The Bennett Manor was absolutely stunning: with crisp water surrounding the front door and gentle lighting on the tanned brick walls. The structure was tall, standing with four floors, and strong, being one of the only buildings without decay or destruction. There were few structures left that were whole, and the Bennett manor was undoubtedly the most beautiful and recent. Perhaps the aristocrats kept it that way on purpose, to remind the commoners that they were truly in control.

With their over extended funds the aristocrats could afford to hire architects, tailors and fashion designers. The first lady herself had slew of women who trimmed and adjusted her clothes, she and the rest of the powerful one were very fashionable.These few artistic commoners were some of the lucky ones, being paid handsomely for their work.

The home was spacious, with mostly black and white decor in the public areas. There was a ballroom, an office for the mens’ work, a library, and an uncountable amount of spare rooms. They had even cared enough to get a decent kitchen for the help. In fact, all their servants had their own rooms and working quarters and they were much better off than those down below. The aristocrats thought themselves most generous in giving their servants such fine living, and expected nothing less than gratitude.

It was a wasteful bit of a house, but the Bennets and friends felt they needed only the biggest and best. Mrs. Bennett herself did most of the decorating, seeing as that was her past job; setting up luxurious apartments to sell.

The house was secured with an iron gate and wall that trailed around the property. They needed to be separated from the rest of the world, especially now with an uproar of rebellious commoners. These walls were not all that they seemed though, angry and rebellious commoners were still getting in. A swell of revolution was rising, putting both those inside and out of the manor on edge. With drastic times come drastic measures.

Tonight there was a ball; an event to honor all the good that the aristocrats had done. To the wealthy it was a well loved awards ceremony, to the poor it was a joke. What good had the aristocrats done? They were swimming in money and unable to distribute any to the poor. Sure, they had build a couple of low grade buildings, but nothing more. With honored guests from across the country and world coming, the Bennets could only hope that the rebels would not act out. Otherwise there might be public displays of punishment.

---

It was late morning, reaching into noontime. Vivian had not cared to change out of her nightgown, and moseyed around the house in her diamond clad negligee. Her fingers trailed over the furniture as she passed by, touching nearly every surface to her left. Scaling from her bed sheets to the broad, cold marble of the grand staircase in the foyer. She had already eaten, and wasted hours of the day just lounged in her bedroom. It was days like these that she loathed. With daylight it was dreadfully dull; the servants were busy preparing for the extravagant dinner while the masters took hours to dress and prepare themselves.

The party was to begin at five o’clock, promptly. Vi didn’t have much time to decide what gown to wear, let alone how she wanted her hair done. She frowned thinking of this, her bare feet bounced from stair to stair, the movement reminding her of the situation that happened last night. On these very steps Vivian had to deal with a violent and piteous creature.

It was a rebel who are broken in. A young man, dressed wholly in black with a torch. Ready to blaze the place. The boy had been here before, a part of some silly group that obviously had poor planning and execution. Security had caught him before any real damage was done; only a valuable vase was shattered. He was thrown to the ground in front of the First Lady as she traveled toward him, taking her time to gracefully sweep down the stairway. He rambled on in tears and asked for mercy as she met him. Unimpressed, Vi clasped her hand around his chin, making the kneeling man look up into her cold blue eyes. A small audience had formed; some aristocrats on the stairwell, some servants in doorways. “You think this is funny?” She snarled, her voice rising, her grip tightening. The man shook his head, no where near laughter.

“I’m tired of your little games..” Vi cooed, her voice sweetly dark and disgusting. In finishing she turned away from him and softly said “Dispose of him.” to the guards. They struggled to grasp the wriggling man around the shoulders to haul him away. “Please! Dear God! You can’t do this!!” He continued to scream and fight as they pulled him away through the main entrance. Vivian closed her eyes, a feeling of regret sweeping through her. Only God would know what they did with him next.

Most of her words were for show. Vivian, although raised in riches, had been enlighten by her dear Philip about the poor and the common. Not all who falter in poverty deserve what they’ve been given. But Vi needed to be feared by both rich and poor and there were only two ways of keeping her name in such high remarks, charm and fear. Fortunately for Vivian she possessed both.

Vi reached the end of the stairs right as the memory was ending. It served him right, these rebels were stupid to think that they could destroy those who had given them life.

The floor was remarkably smooth and the cool. Her feet glided across the surface with ease and soon she was looking out of the front window. A small group of angry and petitioning commoners stood at the gate. This worried her; the amount of commoners who still believed in the civil liberties of the Old America. The petitioners would be removed before tonight, it wasn’t very posh to have a spitting mob outside during such an important event. A pale hand ran through her fiery hair as she turned away.

The house was full of white noise. Voices here and there and foot step, but mostly silence. It was always relatively quiet in the main part of the house, consisting most of hallways and formal sitting rooms. The back of the house was where all the gossip and work happened. In the back was not only the kitchen, dining area and other recreational rooms, but also the bedrooms. After feathering her hair for a moment she went to find Philip. Not knowing exactly where he would be, she walked promptly to his room.

