling behaviour, toxic relationship, manipulative behaviour, psychological abuse, mutual pining, angst.

Word Count: 3.5K

[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]

" Thank you, Frances" you smiled to your housekeeper in the mirror of your vanity, fingers cradling the cold mug of ginger tea cupped within your hands, you hoped would help you sleep the night before as she finished placing the last of the spindly wired pins in your hair.

" Mam" she laid the small leafed dish of jewellery in front of you as you placed each precious gem to your skin, when the faint clanging of the last piece rattled against the ceramic plate with a brush of your fingers.

" Oh..." your eyes drifted down to your wedding ring sitting lonesome along the ridges of the handmade keepsake. The corners of your lips turning down in sadness at the ache the circular band still managed to pull within your chest.

Something so small, so simple, yet it held the weight of a decade's worth of memories. And although your husband's hand was still adorned with the gold band of vows you had made, yours wasn't. Only the lingering indent of where it once sat remained, embedded into your skin as a reminder of who you'd forever be bound to through the years of your youth you had spent together.

" Right" you rose from your seat, brushing the tear that had settled within the curls of your lashes as you made your way over to your wardrobe.

Hands brushing along the dozens of gowns hand-sewn with lace and sequins, your eyes drifted to a lone shirt of Tommy's nestled between the fabric of your clothes that had gone unnoticed when separating your belongings.

Fuck sake, you sighed to yourself at the constant reminder of his presence, releasing a stifled cry when the lasting notes of his cologne drifted towards you as you pulled it out from within your wardrobe, tightly clutching the cuffs of its arms within the palms of your hands.

You could have moved to one of the many guest rooms. But Tommy had insisted. Was it his way of making you remember, making sure you didn't forget?, your own paranoia began to nag you about the room that suffocated you every night with the reminder of the love that was shared in it, the passionate nights that once filled it.

" This one will do" you abruptly shoved it to the back of the cupboard in favour of a blouse, pulling yourself from recounting the blissful moments you found yourself gazing at through rose-tinted glasses, forgetting the reality of how dire things had become.

Happy times had been replaced with a darkened mood, an unpredictable temper that would sway back and forth to the sound of the pendulum in your foyer to whatever had displeased its owner. For when Tommy's mood was good, it was good. And when it was bad, it was very, fucking, bad.

Deciding to no longer be the kept woman, the woman that had barely a thought to herself her husband hadn't invaded, you had come to the realisation that it would be your responsibility to pull yourself out of the limbo Tommy was intent on keeping you in.

"It's quite chilly outside, Mam. Perhaps something a little warmer?" Frances voiced as her hurried steps raced towards you in a panic after noting the sheerness of the top you had chosen, sheer enough to see a peak of thrills from your brassiere.

" They say it will be mild later today" you shrugged off your gown into a bundle of fabric on the floor as you caught the worrying concern in her eyes.

" Perhaps, perhaps a cardigan then, if it gets too...cold" you relented, watching the relief wash over her as she eagerly searched behind you for a wooly garment that would cover you enough to get you through the front door without your husbands raging jealously making itself known to all those unfortunate enough to be within close vicinity.

" That's better" Frances adjusted the back of your fleecy shawl as you looked at the reflection of yourself in the weathered glass of your bedroom window, pulling the buttoned clothing around the curves of your chest.

Still, a kept woman.

" Elsie, come on! We're going to be late!" you called up the stairs, furiously tugging at the prickling fabric of your cardigan, itching the back of your neck as you paced the foyer. Eager to get going before the sound of your husband's phone call ended, and he learnt of your day's plans.

" Where's my pony? I can't find it!" You heard an avalanche of toys being tossed onto the wooden floors of her bedroom as she searched for her most cherished of toys.

Come on, come on, your body began to panic as you rolled forward from your heel to your toes to see the back of your husband drifting left and right between the crack in the door, receiver still in hand as he gave his orders to the poor soul on the opposite end of the line.

" Elsie!" You called after your six-year-old for a second time, perching on the bottom step of Arrow Houses's grand staircase as your head craned up to see what was taking her so long, when her bouncing curls and plump cheeks suddenly appeared, hopping down each wooden slab with her treasured horse in hand.

" Go, go, go" you ushered her along, simultaneously attempting to tie her hair into a plated braid with each skipping step of her booted feet along the marble floor as your eyes nervously darted to Tommy's office that had now, suddenly gone quiet.

" Ow Mummy, you're hurting me!" Her hand flew to her head in protest as you tried to twist the band around to keep her hair in place.

" I'm sorry darling, but we'll be late for the bus and Mummy's interview if we don't get moving" you winced as the skin of your fingers dragged along the tight elastic, finally pulling the last of her locks through.

" Daddy!" She screeched, turning her head and feet to the sight of Tommy appearing from behind his office door.

Shit.

" Morning princess" a smile grew on his face as she bounded into him, squeezing her little arms around his waist as he shuffled forward from foot to foot until he reached you, inches from making it out the door before the interrogations began.

" Sweetheart" he pressed a longing kiss to the side of your head, hand threading into the locks of your hair as you shrugged away from the charade of a happily married couple he was adamant on maintaining in front of your daughter.

" Car's waiting outside" he said as his fingers settled on Elsie's shoulders stood behind her, her petite hands clutching onto his as his eyes roamed over your choice of outfit.

"But mummy said we're taking the bus" your daughter pouted up to the frown of confusion creasing on Tommy's forehead.

" The bus?" Your husband's eyes darted up to you as you adjusted the bag in your hand, feeling the familiar heat of his piercing stare begin to burn your face.

" I thought you were meeting Linda and Ada to go over her wedding plans?" Tommy's frown stayed firmly knitted between his brows as he watched your fumbling fingers pull out your small silver pocket mirror, wiping the corners of your ruby-stained lips.

"Well, won't you need the car for that?" You heard a heavy sigh of irritation follow his questions at your silence. The small brown haired barrier between you both, stopping him from letting his annoyance slip and forcefully demanding it from you instead. " Y/N?"

" I have somewhere to be first" you snapped the mirror shut as you cleared your throat, when the innocence of your daughter's curious mind revealed your true plans for the day.

" What's an interview?"

