And So We Meet
In a world of wealth and privilege, the only thing that matters is coming first. Right after, it's having the best of the best. Since birth, I’ve been privy to the inner workings of this world and because of it; I know exactly how to navigate in it. I also know how to destroy it. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that my name, Veronique Reinard, does not carry exclusively a renowned and respected lineage. It also carries more than one scandalous transgression. Things just tend to get blown out of proportion when you’re rich and beautiful. The only person that cares about this hoo-ha is my mother. She tends to forget that we are parishioners of the Church of London Gossip and that, as worshipers, our only real mission is to pass judgment.
It was the eve of my 21st birthday. I had been looking forward to it for months though it is of popular opinion that I had been celebrating my 21st since I was 14. What are socialites if not stunning women with a small drinking problem? I wanted to go to my favorite club, E.N.V.Y. where I was sure to bump into more than one ex-boyfriend and spend most of the evening burning off all the alcohol to the beat of Paradiso Girls.
“Why aren’t you in your room getting dressed?” my mother said.
“Because I told you I didn’t want any of this.”
True to form, my mother had ignored my wish and organized a tasteful soiree. The woman had invited every chairman, banker, businessman and person of noble descent that would fit in our ballroom with the excuse to celebrate my birth. Crates of champagne are being chilled, canapés have been served and musicians are getting ready.
“This isn’t about you,” she snapped. A man carrying a large floral arrangement walked past us. “You, put those chrysanthemums over there.”
“What are those chrysanthemums doing there?” I asked.
She looked over to me, eyebrow arched.
“You love chrysanthemums.”
“No, I hate chrysanthemums. Those are Rory’s favorites. You know this.”
“Well… whatever. As I said this isn’t about you this is about pleasing our guests.”
“Ironic considering it’s my birthday.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t want this!”
She ignored me. I wanted to scratch her eyes out. I didn’t want any of this. And it seemed that no childish tantrum was going to get me out of traipsing around a room filled with suits. Other measures had to be taken.
Mother was busy barking orders then suddenly turned to me.
“Why aren’t you getting dressed?”
I offered the iciest smile I could muster at her then turned on my heel.
The outfit had been picked. A smooth, satin black dress that was fitted and flattering. Cutout patterns down the back that reveals my silky skin and the hem finishes high on the thigh. Black Christian Louboutin pumps for that extra sensual kitten appeal. Provocative and inappropriate. It was all I needed for tonight.
After a luxurious bubble bath, I wrapped myself in my satin robe. I kneeled before my mini fridge, opening it swiftly. A lone bottle of tequila waited for me. I took it, uncorked it and took a swig. Yum. A knock on the door distracted me. Making sure I wouldn’t step on my sleeping black mat of a dog, I tip toed around him and opened the door. A man that had to have some sort of Viking descendent stood before me. All 6 foot 4 of him.
“Hello, you must be Veronique,” he said. He bowed his head respectively. “Happy birthday.”
I blinked. Had my mother experienced a sudden change of heart and therefore gave me one of her hand-me-down Adonis? The man before me was so fine I forgot to breathe for a few seconds. Then I remembered that mother had never been involved with Jason Weiss, the man who was singlehandedly in charge of one of the most important maritime companies in all of the UK. Didn’t hurt his pedigree that he was a Lord too.
“Thank you? And yes…”
“I am—“
“Lord Jason Weiss. I know you.”
“Good. Saves us time.” He walked past me and into my room.
I closed the door behind him, carefully watching him as he surveyed my room. Judging by the look on that handsome face of his, it seemed he wasn’t hugged much when he was a child. My inner femme fatale giggled. Carefully, I lowered my robe so it would reveal my shoulders. My fingers curled a strand of my hair.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your mother sent me.”
“Oh.”
There went my hard on. I quickly hid my shoulders under my robe and tightened the bow. He walked right into my closet. I had an eyelash curler in my hand when a Roberto Cavalli shirt flew across from me. I squealed.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?!”
“Getting rid of all things inappropriate.”
I marched in and found him looking at my clothes with disapproval. My eyes were wide. It did not matter that I had to stare up at him. I was ferocious.
“Get out.”
“No.”
“Get out!”
“No.”
I blinked. He grabbed about 15 outfits and removed them from the closet. I counted four of my favorite dresses in that bunch. The man was merciless.
“Jason Weiss, I mean it, get out.”
“If you can physically remove me, I’ll leave.”
I scoffed and walked right up to him. After four pathetic attempts (and four feels of his washboard abs) I figured I couldn’t move him. His lips curled into a small smirk that lasted about four seconds before an indescribable frown took over.
“Now, it seems like I have my work cut out for me. You are going to attend to your party in an elegant ensemble--”
“Excuse me but I already have an outfit.”
He cast a disdainful glance to the dress on my bed.
“I didn’t know you liked to dress like a crack whore.”