Philip, who she once knew as Danny, was a man that she dearly adored. Although too consumed with her own name and title to acknowledge his feelings, Vi is very committed to the young man. They had an interesting relationship. People were often confused as to if they were related, were sleeping together, or just best friends. Knowing that she must stay loyal to her husband, Vivian has set her previous feelings for him in the back of her mind. In the meantime, she would a play and tease with the boy.

Vi had made him swear to help her pick out a dress for tonight. It didn’t take much convincing, really. Vivian could get Philip do just about anything, after all she was one of the few, if not the only one, who knew of his true past.

The slender figure stood at the closed door of Philip’s room, it was strange that she hadn’t seen anyone else in the hallways yet. Perhaps everyone had decided to get some extra sleep before the exciting night.

Vivian smoothed her hair one side before knocking lightly on the door.

Marcus Augustine Bennent

While the rest of the household racing around to prepare for this party, the High King himself sat alone in an office branching off of the library. Marcus's office was extravagant, as was the rest of his mansion. The dark, hand-crafted bookcases that lined the walls had been filled with an assortment of his favorite novels, most of which were once classics in a world from time gone by. He had had them rebound for his own enjoyment since all other copies had been lost during the war.

Though the day had hardly begun for the other aristocrats, Mark was already dressed in a three-piece, charcoal colored suit. It hugged his body in all of the perfect spots, giving his already attractive figure much more appeal. His left fist clenched tightly around nothingness while he held a thick cigar between his forefinger and thumb. He knew smoking wasn't one of the best habits to have but he knew the world's best doctors. Besides, he didn't smoke enough for it to really affect him. Marcus placed the burning, stinking cigar to his lips and sucked in sharply, filling his lungs and his mouth with the sweet smoke. A light smile crossed his lips as he released it in a long, thin stream. Before him, on the mahogany desk, lay that morning's newspaper.

Before even reading the headline, he knew from his butler's face that the news couldn't possibly be good. As he blue, crystal-like eyes scanned the article, they widened; and that was when he threw a punch at the wall that left an ugly crack, about three inches long. With a repair team already plastering over it for the ball that night, Marcus had retreated to his office simply to brood. In his leather chair, he slowly spun in a circle, brow furrowed.

"I simply won't have this..." he muttered to himself. Marcus had a voice that turned heads. It rang out deeply yet clearly, captivating those around him. That, and his charisma, made it extremely difficult to deny following his commands. "Those bastards think they're helping they're cause with demonstrations like that...they aren't." As he faced the door again, he noticed a young serving boy, standing with his eyes wide. Mark smirked broadly in a way that frightened the boy even more. Holding up the article, he pointed to a picture of a teenager who, if anything, was no older than fifteen. "Go find this boy for me, lad. I want to see him straight away." As the child nodded and hurried away, Marcus chuckled and leaned back in his chair, picking up a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby.

---

By the time the boy had returned, Mark had nearly finished it. In the doorway of his office stood a messy-looking teenager with ginger hair and freckles plastered along the bridge of his nose. The boy who had been sent to fetch him had run off in fear and, most likely, to tell the rest of the staff what was happening. From prior experience, the maids knew to grab as many cleaning supplies as possible and then wait outside of the office. Marcus crossed one leg over the other, his left forearm on the table while his right bicep rested on the table, holding his cigar between the index and middle fingers. He had a business-like air about him but there was something else, a more menacing feeling, that caused the teenager to shudder. He was staring into the eyes of none other than the High King himself.

"Hello there," Marcus greeted coolly, slowly standing up. He was a tall man of good breeding and suddenly, the teenager felt self-conscious and stepped back. Shaking his head and holding out a hand, Mark made him stop. "Leaving so soon? Oh no, we have quite a few things to talk about, my dear boy. Won't you have a seat?" He gestured to a chair in front of the desk, a leather arm chair that Marcus knew he would have to get cleaned afterwards. Reluctantly, because he had no other choice, the boy sat down rigidly, his spine a line as if preparing to run away if need be; but both he and Marcus knew the teenager would never see the sunlight again.

"'Rebellious Teenager Speaks Out in Lower Manhattan'," Marcus read from the newspaper he had out. As he glanced up, a smirk crossed his face. "You're very eloquent, lad. These words you speak...they'd convince almost anyone." The boy tried to match Marcus's confident smile but failed miserably. Quickly, Mark glared at the boy. "Unfortunately, it failed to convince me." The red-headed teenager's Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat as beads of sweat formed upon his brow. Mark stepped out from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. "Your actions yesterday were foolish. That's the problem with you 'rebels', you don't think things through. You act, but you don't have any support for your points." He began pacing around the room behind the boy's chair as the teenager stared straight ahead in sheer shock. "Your crimes are heinous." He smirked, looking down at the tuft of red hair that rose over the back of the chair. Gripping the back of the chair, Marcus leaned down near the boy, grinning wickedly. "You seem like a smart lad. Tell me...what did the ancient kings do to their treasonous subjects?"