Double shit.

"You have a job interview?" Tommy scoffed a stifled laugh of disbelief, shaking his head as his veiny hands straining with annoyance came up to brush down his mouth.

" Something Mummy has no business in doing, Elsie" the tone of his voice deepened, scolding you through his reply to your daughter's inquisitive mind.

You were slipping further away from him with each passing day. Why wasn't he told about this? He was slacking, his men slacking, Tommy thought to himself as his breath became heavy, his shoulders tensing with anger as you continued to ignore his questions to pat the creases that had already begun to appear in your daughter's school dress when Tommy's eyes suddenly darted to the blouse you had chosen, peaking through the open button of your cardigan that had slipped through its hole.

" An interview" he quietly mumbled with a breathy exhale of suspicion as you quickly pulled the front of your top around your chest.

Rising to your feet, your eyes caught sight of his glaring anger in the silence that weighed heavy between you. A stare intent enough to have you believe that it was you, who had done something so atrocious, that it deserved his sour reaction.

" Elsie, what do you think of Mummy's new...clothes?" Tommy broke the tension as his eyes stayed firmly fixed on you, using your daughter to have his displeasure with your outfit made known.

" Pretty" she grinned a toothy smile as her hands reached out to feel the soft fabric. " Like the feather dancers at Uncle Arthur's work" she blushed shyly at the beauty her mother radiated and the many sparkling jewels that adorned your skin she dreamed you'd one day let her wear.

" Thank you, my sweet girl" you stepped forward, brushing your fingers through the locks of her hair when your eyes cast up to the protruding bone of your husband's jaw inches from your face, his heavy breath fanning across your lips.

" Go get your school bag, love" Tommy let go of your daughter's shoulders as she merrily skipped away from the gap he was closing between you.

" Feather dancers. So a whore, then?" He mumbled through gritted teeth as he pulled the front of your cardigan to the side, fingers sweeping under the top of your exposed lingerie. " You gonna whore yourself out for this job too, eh?" He cocked a brow as you pushed past him.

" It's just fabric, Tommy" you straightened your clothes as you waited on your daughter.

" Elsie, come on, let's go" you urgently reached your hand out for her to take as she fumbled with her coat when Tommy abruptly pulled you back into his body.

" What happened to you, hm? I don't even fucking recognise you anymore" you felt his grip tighten around your arm as he quietly voiced his opinion on what he believed was a change in your personality.

"What I wear is no longer your concern, now is it Tommy?" You responded in a hushed voice as you pulled away to your daughter patiently waiting by the door.

"I'll race you there" you smiled down at your dimpled cheeked child as she eagerly nodded her head.

" We have a whole fleet of cars, Y/N. Y/N!" He called after you, hands on hips as he stood at the bottom of the winding stairs. Watching you jog off with your giggling six- year-old before his eyes flew up to the second floor and the paranoia he needed to settle.

" You're late" Linda clicked her tongue, patting the seat beside her as you arrived in a tangled mess of hair, slipping garments and rolling eyes at the soon-to-be Shelby members' orderly manner.

" First, let's go over the itinerary" she pulled out a floral notebook, her fingers scrolling down the many pages or arrangements she had already made for her big day.

" Goodness Linda, can we not have some tea, or perhaps something a little stronger to get us through this joyous occasion" Ada sent you a playful wink as you shrugged off your bag, settling into the chair between them.

" How are you?" Your sister-in-law probed, quickly noting the deep bags of exhaustion under your eyes and the heavy sigh accompanying them. " Let me guess, my dear brother?"

" He went and pulled a Tommy special again, Ada" your hand trembled up to your brow, pinching the six months worth of stress you couldn't seem to rid yourself of.

Shakey hands, sleepless nights, you thought to yourself, burying your fingers under your legs to hide your rattling nerves. Was it all worth it?

" Yes, I did hear about that" she sent you a sympathetic smile of understanding. Knowing the lengths her brother would go to make his point, as he continued to stubbornly dig his heels in.

" I think the whole of Birmingham did" a sudden wave of shame reddened your cheeks with the learnt knowledge that every living soul in the fogged city was now aware of your and Tommy's strained relationship.

"It's been postponed, the...divorce that is" you mumbled, barely able to mutter the catalyst that caused said blaring row. The word alone, causing your stomach to twist into an unbearable ache for the love that was still there for him.

"And your interview, this morning?" Ada's attempt to change the heavy topic of conversation was gratefully welcomed when a smile began to dimple into your cheeks. For your trusted sister-in-law had seen the stress the separation had put on you, been at the brunt end of her brother's phone calls as he accused her of spurring on your decision to end the marriage.

"I got the job" you scooted your hands from their numbing position, fingers brushing a lock of hair behind your ear as she matched the excited grin on your lips.

" I'm meeting him, my boss, for drinks later. To go over the finer details, and in celebration for his newly hired typist...me" you giggled as a surge of confidence bubbled in your stomach at your first step into becoming an independent woman when Ada's smile suddenly dropped.

" Him...drinks?" her eyes began to widen, darting to the side of your cheery smile at the young peaked cap man sat a couple of tables behind, tipping his hat before slipping away.

"Y/N perhaps drinks are not..."

" Ephesians chapter five, verse two..." Linda interjected into the conversation her rosey notebook had taken all her attention with.

" Ada, what is it?" your brow creased, ignoring the beginnings of Linda's religious lecture, her eyes snapping back to you as she swiftly clutched her fingers around your hand.

"Ada?" You quietly mouthed when your gaze drifted over the concern filling her sapphire eyes, the same concern you saw in France's that very morning, the realisation your giddy stupidity had clouded, suddenly hitting you.

It was just a drink to celebrate, he didn't have to know? And if he found out, surely he'd understand? It was a new job, you couldn't turn the offer down, it would be impolite. You were separated...you and Tommy separated.

" Wives, submit to your own husband. As to the lord..." Linda's ill-timed words of advice drifted to you as you released your hand from Ada's clutches.

As the continued martial counsel buzzed relentlessly in your ear, you let your body slump into the cushioned fabric of your chair until the drowning religious verses muffled with the sounds of twirling spoons tapping against their porcelain tea cups, scrapping knives cutting freshly baked cakes until nothingness, complete silence.