My jaw dropped. He walked back into my closet. I heard the cling clang of the hangers as they were taken out of their place. Only someone like me could find herself in this situation where a good-looking man is in my room with no real desire to shag me. Instead he was ordering me around while deflowering the source of all my pride.
The evening suddenly looked ridiculously longer.
It was the eve of my 21st birthday. I had been looking forward to it for months though it is of popular opinion that I had been celebrating my 21st since I was 14. What are socialites if not stunning women with a small drinking problem? I wanted to go to my favorite club, E.N.V.Y. where I was sure to bump into more than one ex-boyfriend and spend most of the evening burning off all the alcohol to the beat of Paradiso Girls.
“Why aren’t you in your room getting dressed?” my mother said.
“Because I told you I didn’t want any of this.”
True to form, my mother had ignored my wish and organized a tasteful soiree. The woman had invited every chairman, banker, businessman and person of noble descent that would fit in our ballroom with the excuse to celebrate my birth. Crates of champagne are being chilled, canapés have been served and musicians are getting ready.
“This isn’t about you,” she snapped. A man carrying a large floral arrangement walked past us. “You, put those chrysanthemums over there.”
“What are those chrysanthemums doing there?” I asked.
She looked over to me, eyebrow arched.
“You love chrysanthemums.”
“No, I hate chrysanthemums. Those are Rory’s favorites. You know this.”
“Well… whatever. As I said this isn’t about you this is about pleasing our guests.”
“Ironic considering it’s my birthday.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t want this!”
She ignored me. I wanted to scratch her eyes out. I didn’t want any of this. And it seemed that no childish tantrum was going to get me out of traipsing around a room filled with suits. Other measures had to be taken.
Mother was busy barking orders then suddenly turned to me.
“Why aren’t you getting dressed?”
I offered the iciest smile I could muster at her then turned on my heel.
The outfit had been picked. A smooth, satin black dress that was fitted and flattering. Cutout patterns down the back that reveals my silky skin and the hem finishes high on the thigh. Black Christian Louboutin pumps for that extra sensual kitten appeal. Provocative and inappropriate. It was all I needed for tonight.
After a luxurious bubble bath, I wrapped myself in my satin robe. I kneeled before my mini fridge, opening it swiftly. A lone bottle of tequila waited for me. I took it, uncorked it and took a swig. Yum. A knock on the door distracted me. Making sure I wouldn’t step on my sleeping black mat of a dog, I tip toed around him and opened the door. A man that had to have some sort of Viking descendent stood before me. All 6 foot 4 of him.
“Hello, you must be Veronique,” he said. He bowed his head respectively. “Happy birthday.”
I blinked. Had my mother experienced a sudden change of heart and therefore gave me one of her hand-me-down Adonis? The man before me was so fine I forgot to breathe for a few seconds. Then I remembered that mother had never been involved with Jason Weiss, the man who was singlehandedly in charge of one of the most important maritime companies in all of the UK. Didn’t hurt his pedigree that he was a Lord too.
“Thank you? And yes…”
“I am—“
“Lord Jason Weiss. I know you.”
“Good. Saves us time.” He walked past me and into my room.
I closed the door behind him, carefully watching him as he surveyed my room. Judging by the look on that handsome face of his, it seemed he wasn’t hugged much when he was a child. My inner femme fatale giggled. Carefully, I lowered my robe so it would reveal my shoulders. My fingers curled a strand of my hair.
“What are you doing here?”
“Your mother sent me.”
“Oh.”
There went my hard on. I quickly hid my shoulders under my robe and tightened the bow. He walked right into my closet. I had an eyelash curler in my hand when a Roberto Cavalli shirt flew across from me. I squealed.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?!”
“Getting rid of all things inappropriate.”
I marched in and found him looking at my clothes with disapproval. My eyes were wide. It did not matter that I had to stare up at him. I was ferocious.
“Get out.”
“No.”
“Get out!”
“No.”
I blinked. He grabbed about 15 outfits and removed them from the closet. I counted four of my favorite dresses in that bunch. The man was merciless.
“Jason Weiss, I mean it, get out.”
“If you can physically remove me, I’ll leave.”
I scoffed and walked right up to him. After four pathetic attempts (and four feels of his washboard abs) I figured I couldn’t move him. His lips curled into a small smirk that lasted about four seconds before an indescribable frown took over.
“Now, it seems like I have my work cut out for me. You are going to attend to your party in an elegant ensemble--”
“Excuse me but I already have an outfit.”
He cast a disdainful glance to the dress on my bed.
“I didn’t know you liked to dress like a crack whore.”
My jaw dropped. He walked back into my closet. I heard the cling clang of the hangers as they were taken out of their place. Only someone like me could find herself in this situation where a good-looking man is in my room with no real desire to shag me. Instead he was ordering me around while deflowering the source of all my pride.
The evening suddenly looked ridiculously longer.
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