The boy mumbled something incoherently, turning his face away from Mark.

"Come again?" asked Marcus.

"T-they e-executed them, Your Highness," he stammered. The High King could hear the tearfulness of his words and, yet, it hardly phased him.

"Yes, yes they did. And, tell me, why shouldn't I do the same to you?" The boy shook his head.

"S-sir...p-please," he whimpered. "I-I beg of you...s-spare m-me." Tears rolled down his face.

"Why should I spare a traitorous rat, hm?" he growled, spitting the word "rat".

"I-I...I don't know, sir." Marcus laughed and stepped in front of the boy, crouching down to meet his height.

"Because I have no reason to spare you," he replied coolly. "Now, remove yourself from my sight this instant." The teenager looked at Marcus, eyes wide in surprise. Was there hope for him yet? He quickly got up and stumbled over his shoes to get to the door. Once outside of the office, however, he ran into two guards who quickly grabbed his arms.

"W-what?" gasped the boy, looking around helplessly. This couldn't be happening. He was a student, a boy, he still lived at home. "P-please, no..."

"Arrest this boy for acts of treason against his king," said Marcus, meeting the boy's eyes again as he placed the cigar in his mouth. As he blew out the smoke, he gave his verdict. "No trial is necessary." As they led him away, the few maids who had gathered outside of the office filed in, surprised to see an obvious lack of blood around the room. Last time Marcus brought a rebel into his office, they had had to clean blood out of the carpet for weeks not to mention they had to remove of the body in a discrete manner.

Atlas stared at the few black and white screens in front of him with a remote in his hand, flipping through channels on the largest television. Currently it was a shot of the kitchen as servants rushed in and out, getting ready for a feast they themselves would not enjoy; well, maybe the leftovers. Atlas changed the channel a few more times before stopping at a shot of the staircase. Vivian was up and about now, still dressed in her sexy sleep wear. Atlas inched closer to the screen as hie zoomed in on her, maybe her gown was see-through; no luck. he switched camera angles as she walked out of sight from the staircase and towards Phillips room, her boy-toy "son". What was she doing? Atlas was bored with their cat-and-mouse whip-and-chain-whatever games they played. Why did Vi need to tip toe around while Marcus fucks anything with nice tits?

Sounds of morning stretching distracted Atlas from the security cameras. He looked behind him at his bed where there was a woman just walking up underneath the covers. Atlas smiled briefly as he remembered last night, then turned back to his work, he flipped the screen a few more times before stopping at the shot of the office. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Atlas grinned as he watched the interaction between the high king and a scared boy. The video was silent, but Atlas was not an idiot, he knew what was happening. But soon, even that bored the young man, he switched the main tv off, leaving only the smaller ones on. The other screens just showed all along the outer walls and main entrance, hardly anything exciting and important happens there.

Atlas turned his attention back to the woman under his covers. He quickly got up and walked over to the side of the bed and pulled the sheet off and on to the floor. His eyes followed the perfect curves of the naked woman. If he had the time, all the time in the world... but he didn't. Atlas had a job to do, just like all the other servants in the house. The naked man looked towards his closet for a few moments, deciding what to wear. Black two pice suit, white shirt, and... Red skinny tie. It was boring, but it would be appropriate for the evening. Atlas headed into his closet and got dressed.

Lillian sighed gently as she quickly caught a plate that had been dropped before it fell onto the ground. As her fingers touched the smooth rims of the ivory glass, she realized how much trouble she would have been in if it had broken, probably by the butler or housekeeper, though the blame would be on a helper.
Placing the plate alongside the other matching serving dishes, she turned around and faced her assistance. “Everyone, quiet please!” Her voice was naturally quiet and gentle, but somehow when stressed and overworked, her tone changed and she became unusually loud. Almost immediately, the voices were hushed and all eyes were on her.

“Right, as we all know, today is a very important day and everything needs to be perfect…” Her eyes flickered towards one person in particular, a new girl who she somehow convinced to provide a job for. “The dishes need to be fresh and so I have prepared many things in advance for the taste to remain moist and flavorsome, though little starters such as the Gougeres will be made towards the last minute because they need to be crisp and warm.” Her gaze fell upon the girl once more and she smiled gently, “Mia here has come up with some wonderful deserts which means she will need some help…” she trailed off and skimmed around the room, “Tomas, Isabella, Elise and Connor, you will help her.”

Today had to be perfect, after all, if anything in the catering side when wrong, it would be on her. “It will be fine” Lillian thought to herself, of course it would be fine, she would never let anything bad happen. She stepped back and nodded firmly waving her hands away to dismiss them, letting out a sigh of relief, she watched as everyone went back to their work.

“Um, Chef Knightingale, do you think that the Poire Belle Hélène will best suit with the panna cotta?” The girl she had been worrying about before was now looking at her with such wide eyes that she looked like a deer.

“Oh, the panna cotta wouldn’t be best, the chocolate caramel Ganache will be served with the panna cotta, also, add some cinnamon and vanilla buds with the mix” She spoke gently, as a mother would speak to a child.