How could you have been so stupid? So naive to have thought you could support your daughter on a mere typist's wage? That Tommy wouldn't move heaven and earth before he'd see the likes of you working so closely with another man? That word wouldn't get back to him about your planned drinks?, you thought to yourself as the distant sound of Ada calling your name echoed through each delayed blink of your welling eyes.

Divorce, another one of your stupid ideas, from your stupid list of stupid things you thought you could achieve, you continued your onslaught of self-inflicted insults as a tear rolled down the slope of your cheek.

And the worst thing about it all, about the whole fucking ordeal...you still loved him. Still, hopelessly in love with him. Pathetic, a hand shook your arm as your head cast down, remembering the cascade of decisions that had everything fall apart.

For when you no longer needed the guiding hand of your husband, his opinions nor protection as you began to blossom into a woman and spread your wings, came Tommy's paranoia. Fear of losing you to life's wonders, to another man, your husband's clutches began to tighten to the unbearable point where every waking breath wasn't without him looming behind you.

And yet you soldiered through, the thought of separation too torturous to contemplate as he continued to tighten his chains around you until he pushed you to the point where a tearful outburst had you asking for the dreaded seven letter word, an outburst that finally had you seeing the man your husband had kept in the shadows. The real, Thomas Shelby.

" Flowers. A dozen red roses on each side of the altar. Like the ones my Artie picks for me" Linda's voice suddenly snapped you from your thoughts, her insufferable happiness searing through the stained memories you shared with Tommy.

Maybe she was right after all. Submit to your husband. The only sensible, optional choice. Right?

Bolting two steps at a time to your once shared bedroom, Tommy threw open the door, eyes wide as he scanned the room.

You were seeing someone, fucking someone, he told his raging paranoia as he began to wade through your belongings, pulling your cupboard draws out one by one in search of something, anything that would confirm his suspicions.

" Fuck!" His hand slammed the last drawer shut, finding nothing that would give him the justification to interrupt your days plans and confront you about your lies.

What the fuck was he doing?, he perched himself on the edge of your vanity, fingers threading through his hair as a heavy sigh of exhaustion left his lips. He was losing you, he told himself, burying his head in his hands as he swallowed down the nagging guilt of his own making creeping up his throat.

You loved him, needed him. You were just...Tommy refused to believe otherwise, refused to accept your separation as he pulled a cigarette from within his suit jacket when a smack of reality hit him with the winking shine of your gold wedding ring catching the corner of his eye.

Puffing a cloud of smoke from his lips, Tommy rubbed the small band between his fingers, lifting it to his face to see his engraved initials entwined with yours inside of its metal frame.

Was that when you began to distance yourself from him? After your wedding? When you no longer sought out his advice, cared to sit and watch him work, choosing rather to meet new people, go new places without him? To... modernise? he cleared the bitter taste of resentment from his throat, clutching the lone piece of jewellery within his hand, clutching onto the remnants of your marriage for dear life before tossing it onto the table for all to see like you had your marriage.

" Just what are you up to, hm?" Tommy's distrust quickly returned, feeling hurt by the sight of your wedding ring laid cold on its ornate tray as he picked up the small photo frame of you and Elsie he had taken on a trip to Brighton many moons ago.

" You better not be lying to me darling. You know what happens when..." Tommy's eyes drifted from your portrait to the mug of cold tea sat on your vanity. It's distinct smell, awakening his senses and anger in one quick, sweeping moment.

Ginger.

Commonly used for insomnia. But also consumed in regular doses as a form of contraception. A tea Tommy would tease you about in your early years of dating with it's uselessness as you refused to rely on his preferred, and most notoriously unreliable method of, pulling out.

It had been many months since you and Tommy had shared your martial bed, many months since you basked in the warmth of each other's bodies.

You weren't fucking him. So who were you sleeping with?, Tommy seethed at the idea of another man touching you that wasn't him, all logical thinking swiftly taken over by a blazing fury behind the viscous storm brewing behind his eyes at the lies he was convinced you had told him. Lies he'd get to the bottom of before the day was over.

" My car, now!"

Next Part

Tag list: @peakyswritings @justrainandcoffee @garrison-girl-08 @meadows5 @lavender-haze-01

@strangeobsessed @ttae-yong @lemonwithstupidity @lindsay00000 @mischievouslittlecreature

@jbrownta @lau219 @whereismymindnow

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emjayewrites · 3 months ago

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Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (8/15)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @lovebittenbyevans @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @httpsserene @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @xoscar03 @saturnville @weetjy @pinkcatcus @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @vile-harlot @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @destinyg237 @niahxo @purplelewlew

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 8: Big Fraud

The Ritz-Carlton in Mexico City buzzed with anticipation as the cream of society gathered for the Almave tequila launch. Rorie stood beside Lewis, her sequined gown catching the soft light of the chandeliers. The ballroom was a symphony of clinking glasses and animated conversations in Spanish and English.

"You look stunning," Lewis whispered, his hand finding the small of her back.

Rorie smiled, leaning into his touch. "Thanks, babe. You clean up pretty well yourself."

As they made their rounds, greeting investors and celebrities alike, Rorie couldn't help but feel a sense of surrealism. Just a week ago, she had been on stage at Austin City Limits, her performance with Lil Yachty still reverberating through social media and music circles.

The aftermath of that night had been a whirlwind. Clips of her performance had gone viral, with music critics hailing it as a triumphant debut to the stage. She unconsciously placed a hand on her still-flat stomach, remembering the moment they had seen those two pink lines on the pregnancy test after such an amazing show.

"Rorie," Lewis's voice brought her back to the present. "Carlos was just asking about your performance."

Rorie blinked, focusing on the smiling face of Carlos Slim Jr. "Oh, I'm sorry. It was an incredible experience. The energy of the crowd was unlike anything I've felt before."

The launch was a culmination of Lewis's hard work and passion, but recent events cast a shadow over their celebration. Her mind kept drifting back to the recent developments. The lawyers had been working tirelessly to uncover the source of the leaked information.

Rorie's phone buzzed in her clutch. She ignored it, having grown accustomed to the constant notifications since her sperm donor's attempts to contact her had intensified.

