celestial . } bentrose

celestial . } bentrose Feb 7, 2016 22:53:00 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Feb 7, 2016 22:53:00 GMT -5

LUCIA BELLEROSE

They are adorned in gossamer and satin and silk and velvet and every other fabric one could imagine. I am perched upon a seat elevated by steps draped in a wine-colored carpet at the end of the runway. It is something like a throne, with the designs curling from the top of the chair to the end of its armrests. It is made of polished mahogany and carved into elegance- a throne fit for a queen.

A neon sign hangs at the mouth of the entrance that reads, MASQUERADE, the name of the new fashion line from Lucy Couture, in bold magenta letters. A replica of an elegant mask, formed by the curves of neon lines, is turned to the side along the title.

The room would be consumed by darkness if not for the fluorescent lights beneath the glass surface of the runway the multicolored lights overhead like neon stars. They shower us in veils of pink and blue and purple and gold and white and illuminates the model who makes her way across the runway and adds a harshness to her already harsh, sharp bone structure.

Music blares as each model saunters out from backstage, this one enveloped in gold, the color of sunlight. It drenches her, from her shoulders to her feet, and pools behind her as she glides down the path, elegance in her step. I cross my legs and raise an eyebrow, my gaze zeroing in on the protuberance of her collarbone, and then just a little lower from there.

"Good casting," I murmur to my assistant. She nods in agreement, her eyes following mine.

For the finale of the showcase, all of the models sashay back onto the runway for one last pose. A pair of models in shark costumes bring up the rear of the two single-file lines of girls in elaborate gowns, doing the tango with one another as they move across the strip.

"Who did that?" I giggle to my assistant. Fear brings her features to life, but they soften once she registers the lightness of my tone. The shark dancers were unplanned- they didn't even conform to the theme of the fashion show- and other designers would no doubt consider it an outrage, but I take no action to halt the display. I only watch in amusement, laughing until my lungs ache.

Some of my colleagues around me shoot me a nervous look, but I wave them away.

When the lights stop flickering and everything succumbs to darkness except for the fluorescents below the glass pane of the runway. There is just enough light for me to rise from my seat- I take my wine in my hand from the platter beside the throne- and retire backstage to my office.

I am greeted by velvet carpet and polished ebony furniture and mirrors and lavish decor. There is a music player sitting on my desk that pours an upbeat melody from a girlish voice into the air- it would be utterly silent if not for its hushed sound. I saunter to the back of my office, where a closet chock full of luxurious changes of clothing. Choosing a silken robe the color of amethyst, I escape the confines of my clothing, leaving the uncomfortable dress a mess on the floor. I kick off my heels and shrug the robe onto my body, tying it loosely around my waist in a neat bow. A steep V runs down my chest, exposing the skin in the middle of my chest.

I take my seat on my chair, leaning back into the cushions, covered in satin. Letting out a deep sigh and meeting my own eyes in the mirror, I raise my glass to my lips and let the bitter taste of the wine linger for a moment, before chasing it down with a swallow.