“Right, thank you” And quickly she stumbled away.

Lillian frowned, looking at the time “Did anyone ask the madam and sir if they would like any tea?” She called out, but everyone seemed busy and so no one replied. “Right, well, I’ll ask I suppose” she murmured, more to herself than anyone.
She walked towards the doors to the kitchen and pushed them open, walking out onto the long wide corridors, a nervous pang suddenly filled her stomach as she continued to walk away.

It had been a long night for Finn. He'd stayed up making sure that everything would go according to plan the following day. Sure, he was the High King's Advisor, but he'd also sort of taken on the role of reporting back to Marcus what was going on throughout the mansion. Finn pushed his hair from his eyes, mentally cursing himself for not getting a haircut sooner, and sat up. If he thought the night was long, he could only imagine what today had in store for him. It surprised even himself that he'd slept in so long. Finn knew that both Vivian and Marcus would be awake by now.

A quick shower sufficed before Finn padded towards his closet and pulled out a three-piece-black suit. To add a little color, he opted for a light green tie with a bit of blue threading mixed within. Finn was instantly reassured by his selection when he noticed how the tie pulled the color to his eyes. The young advisor smiled once before heading out of his room and towards Marcus's office. His room was on the other side of the mansion, but Finn knew better than to take his time. There was a lot to be done today and not so much time to get it all complete.

Maids stood posted outside of Marcus's office door. Finn exhaled quick and loud. He knew what that meant. Marcus was in the room right now with some poor servant or rebel who had done something to displease him. The maids knew that bloodshed was usually the end result and so, Finn took up their post and waited for Marcus to summon them to clean. Finn, even being the High King's Advisor, knew better than to interrupt Marcus when he was dealing with business. It was only a few more minutes before a boy came fumbling from the office. There would be no bloodshed today - at least not at the particular moment. The maids scurried and Finn took the opportunity to slip into the office. Marcus ordered arrest by treason and Finn said a silent prayer for the boy, but treason was treason.

"Sir, is there anything you'd like me to do or note before I make my rounds? I was heading off to make sure everything is going accordingly, but thought to check in with you first." Finn said addressing the High King. "Is there anything you need? I can summon your assistant or someone else if you'd like."

Benvolio "Ben" Jay

In the midst of this, the household's butler raced around frantically, eyes wide as he watched just about everything fall apart in front of him. Well, actually, everything was going quite well. Benvolio was just having a mental breakdown. It was common of the poor butler before these events. As much as he hated the aristocrats, he felt like he had to impress the High King and his wife. Then again, he sort of had to if he wanted to keep this job. He stopped suddenly, biting his lip as a servant carried a large crate of supplies...toward the kitchen.

"No, no, no, no!" he cried, hurrying over and taking the box from the man. "These were supposed to go to the garden, you idiot!" The servant's eyes widened and he held up his hands in submission, backing away. Ben hurried off toward the garden. "Y'all can't do shit..." he muttered, clampign his mouth shut as he noticed he'd let his accent slip through. Praying nobody had realized, he continued hurrying toward the garden where he set the box down between two rows of rose bushes. The flowers smelled absolutely amazing this time of year and he could have stayed outside and wandered the gardens for hours, but there was no time to stop and smell the roses.

On his way inside, he noticed a small, red-headed boy being dragged away. He frowned subtly and sighed, watching as the boy was dragged off, sobbing and pleading for mercy. Fists clenched, he hurried off to continue his panicking. Usually, Benvolio was known for his patience in situations such as this one. The rise in new servants who had no idea what to do was beginning to wear him thin, though. A middle-aged woman with a trip of food slipped and dropped it, watching in horror as the dish hit the floor and landed on the carpet.

"M-my apologies, s-sir," she whimpered, noticing Ben, just about seething. Slowly, he bent down and picked up the tray, forcing a laugh.

"It's quite alright...I'm sure Chef Knightingale can make a new one," he murmured, straighting his suit before walkign swiftly to the kitchen. As he turned a corner, he nearly slammed into Lillian and dropped the tray himself. Thankfully, though, he stopped just short of her with his face a few inches away from hers. Breaking out into a smile, he let out a soft laugh and stepped back. "My apologies...it seems one of the incompetant servants dropped a tray of food. It's something you can fix, right?"

Isobel admired herself in the mirror, eyes following the curves of her own perfect body. The mirror was floor to ceiling flawlessly polished glass, not a scratch or mark in sight. A wooden frame swept elegantly round the outside, giving it a smooth, lovely finish. Isobel stood before it, clad only a bra and panties. The set was black and lacy; matching - of course. Isobel detested those who didn't wear matching underwear. How could you possibly expect to appear beautiful to the outside world if what sat at the very foundations was imperfect? The brunette's hair was curled meticulously at tips to give it a slight wave. It hung down past her shoulders, the ends resting just above the swell of her breasts; a swell enhanced by the expensive bra she was wearing. To Isobel, it was all about surface. A personality could be faked, you couldn't see it and so someone could tell you anything they wanted you to believe. But the surface was the purest of all. You could have surgery or dress it up, but at the end of the day, the flaws were still there. Everything about them was laid out for you to see in the truest sense imaginable.