Lewis sidled up beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Everything okay, love?"

Rorie sighed, showing him her phone. "Five missed calls from unknown numbers. I'm pretty sure it's him."

Lewis's jaw tightened. "We'll handle it, babe. Don't let him ruin this night for us." He leaned close to place a tender kiss on her forehead. "How 'bout we get some dessert?"

"Are you trying to distract me with sweets, Sir?"

Her teasing made her husband chuckle, his eyes brightening with mischief as he waggled his eyebrows seductively. "Is it working? Because I'd love to get you back to the hotel room and cover you in choc–"

"Lewis!" a familiar voice called, causing the couple to turn and face Iván Saldaña, Almave's co-founder and Master Distiller. "C'mon, unravel yourself from the missus for one second for a photo. Dios mio, you're obsessed with her."

"Shit, have you seen my wife?" was Lewis' response, followed by a hard slap on Rorie's ass. She yelped in slight pain, swatting him off, and he had the wherewithal to laugh like the menace he was. "Three photos tops, Iván."

Before she knew it, Lewis was off, padding towards Iván to pose for a couple of photos.

Rorie shook her head, smiling despite herself at Lewis's playful antics. As she watched him pose with Iván, her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out, her smile fading as she saw an unknown number flashing on the screen.

With a deep breath, she answered. "Hello?"

"Aurora," her father's voice came through, a mixture of relief and anxiety evident in his tone. "Thank you for picking up. I've been trying to reach you."

Rorie's jaw clenched. "I know. What do you want?"

"I want to talk, to explain. Please, give me a chance to—"

"Now isn't the time," Rorie cut him off, her eyes darting around the crowded ballroom. "I can't do this right now."

Before he could respond, she ended the call, her heart racing. She barely had time to collect herself when her phone buzzed again, this time with a text message from another unknown number:

Your perfect little world is about to come crashing down.

Rorie felt a chill run down her spine. This wasn't her sperm donor - the tone was all wrong. Who the fuck was this? Was it the same person from Paris?

"Are you ready to head out?" Lewis's voice startled her. He had returned from his photo session with Iván, concern etched on his face as he noticed her troubled expression.

Rorie hesitated for a moment before showing him the text. "I think we have a problem."

Lewis's expression hardened as he read the message. "We need to talk to our security team. This isn't just annoying anymore; it's threatening."

Rorie nodded, feeling a mix of fear and determination. "You're right. But let's not let it ruin the night. This was your moment, babe."

Lewis wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. "Our moment. We're in this together, remember?"

As they stood there, the party continued around them, oblivious to the tension between the couple. Rorie leaned into Lewis's embrace, drawing strength from his presence.

"I just don't understand who would do this," Rorie murmured, her voice muffled against Lewis's chest. "And why now?"

Lewis pulled back slightly, his hands moving to cup Rorie's face. "We'll figure it out, love. I promise you, whoever's behind this, they won't get away with it."

Rorie nodded, forcing a smile. "You're right. We've faced worse, haven't we?"

"Much worse," Lewis agreed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Remember that time Lyric decided to redecorate the living room with his finger paints?"

The memory brought a genuine laugh from Rorie, easing some of the tension. "God, that was a nightmare. This is nothing compared to that, right?"

Lewis grinned, pleased to see some of the worry leave Rorie's eyes. "Exactly. Now, let's say our goodbyes and head out. We'll deal with this head-on tomorrow."

With renewed determination, they made their way through the crowd, saying their farewells to key guests and thanking them for coming. As they stepped out into the cool Mexican night, both Lewis and Rorie knew that come morning, they'd be ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead – together.

The next few days were a whirlwind of preparations for the Mexican Grand Prix. Rorie accompanied Lewis to the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, her presence a calming influence amidst the pre-race chaos.

The circuit was a marvel of engineering and culture, its layout weaving through the heart of Mexico City. The iconic stadium section buzzed with anticipation, its grandstands already filling with passionate fans. The air was thick with the scent of street food and the sound of mariachi bands, creating a uniquely Mexican atmosphere that set this Grand Prix apart from all others.

During a quiet moment in the Mercedes garage, Rorie's phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from an unknown number:

Aurora, please. We need to talk. - Dad

Rorie showed the message to Lewis, her frustration evident. "He just won't stop."

Lewis pulled her into a hug, then hesitated. "Actually, babe, there's something I need to tell you. I... I had a conversation with your dad at the Austin Grand Prix."

Rorie stiffened in his arms, pulling back to look at him. "You what? Why didn't you tell me?"

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his braids. "It was unexpected. Toto called me to his office, and your father was there. I didn't want to upset you, especially with your performance coming up."

Rorie's emotions warred between anger and understanding. "What did he say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "He said he wants to make things right, to be part of your life. He talked about regrets, about missed opportunities. I could see the pain in his eyes, Rorie, but I also saw determination."

Rorie's mind raced. "And what did you say to him?"

"I told him it wasn't my decision to make," Lewis replied softly. "I said that you're the strongest, most incredible woman I know, and that if he wanted a chance, he'd have to earn it. I made it clear that I'd support whatever decision you make."

Rorie nodded slowly, processing the information. A mix of emotions played across her face - gratitude for Lewis's protection, frustration at being kept in the dark, and a lingering sense of uncertainty about her father's intentions.

"I appreciate you looking out for me," she said finally, her voice thick with emotion. "But next time, please tell me. We're in this together, remember? No matter how difficult the conversation might be."

Lewis nodded, relief evident on his face. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just... I saw how stressed you were about the performance, and I didn't want to add to that. But you're right, we're a team. No more secrets."

Rorie leaned into him, drawing comfort from his presence. "Thank you for standing up for me. I just... I don't know how to feel about all this. Part of me wants to hear him out, but another part is so angry at him for showing up now, after all these years."

Lewis wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You don't have to decide anything right now. Take your time, think it through. Whatever you choose, I'm here."

"Lewis, it's time!" Rosa yelled, earning a small smile from Rorie.

"Go race, we'll talk later," she told him.

"You sure you'll be okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." After a kiss on her lips, Lewis jogged over to Rosa and his engineers.

Rorie watched as Lewis prepared for the race, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. The constant attempts at contact from her father, the revelation of Lewis's meeting with him, and the excitement of the impending race all vied for her attention.

She observed Lewis as he went through his pre-race routine, his focus unwavering despite the chaos around them. Rorie couldn't help but marvel at his strength, his ability to compartmentalize and perform under pressure. It was one of the many reasons she loved him.

As Lewis pulled on his helmet, he turned to Rorie, giving her a thumbs up. She returned the gesture, forcing a smile despite her inner turmoil. For now, she would push her personal concerns aside and focus on supporting her husband. The race was about to begin, and with it, a temporary escape from the complicated emotions surrounding her father's sudden reappearance in her life.

The roar of engines filled the air as the Mexican Grand Prix got underway and the cars lined up in their designated spots. From her spot next to Toto, Rorie nibbled on her nails, her eyes absentmindedly on a screen, her heart thumping erratically in her chest as she waited for lights out.

--------------------------------------------------

The Miami bar buzzed with Sunday afternoon energy, sunlight streaming through large windows. A woman sat at the counter, sipping a colorful tequila cocktail. She brushed her long extensions off her shoulders as she settled in her seat, her eyes glancing up at the TV.

Lewis Hamilton appeared on screen, celebrating his podium finish at the Mexican Grand Prix. The woman's lips curved into a slight smirk. There was no denying how attractive he was.

Too bad he wanted to be with such a boring, lame-ass bitch.

She sat up a bit straighter, a cocky air about her. Lewis would be so much better with someone like her on his arm. Someone who could truly match his star power.

Her phone buzzed with a message:

Running late. Be there in 10. - A

She sighed, signaling the bartender for another drink. As she waited, she contemplated the weight of the information she possessed about Rorie and Lewis's life. It was a power that both thrilled and unsettled her.

The door opened, and Alexander strode in, his face set in its usual mask of cool indifference. He took the seat next to her, ordering a scotch.

"What do you have for me?" he asked without preamble.

She reached into her bag, pulling out a manila envelope. "Everything I could get my hands on. Financial records, private correspondence, even some additional medical information."

Alexander's eyebrows raised slightly as he leafed through the contents. "Impressive. How did you manage this?"

A conniving smile played on her lips. "Someone close to them who's feeling... overlooked."

"Let me see the files," Alexander said, reaching for the envelope.

She held up a hand. "First, let's talk money. I want more."

Alexander's eyes narrowed. "We've discussed this. I can't increase the amount."

"Do you understand the risk I'm taking?" she countered. "If they find out—"

"They already have a lawsuit against us," Alexander interrupted. "We're proceeding carefully."

The woman leaned back, her posture defiant. "Without more money, I'm not giving you the info. Maybe I'll find another tabloid that values my contributions more."

Alexander's jaw clenched, anger flashing in his eyes. After a pregnant pause, he spoke, his voice low and controlled. "Fine. If that's what you want to do, then do it."

With that, he stood up and left the bar, leaving the woman alone with her secrets and her tequila cocktail. She watched him go, a mixture of frustration and uncertainty crossing her face as she contemplated her next move. The woman's confident facade faltered slightly. She turned back to the bar, her manicured nails tapping against the polished wood surface.

"Another?" the bartender asked, gesturing to her nearly empty glass.

She nodded, her eyes drifting back to the TV where highlights from the Mexican Grand Prix were still playing. Lewis's face flashed across the screen again, his radiant smile a stark contrast to her current mood.

She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. Her thumb hovered over a name - KiKi. She hesitated, weighing her options. KiKi had agreed to meet with her briefly for lunch a couple of weeks ago, but the meal quickly went left when KiKi realized that it was nothing more than a bashing on Rorie. Despite her initial liking for Kiara, she was still too far up Rorie's ass and she didn't need to draw any suspicion right now.

A notification popped up on her screen - a news alert about Rorie's recent performance at Austin City Limits. The woman's lips curled into a sneer as she read the glowing review.

"If they only knew," she muttered under her breath.

The bartender set down her fresh drink, and she took a long sip, savoring the burn of the tequila. Her mind raced with possibilities. Alexander might have called her bluff, but she wasn't out of options yet.

She opened her notes app, reviewing the information she had gathered thus far. Financial records, private correspondence, medical information - it was a treasure trove of potential scandals. But without Alexander's backing, publishing it would be risky.

Was I ready to put that kind of heat on me? I can always go to TheShadeRoom or something...

A familiar face caught her eye at the other end of the bar. It was a reporter she recognized from a rival tabloid. An idea began to form in her mind.

Gathering her things, she stood up, smoothing down her dress. She tossed back the rest of her drink and made her way towards the reporter, a calculated smile playing on her lips.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "I couldn't help but notice you're from The Globe. I think I might have a story that would interest you…"

She sat beside the reporter and began telling him about the secrets she uncovered about Rorie and her family.

The reporter’s brows furrowed as he listened, his interest slowly waning. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "I’m not saying it’s not juicy," he began, holding up a hand to stop her mid-pitch. "But it’s too much heat right now. You’re talking about exposing big names, and our editorial team won’t touch it. They’d rather run another puff piece than risk the legal blowback."

The woman’s carefully constructed smile wavered, but she quickly recovered. "So, you’re telling me The Globe isn’t interested in the truth anymore? That’s disappointing." Her voice dripped with feigned surprise, masking her frustration.

"Look, I get it. You want to break a big story, but this one’s a no-go. If I were you, I’d sit on it until the timing’s better." He gave her a sympathetic shrug, clearly eager to wrap up the conversation.

She forced a polite laugh, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Thanks for the advice." With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the bar, the weight of yet another rejection pressing on her chest.

By the time she reached her apartment, her heels clicking against the floor tiles echoed the pulse of determination in her veins. She wasn’t about to let some risk-averse reporter stand in her way. She dropped her purse on the entry table and kicked off her shoes, moving with purpose through the space until she reached her living room.

The room was a contrast to the polished exterior she showed the world—papers strewn across every surface, sticky notes marking key points, and a laptop open to various incriminating files. She knelt down, spreading the documents across the floor, each one representing hours of careful digging, discreet meetings, and favors called in. Emails, private text messages, medical records — it was all there.