Isobel lifted a navy robe from the bed and swept it around her slim figure. She tied it tightly at the front, so it simply looked like a dressing gown. No one would know how scantily clad she really was under the soft, luxurious material. Isobel lifted a bottle of expensive perfume with a heady scent from her dresser and sprayed it into the air in front of her. She then stepped into the misty cloud of scent she'd created, letting it surround her. This was the real way to apply perfume. The middle-class in the old world would always spray it conservatively on each wrist and onto the very top of their chest. But this either made the scent far too strong when they applied too much and the delicate undertones of the perfume became overpowering, or too little and the scent faded before anyone could even appreciate it. This liberal method was in no way cost-effective, but it created a beautiful all over scent of just the right strength. She checked her make-up in the mirror and rearranged her hair until it sat perfectly, tumbling in waves over her shoulders.

With that, Isobel padded across her bedroom to the door and exited, closing it behind her. She walked slowly along the landing, admiring herself in every mirror she passed. As she walked along the corridor she saw Vivian knock on Philip's door. Perfect, Isobel thought to herself. The red head wouldn't be bothering her husband if she was spending time with the boy dubbed her "son", and so leaving Isobel perfectly free to do as she pleased with Marcus. Isobel flashed Vivian a saccharine sweet smile as she passed, regarding her with utter contempt. Though she was polite to Isobel and rarely fought with the woman, they were not friends by any stretch of the imagination. Isobel truly hated the woman with everything she had. Vivian did not deserve her position of power. She had snached it out from under Isobel's nose, in her opinion. And, although she was perfectly lovely to Vivian, there was nothing Isobel would not to take the power from her.

As Isobel approached Marcus' study she saw a teenage boy being dragged away by some staff. Maids were gathered outside the door and Isobel used her hands to shoo them.

"Make sure no one disturbs us until I leave," Isobel instructed the nearest maid who nodded obediently.

"Um... Miss Deramore," the maid tried to tell Isobel something, but Isobel chose to ignore her.

Isobel looked up at the tall, wooden door, eyes filled with an almost childlike delight. It was moments like this she adored. The excitement and anticipation that came before the thrill of seducing him. Isobel knew she had to be extra careful at first, he was clearly in a terrible mood, and Mark's temper was nothing to be scoffed at. He was known to kill on a whim in a bad mood, and, although Isobel doubted he'd ever harm her, she knew the only reason she was in this house was for him. If she fell from his favour, many would be perfectly happy to see her go. She doubted anyone would protest if Marcus' decided to cast her out.

"Marcus," Isobel said in a sing-song voice. Her tone was as clear as ice, high-pitched with a definite flirtatious undertone. She knocked on his office door and tentatively pushed it open.

But upon opening the door, she saw the High King's Advisor already in the room with him. Isobel growled softly in irritation, her expression turning from flirty to thunderous. She had a tenancy to swing from one mood to another very quickly. She was unpredictable and irrational.

---

The warm water poured down around Philip as steam rose from his body where the cascading crystal liquid from the shower head heated his skin. He washed himself quickly and stepped out into the shower, wrapping himself in a pure black fluffy towel. It too was warm, like his skin, warmed by the heated towel rail that was a necessity in every bathroom in the manor. Nothing said affluence like stepping into a preheated towel. It was these small luxuries that told Philip he was on the right track, that everything he'd worked for had been worth it. In his tiny little house in a particularly dodgy area of New York City where he'd grown up, they'd kept towels on the floor. His useless mother had never seen the use in a 'towel rail', let alone a heated one. Not that any of that mattered any more. This was the life he was living now. His mother had been killed in the war, good riddance, Philip had decided. But he was also certain both his sisters were killed too, that was something neither of the sweet girls had deserved. But, this meant he no longer had anything tying him to his old life. He was here now, among the aristocrats. This was his place, this was where he belonged. There was nowhere else for him now, anyway.

Philip left the en suite bathroom and entered his own room. He smiled a little, feeling his bare feet sink into the fluffy carpet, and he dried his body. Then, he pulled on a smart pair of jeans and a loose, long-sleeved top with buttons that started midway down his chest and rose up to his neck. He fully intended to change into a suit for the party in six hours, but he'd already arranged with Vivian the night before to help her choose out a dress. He knew if he left her waiting long enough she would come and find him, giving him the upper hand. And, once he'd helped her choose a dress, she could pick his suit, in exchange. And that would involve changing in front of her, a thought Philip was not at all opposed to.

He dried his hair, but still left it a little wet to give it a slightly messy, playful, flirty look. While he got ready, a maid came in, as she did every single day when he was out of the shower. She made up his bed and tided a little. Philip was a perfectionist and hated seeing anything out of place or imperfect. If his Californian King-sized canopy bed wasn't made-up with all his cushions and throws every single morning, there would be hell to pay. The maid quickly finished up and left. Philip sat down on the newly made up bed, anticipation flowing throughout his veins at the thought of being the sole recipient of Vivian's attention for even a short while.

Upon hearing the knock, Philip knew exactly who was there. There was no one else in the house with such an elegant, light knock. The blonde boy quickly rose and crossed the room, almost too quickly; too eagerly. Not wanting to seem like he hurried to meet her, instead wanting to give the impression that she was unimportant to him and could wait, he stood by the door for a few seconds before he opened it.

Vivian looked as lovely as ever, if not lovelier. She was wearing a long, fluttery, golden nightdress, encrusted with diamonds. Her pale skin was clearly visible beneath the negligee's thin, almost transparent material. It gave her pale, snowy skin a beautiful golden shimmer. It was a stunning effect.

"Vivian," he greeted her, his voice smooth and even, with genuinely friendly undertones. He gave her a charming, charismatic smile and lent forwards to kiss her lightly on the cheek, his lips brushing gently across her soft, smooth skin. He ushered her into his room and closed the door behind her, creating a certain air of privacy and intimacy.

"Of course, you wanted my help in choosing out a dress for tonight?" he asked with a questioning tone. Philip of course, already knew the answer. He'd been planning this moment since she'd first asked him for his assistance the evening before.

Marcus Augustine Bennent

Marcus had retreated to his patent-leather office chair and slowly sat down. Pressing his dress shoes against the carpet, he pushed the chair back and sighed, staring at the ceiling as the cigar dangled from his mouth. He heard his advisor enter, but didn't bother to look up right away. Instead, he listened to the young man, debating how to respond, before he slowly sat up again at met Finn's gaze. With one leg crossed over the other again, he had suddenly regained his cool composure and smiled slightly to assure the slightly younger man. What use was there in worrying about that rebel? He'd be locked up in some prison and a cover story would be up tonight about his disappearance. Nobody would ever find him...they never did.

"Hello there," he replied calmly, sucking in some of the cigar smoke. Marcus pursed his lips and glanced around, resting his hands on the desk before him and gently tapping his cigar against the desk. A small pile of ebony ashes began to take form underneath it, flattened each time the cigar hit the stained mahogany wood. "No...I'm fine. Just tell one of the serving girls to bring in a bottle of wine soon." He paused and then opened his mouth to speak, cut off by the sound of the door. In an instant, his eyes narrowed and he turned his head toward the door, watching to see who was entering. As Isobel's slender form slipped in, however, he calmed down slightly. He heard her whisper his name in that husky manner that never failed to get him going. If only Finn wasn't standing there. Marcus's light-colored eyes flickered back to Finn and he slowly looked up and down him as if examining him thoroughly. If there was anyone in the mansion he truly trusted, it would have to have been Finn. At times, he felt he could trust the advisor more than his wife. Then again, maybe that was just because of that damned "son" of hers. He hadn't bought that crap for a second. A quick scan of "Philip's" thoughts had told Marcus that the boy wasn't to he trusted at all. The mere sight of his ugly mug sent the High King into a seething rage. But, he wouldn't let himself get visibly worked up with both his advisor and his mistress in the room. Making the final decision that Finn could, indeed, be trusted, he looked back at Isobel and smiled, his eyes quickly taking in her appearance as he tried to mentally undress her.

As he opened his mouth, he stopped and snapped it shut again. Maybe he shouldn't be this trusting of Finn, though...besides, with the party tonight, it wouldn't be good to give anyone any proof of his infidelity. There would be another time he could tell him, Mark assured himself.

"You can go continue your rounds now, thank you." Those words would be enough for Finn to know it was time to give Marcus his privacy.

As usual, the day began with death. It was unsurprising, and completely predictable; Margaret was getting tired of it, really. Hadn't her brother learned anything since he took the coveted throne? Soon, he wasn't going to have any subjects to rule over, and she did not want to be around when that happened. His temper was disgraceful, so similar to a child's tantrum. How had anyone fallen for his high-and-mighty tricks? But it was Marcus's way, and his charisma, charm, and good looks were enough to make even a married man swoon. As soon as she heard of one of his fits, she took a walk around the manor. It was beautiful, after all, and it may surprise some, but Margaret appreciated beauty above all. It took a certain accident to stumble on that kind of grace, and she longed for it. She was, after all, the famous Miss Perfectionist. She wanted the perfection that came with the pink petal of a rose, or the straight stem of a daisy. There wasn't much of a garden, though Margaret had silently and fiercely desired one so badly that she was still surprised that no one had seen her wish burning on her lips and chest, but these days, nobody paid attention to anyone but themselves.

She merely roamed along the wall, running her fingers along the stone, lost in her thoughts. She was still clad in her nightgown; ever since Vivian married Marcus, the whole 'royal' family had been subject to dressing formally, even if they were going to sleep. If Margaret was in charge, she would let people go to sleep in a bra and shorts, like she was accustomed to doing. But she wasn't in charge, and she never would be... being the baby of the Bennett family had taught her that. Not that she was bitter, she had accepted her fate long ago. But still; with the adviser, Vivian, and every other conniving little rascal out there trying to tell Marcus the right thing to do, nobody seemed to ask her opinion. She was just another damned woman, another damned aristocrat. A woman who could make men fall in love with her, but what good would that do for her? It was such a useless power; she didn't need love, nor did she want it.