If no publication was willing to continue running with this, she’d have to do it herself. And she had just the platform for it.

Standing up, she crossed the room to her vanity where her ring light and phone stand were already set up. She adjusted the light, making sure it cast just the right shadows to enhance her fierce determination rather than reveal the strain she was feeling. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore—it was about taking control of the narrative, about showing the world that Rorie was nothing more than a bum-ass whore who used people.

She opened Instagram, her fingers moving swiftly as she set up the live stream. Her followers were used to seeing her poised, offering advice on fashion and makeup, but tonight’s stream would be different.

As the screen flashed "You’re live!" her expression shifted from controlled anger to cool confidence. "Hey, y'all," she began, her voice silky smooth, with just a hint of venom. "I know you’re all used to seeing me share fashion tips, but tonight’s different. Tonight, I’m exposing the truth behind the smoke and mirrors. Let’s talk about Rorie Hamilton, and the fact that she's nothing more than a manstealing, fake ass bitch."

She leaned closer to the camera, letting the tension build. "You see, perfection comes with a price, and what if I told you that behind every glowing headline, there’s a trail of deceit, betrayal, and lies? I’ve got receipts—documents, messages, things that will make you rethink every article, every performance, every charming interview she’s given."

The chat exploded with comments as her followers clamored for details, but she remained calm, letting the suspense build. "I’m going to walk you through it all. So sit back, grab some popcorn, and let’s dive into the real Rorie—the one who’s been hiding behind that carefully curated mask."

With that, she reached down and held up the first document for the camera, zooming in just enough to reveal a hint of the damning information. She knew exactly how to play this—releasing just enough to whet their appetites, while keeping the most explosive content for the right moment. She was in control now, and nothing was going to stop her from burning it all to the ground.

As she continued her exposé, detailing every sordid secret, the view count climbed higher and higher. This was only the beginning, and she was just getting started.

Rorie’s nerves were frayed, her fingers tapping anxiously against the armrest of the leather chair in their suite. The luxurious comfort of the hotel room did little to ease the tension that had settled in her chest. The room’s atmosphere was thick with unspoken worries, but the muted sound of Julian’s voice on the phone filled the silence.

The emergency meeting was inevitable after Deja Barnes' Instagram live took the internet by storm. Julian, the Hamiltons’ long-time lawyer and fixer, had booked the first flight to Mexico as soon as the situation escalated. Within hours, headlines were ablaze, tabloids feeding off Deja’s revelations like sharks scenting blood in the water. The story had gone viral overnight, turning their world into a frenzy.

Julian finally hung up the phone and turned to face them, his expression severe. "We’ve got a crisis on our hands. Deja’s live went beyond just gossip; she laid out things only someone close would know. Every major tabloid is picking it up—she’s framed it as the inside scoop on your marriage and the most salacious details about your lives."

Rorie’s hands curled into fists. "She’s not ‘someone close’ anymore, Julian. She hasn’t been for a long time."

Lewis sat across from her, his brows knitted in disbelief. "Deja? This doesn’t make sense." His voice was strained, caught between confusion and hurt. "Why would she do this? We were friends. She was like family at one point. This doesn’t seem like her at all."

Rorie’s chest tightened at the way he said "we were friends." She’d known this moment would come, when the truth she had kept buried would have to be laid bare. Her eyes met Lewis’s, seeing the pain and bewilderment swirling in them, but she had to tell him what she knew—even if it shattered whatever nostalgic image he had left of Deja.

"It wasn’t what you thought, Lewis." Her voice was low, weighted with exhaustion. "Deja had her own motives, and I ignored the signs for too long."

"What do you mean?" Lewis leaned forward, bracing himself for an explanation.

Rorie took a deep breath, bracing herself for the revelation she had kept to herself for years. "Deja had a crush on you. A serious one. It wasn’t just friendly affection or admiration. It was something deeper, something… twisted."

Lewis blinked, stunned, and let out a sardonic laugh. "A crush? On me? That doesn’t make any sense. We were all close, but she never—"

"She hid it well," Rorie interjected, bitterness lacing her words. "But I saw the signs, eventually. The looks she’d give you, the way she always found excuses to be around us, especially when things were tough for us."

Lewis shook his head, still processing. "We were trying to have Lyric during that time. She was supposed to be supporting you, helping us through it."

"That’s what I thought too," Rorie said, her voice growing colder as she recalled the events. "It was all a ruse. She was using our struggles to get closer to you. She even joked once about volunteering to be our surrogate."

Lewis’s eyes widened. "She what?"

"I thought it was a joke too, but it wasn’t. Looking back, I realize she was testing the waters, seeing if we’d be open to something like that." Rorie’s expression darkened as she continued, "It got worse. There was this one night—you had a race, and I wasn’t there. When I arrived later, I found Deja waiting for you in your hotel suite, naked in the bed."

Lewis recoiled, disbelief and disgust mixing in his expression. "She was what?"

"Naked, Lewis. She was there, waiting for you like it was normal, like she had every right to be there." Rorie’s voice cracked as she relived that moment, the betrayal still fresh. "I don’t know how she got access to your room, but there she was, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She even had the nerve to say that you two had been having an affair, but I knew better."

Lewis was speechless, struggling to comprehend how someone he had trusted could betray them so completely. He was visibly shaken, running a hand through his hair as he tried to wrap his head around it all. "What did you do? How did you handle her after you found out?"

Rorie’s expression hardened. "I had security escort her out of the hotel, and I blocked her from everything—social media, our contacts, everything. I didn’t want her anywhere near us, near you, near the family we were creating. She tried reaching out a few times, but I ignored her. I thought cutting her off was enough."

Lewis’s voice was barely above a whisper. "I had no idea. I’m sorry you had to deal with that alone."

Rorie looked at him, her eyes softening for a moment. "I didn’t want to burden you with it then. We had enough on our plate with trying to get pregnant, and you were dealing with the pressure of racing. I thought it was easier to just handle it quietly and move on. But I should have told you, should have let you know what she was really like."