Useless. Just like she was becoming. Oh, dammit, wouldn't Marcus just consider giving her a real job?

Well, at least there was some sort of ball today. Some glorified party to show off their power, wealth, and Marcus's good looks. Margaret scoffed silently and began to laugh. She just wanted to laugh. It had been a long time since she had laughed. She looked crazy, but she didn't care. She laughed, and she laughed, and she laughed. "Fuck the world!" she whisper-shouted to the clouds, "I'm going to get drunk at the ball tonight and let someone fuck me! Fuck the world!"

But of course, she was lying. None of that would happen; none of what she ever said in solitude ever did. It was just nice to think that one day, it could happen. Still a little exhilarated, Margaret walked back into the manor and headed towards her own chamber, wondering how a Socialite was supposed to be a Socialite when there was absolutely nobody interesting to socialize with.

And just like that Finn was dismissed. Even the most clueless, naive person would be able to hear the flirtatious tone of Isobel's voice and see the smile that lit Marcus's eyes. Yes. Something was definitely going on there, but it wasn't Finn's place to say or to even think about it. Finn quickly averted his eyes to the situation, told Marcus he'd be back an hour before guests were to arrive, and promptly excused himself.

In his haste to find a servant girl as Marcus had requested, Finn caught Lillian walking in the opposite direction. He'd always been somewhat fascinated with the chef, but had never really taken the time to get to know her. Or even hold a conversation even.

"Hey Blondie." He started, using a name he had called her on the random occasions when a conversation was held. "The High King has requested a bottle of wine, though I think it'd be fit to give him a half hour or so before it's delivered." Finn added the last part as an afterthought, remembering Isobel had just showed up. The young adviser only briefly realized that he was giving a chef the job of a servant. With that regard in mind, he decided to cover his tracks. "I don't expect you to do it, but you'll probably be back to the kitchen before I will." He told her, flashing a flirtatious, toothy grin. "Actually, if you want to head back that way now, I'll accompany you."

Finn wasn't sure if Lillian would accept the offer to go back with him, but he decided to make it anyway. After all, the two had barely communicated as it was. He wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't comfortable staying in his presence. Finn decided to chance it and started walking towards the direction of the kitchen, hoping Lillian would see fit to tag along. He was sure she had lots to do in preparation for the ball tonight anyhow.

Rory was young, yes. She was inexperienced and rowdy; altogether quite unfit to work in the High King’s manor. Somehow, the girl got the job though. She wasn’t important or depended upon like Lillian or Kent, she was just a lowly housekeeper. Another maid in the mix, with nothing more than a talent in keeping things tidy. As the First Lady has once said, Rory was just one of those lost souls. Growing up in an unstable life led to street smarts and snarky attitude. Those were the only things that had kept her alive during the war, really. Rory was petite, a bit naive, and the girl that could have been easily taken advantage of when she lived in the slumps. She learned quickly, and with her fiery remarks, sarcasm and surprising ruthlessness, Rory soon found herself at the steps of the palace.

It was never her intention to work for the scumbag who created such poor living conditions down below, but Kent had convinced her into it. He was a good friend, in fact he was the one who had introduced her to the rebels. Rory took his word for it and joined the other young women clad in the traditional maids outfits. Beside the brutally rude and pampered aristocrats that walked all over her, she enjoyed her job. The cleaning wasn’t so bad, and with company it was even enjoyable. She and a couple of other girls often did their dailies together, gossiping and chatting about juicy details including both commoners and royals. Her job was also a practical way of collecting information from the aristocrats by way of eavesdropping.

Her outfit was a joke. That was for sure. It was as if the males in charge of this place were a bunch of sexist pigs. Rory pulled at her skirt. The outfits that the common housekeepers wore were the classic, almost costume esk, maid suits. A short, mid thigh, black dress with a lacy apron attached. Along with that, a frilly hat that forced Rory to put her hair up in a bun. The only thing that she did not conform to was the policy on shoes. The young girls and women were supposed to wear sheer black tights and black shoes. Rory followed up on the nylons but intentionally and almost annoyingly wore her lucky pair of bright red and white striped oxfords. There were just something she couldn’t do. Black shoes was one of them.

A yawn escaped her mouth as she off with a bundle of friends toward the High King’s office. The poor thing had been up since five o’clock, shining everything from the ballroom floor to the expensive silver spoons. Her arms were sore and her knees ached from having been on all fours buffering the dance floor. Not that there would be much dancing. She just knew she needed to clean and that everything needed to be spotless. Spotless. Other aristocrats were coming, and the Bennets and friends needed to impress. Approaching the door to make the King’s office, the other girls began whispering and blushing about Finn. Like most days, Rory got her fair share of giggles and girly chatting about the men, especially the single men.