Julian cleared his throat, bringing their attention back to the crisis at hand. "What’s done is done, but now we have to focus on damage control. Deja’s gone public with this, and the longer we take to respond, the worse it’s going to get."

Rorie nodded, her jaw clenched in determination. "She might think she’s got the upper hand, but she’s underestimated us. We’ll handle this, and we’ll make sure the truth comes out—our truth, not hers."

Lewis reached out and took her hand, a silent promise passing between them. No matter how messy things got, they’d face it together. But the betrayal lingered in the air, a reminder of how close their past had come to tearing them apart. And as much as they wanted to put this behind them, Deja’s actions had set off a chain of events that neither of them could fully predict.

For now, all they could do was prepare for the storm ahead.

Lewis sat alone in his driver’s room, the steady hum of the paddock outside muffled by the walls. His phone was propped against the table, earbuds snug in his ears as he listened to the interview playing on The Breakfast Club. He knew Julian had warned him to stay away from it, to focus on the race weekend and leave the crisis management to the professionals. But Lewis had never been one to sit idly by when his family was under attack. Protecting them, especially now with Rorie’s pregnancy, was his top priority—even if it meant shouldering the burden himself.

The interview was already in progress. Deja’s voice, slick with false sincerity, came through clearly as she spun her tale of betrayal and heartbreak. "Rorie always wanted what I had, but I never thought she’d go as far as taking Lewis from me," Deja claimed.

Lewis clenched his jaw, his fists tightening as he fought to keep his emotions in check. This woman, someone who had once been close enough to be considered family, was rewriting history with a twisted narrative designed to inflict maximum damage. And what frustrated him most was that people were eating it up—treating her lies like gospel.

Angela Yee, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. Her voice cut through the nonsense with precision. "But let’s be real here, Deja. If you were so close to Lewis, how come we never heard about this supposed love story before? You’re saying you were in love with him, that Rorie took him from you, but from what the public saw, you were just a friend. So what’s the real deal?"

Deja didn’t waver, her delusions fully intact. "Of course, it wasn’t public. We kept it low-key out of respect. But I was there before she was. I was the one he leaned on, and when she saw how close we were, she made sure to push me out. It’s not the first time she’s done this to people, either. Rorie’s always been good at playing the victim while she manipulates things behind the scenes."

Lewis couldn’t take much more. He paused the interview, running a hand down his face. He glanced at a small window to stare at the Brazilian race track. Brazil has always been their sanctuary, the place where everything seemed to fall into place. The chaos surrounding them now was a stark contrast to the peace they had always found there. Brazil wasn’t just another location on the race calendar; it was where their love deepened, where Lyric had been conceived during a trip filled with laughter, love, and hope. It was their “zen den,” a place where the rest of the world faded away, leaving only them, together.

That’s why it was so important for him to shield Rorie now. She was working on her latest Nike Women campaign, a massive deal that she’d landed just before everything started unraveling. On top of that, her ambassadorships were piling up, her brand flourishing. He couldn’t let this mess derail her success or put unnecessary stress on her during her pregnancy. Julian was doing everything in his power to contain the damage, and the cease and desist had already been issued to Deja. But the interview, recorded before the legal warning, was still out there, fueling the frenzy.

Lewis sighed, taking a deep breath as he tried to refocus. He couldn’t afford to be distracted right now, not with the race looming and all the media duties he had to handle. But how could he not be? His family was everything to him, and knowing Rorie and Lyric were in Brazil as well, surrounded by close friends and family, brought some comfort. They were safe in their haven while he dealt with the ugliness of it all. That was the trade-off: he’d take the heat so they didn’t have to.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Rosa poked her head in. "Media session in five minutes, Lewis."

He nodded, slipping his phone into his pocket as he mentally prepared himself for the inevitable questions. The journalists would be circling like vultures, eager to dig into the drama, but he’d handle it. For Rorie, for Lyric, for their future child—they were counting on him to keep it all together.

Lewis walked into the media building, the energy buzzing with anticipation as reporters packed into the room. Cameras flashed as he took his seat on the driver’s panel, dressed in his black Mercedes team shirt. His expression was steely, the usual playful glint in his eyes replaced with something more guarded. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him—some curious, some sympathetic, and others eager for controversy.

He nodded to a few familiar faces among the press corps. The other drivers were already taking their seats - Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, and Fernando Alonso among them. They exchanged brief greetings, a mix of professional courtesy and the camaraderie that comes from shared experiences on the track.

The moderator began the session, and as expected, the questions started rolling in. Most were about the race weekend—the setup for the car, tire strategy, and his thoughts on the circuit. Lewis handled those with ease, but he knew it was only a matter of time before someone brought up the topic he had zero interest in discussing.

And then it happened.

A journalist from a tabloid well-known for stirring up drama leaned forward, his tone dripping with false politeness. "Lewis, we’ve all seen the headlines lately, especially with that recent Breakfast Club interview involving Deja Barnes—"

Lewis cut him off, a bitter chuckle escaping as he shook his head. "Who?"

"What are your thoughts on the recent allegations made by Deja Barnes?"

"Oh," Lewis interjected, leaning back in his chair with a slight smirk. "I don’t speak on snakes. I save that for my lawyers."

The room fell silent, tension thick in the air as Lewis stared down the reporter. "Do you have any questions about the race? You know, the reason we’re here?"

The reporter stammered, caught completely off guard. "Well, uh, I was just—"

"Okay, let’s go to someone who has a question about racing," Lewis said firmly, turning away from the flustered journalist. "I’m not entertaining it."

The moderator quickly moved on, calling on another journalist who thankfully asked about tire degradation and track conditions. But even as Lewis answered the technical questions with his usual focus and precision, the shadow of that earlier exchange lingered.

Fuck The Sun, and most importantly, fuck that woman.

He could sense the ripple it had caused among the reporters, some nodding in approval while others scribbled furiously, eager to turn his comments into their next headline. But Lewis didn’t care. He was here to do his job, to represent his team, and to protect his family. And if that meant shutting down every attempt to drag him into Deja’s delusional circus, he’d do it unapologetically.

The lush greenery of São Paulo's outskirts provided a serene backdrop as Rorie lounged by the pool, watching 15-month-old Lyric splash around in his floaties. Her sister, Aaliyah, kept a watchful eye on the toddler.

"Wa! Wa!" Lyric babbled excitedly, kicking his little legs in the water.

Rorie smiled, her heart swelling with love. "That's right, baby! You're in the water!"

Aaliyah, at 23, shared the same warm smile as their mother, Marian. Though technically her half-sister - the daughter of Marian and Greg - Rorie never thought of her as anything less than her full sister. Aaliyah guided Lyric gently through the pool. "He's fearless, just like Lewis," she remarked.

"He really is," Rorie agreed, watching her son with pride. "Thanks for being here, sis. It means a lot."

Aaliyah shot her a supportive smile. "Always. That's what family's for, right? So, have you decided if you’re going to call him back?"

Rorie’s gaze shifted to her phone resting on the lounge chair beside her. The text from her father, Martin, had come in earlier that day, and it had been gnawing at the back of her mind ever since. She’d been going back and forth about whether to respond, torn between curiosity and the desire to avoid more stress. Aaliyah’s question brought that internal debate back to the forefront.

"I don’t know," Rorie sighed. “Part of me wants to just ignore it, but… I’m curious. I want to hear whatever bullshit he’s trying to spin this time."

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to open that door? You’ve done well keeping him at arm’s length. Sometimes it’s better to let toxic people stay where they are."

Rorie knew her sister was right, but something inside her nudged her toward at least hearing what he had to say. "Yeah, I know… but I think I’m gonna call him. Just to see what he’s really on."

Aaliyah shrugged, "Your call. Just don’t let him mess with your head. You’ve got enough going on without letting him add more drama."

As the day progressed, Rorie's mind kept drifting to the unopened messages on her phone. Martin's texts and voicemails had been piling up, each one a reminder of the decision she'd been avoiding.

After putting Lyric down for his nap, Rorie retreated to the privacy of her room. She took a deep breath, her thumb hovering over the call button, before eventually pressing the button.

As the phone rang, her mind raced with thoughts of Deja's betrayal, the media frenzy, and now this impending conversation with her long-absent father.

"Aurora?" Martin's voice, a mix of surprise and hope, came through the speaker.

"Hello, Martin," Rorie said, her tone neutral.

Martin took a deep breath. "I know I have a lot to explain. I've made many mistakes, and my absence in your life is my biggest regret."

"Why now?" Rorie asked. "Why reach out after all these years?"

Martin hesitated. "I've been following your career, your life. I'm so proud of the woman you've become. I... I want to be part of your life, if you'll let me."

Rorie's voice hardened. "You had that chance years ago. Why should I believe you've changed?"

The conversation continued, with Martin explaining his past actions and expressing remorse. Rorie listened, asking pointed questions about his absence, his current intentions, and his sudden desire to be in her life.

"I understand if you can't forgive me," Martin said towards the end of the call. "But I hope you'll consider giving me a chance to prove myself."

Rorie took a moment before responding. "I appreciate your honesty, Martin. But I need time to process this. I can't promise anything right now."

As they ended their call, Rorie sat on the edge of her bed, her mind reeling from the conversation. She replayed his words, searching for sincerity, for any sign that his intentions were genuine.

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. "Ror? You okay?" Aaliyah's voice came through.

"Come in," Rorie called out.

Aaliyah entered, concern etched on her face. "I saw you on the phone. Was it...?"

Rorie nodded. "Yeah, it was Martin."

Aaliyah sat beside her sister, placing a comforting hand on her back. "How do you feel?"

"Confused," Rorie admitted. "He said all the right things, you know? Apologized, said he regretted not being there. But I don't know if I can trust it."

"You don't have to decide anything right now," Aaliyah reassured her. "Take your time."

Rorie leaned into her sister's embrace. "I just keep thinking about Mom and Greg, how they've always been there. And now, with everything happening with Deja and the media..."

"Hey," Aaliyah said firmly, "You've got us. Me, Mom, Dad, Lewis, Lyric. We're your real family. Whatever you decide about Martin, we've got your back."

Rorie felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. "Thanks, sis."

Just then, they heard Lyric's babbling through the baby monitor. Rorie couldn't help but smile. "Sounds like someone's up from their nap."

"Want me to get him?" Aaliyah offered.

Rorie shook her head, standing up. "No, I've got it. I could use some cuddles from my little man right now."

She padded over to Lyric's room, her heart instantly lightening at the sight of her son. Lyric was standing in his portable crib, his little hands gripping the rail as he bounced excitedly.

"Mama!" he exclaimed, his face breaking into a wide grin.

"Hi, baby," Rorie cooed, reaching in to scoop him up. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, inhaling his sweet baby scent. "Did you have a good nap?"

Lyric babbled in response, his little hands patting Rorie's cheeks. She couldn't help but smile, feeling the stress of the day melt away in her son's presence.

On a whim, Rorie decided she needed more than just a quick cuddle. She gently lowered Lyric back into his crib, then, to his delight, climbed in after him. It was a tight fit – the portable crib wasn't meant for adults – but Rorie managed to scrunch herself in, lying on her side next to Lyric.

Lyric giggled, clearly amused by his mama's antics. He snuggled close, his little body fitting perfectly against hers. Rorie wrapped an arm around him, savoring the moment.

"Mama swilly," Lyric said, patting her arm.

Rorie chuckled. "Yeah, Mama's being silly, huh?"

As they lay there, Rorie felt the tension from her conversation with Martin slowly dissipate. The world outside, with all its complications and challenges, seemed to fade away. In this moment, it was just her and Lyric, safe and content in their own little bubble.

Lyric's eyelids began to droop, the excitement of Mama's surprise visit giving way to post-nap drowsiness. Rorie hummed softly, a lullaby she remembered from her own childhood.

As Lyric drifted off to sleep, Rorie continued to hold him close. She knew she'd have to face reality again soon – decisions about Martin, dealing with the Deja situation, preparing for the baby on the way. But for now, she allowed herself this moment of peace, drawing strength from the pure, unconditional love of her son.

In the cramped confines of the portable crib, Rorie found a spaciousness in her heart. Whatever came next, she knew she had this – the love of her family, the joy of motherhood. And that, she realized, was more than enough to face any storm.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

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