Finn was an exceptionally handsome man, Rory would admit that, but he was also an aristocrat. He bathed in money, and she doubted that he cared for anything more than that. She rolled her eyes as an elbow poked into her, perhaps the girl had developed a small crush. “No.” She shot back at them in a tense whisper; they were always pressuring her into making conversation with the man. But what would they talk about? Oh, I would like to you convince the King to give more money to the poor. No. Maybe, boost the economy? Or how about those designer clothes Rory knows nothing about.

With suspicious acts and looks between the King and his obvious mistress, Rory gathered that they would not be cleaning the office anything soon. The other maids were joking and laughing while Rory listened in, nothing too important. Just sex. As usual. How much did the King really need? Honestly. He was only one man, and Rory didn’t think he was all that powerful anyway. Sure, he could see bits and pieces of ones thoughts, but it wasn’t like he was this great mind reader. Because he wasn’t.

After the King dismissed Finn the other girls got an idea. Rory's eyes followed Finn as he left to find some wine. She couldn't help but keep her eyes glued on him. Rory shook her head after realizing she was gawking. A couple of strands fell from her bun, making her look more of mess than she already was. Then off they went to the next room, unfortunately for her and her teasers, they passed by the adviser on their way out. A toothy and quite flirtatious grin was flashed at Lillian, Rory's young heart sunk for a just a moment.

It didn't last long though, because before she knew it one of the girls had shoved her into Finley. A straight blush turned her face red. Her eyes widened in dismay. "I- I- I- I am so sorry, sir." A stutter came out of her as her nerves rose. She had rarely spoken to him before, only for work matters, and thought it only best to address him correctly.

With a crack of the door and soon the charming blonde Philip was just inches away from her. A subtle laugh escaped her lips as he softly brushed his lips against her pale cheek. It was funny in a way seeing Danny Boy, as she had once called him years ago, act like a well versed and elegant nobleman. Her broad lips widened in a silly grin. Oh how he reminded her so much of some childhood sweetheart she should have had. “Good morning, dear.” she purred softly, while being pulled into his bedroom.

Like the other rooms it was spacious, overly extravagant and entirely too big for one lone man. It was also spotless, clothes neatly pressed and put away, the huge bed fluffed and done up nicely. With just the two of them flashes of old memories paraded in her mind, a gentle reminder of past feelings rose once again. Vivian’s tongue lightly slid over her lips in habit , wetting them. Her red hair bounced and flowed against her exposed collarbones with her nodding head. Yes, she would expect nothing less than for Philip to help her pick out a dress. And if she could, she would make the process last as long as possible.

Of course this was all part of the game that Vivian played with Philip. Vi enjoyed having that boy wrapped around her finger more than anything. Even more than the initial pursuing and seducing of her own powerful husband, though that wasn’t very much work. The two had a power bond connecting them from the start, an attraction that couldn’t be contained. But with Philip is was different, it was so familiar, so sweet, so gentle. Feelings that had been molded and found through years of friendship. This game that Vi played was cruel, to the both of them. She loved seeing his puppy dog love and the secret masochist in her loved the torture.

This little dress up session would provide plenty of opportunity for Vivian to show off her stunning figure. Of course she would play sweet, and pretend to make him be a gentleman and turn around, but deep down Vi would enjoy every second of revealing herself. Her blue eyes swept around the room, taking in the deep calming silence of the room. In the hallway it was much more upbeat and noisy.

Absentmindedly Vivian’s hands came to Philip’s chest. Her fingers played with the edge, curling around the thin fabric that absorbed his heat. A nearly invisible smile played on her face, lighting it up. “Yes, of course.” Vi responded, there was no going back now. She let a moment of tension play between them before looking away from him. As if scouting the room, she left his side and lolled onto the huge bed. Her weight ruffled the bedding slightly, a puff of air exasperating out. A pool of blood red hair framed her porcelain face before moving herself so that she was able to see Philip. The silky, thin negligee rose to mid thigh as she sat up on the bed.

“There seems to be one problem though..” she began in a serious tone, just to play with him. Her face was stone cold, as if to tell him the worst news. A list of ideas that would ruin poor Philip's day came to her. She could tell him that the High King was expecting her in an hour. That the dinner had been cancelled. More rebels perhaps? Better not. This major tease was already going to be hard enough.

“I don’t believe you have any dresses in here, Danny Boy.” Only in the most private settings did she refer to him as Danny. A couple of servant had caught the name being tossed around, but just assumed it was some kind of pet name. After speaking she brought herself to a kneeling position with her hands outstretched, ready to take his hands and flee to her closet in secret.

Behind, over, under, around and through the hole. Easy enough. Atlas didn't wear a lot of ties, not like his father did. Always with a business suit and tie, 'till the day he died, come to think about it, the old man was buried in a suit; a cheap one at that. For someone who always tried anything to get rich, he sure did die poor, but what do you expect when you make a deal with the devil. Fat bastard, he got what he deserved.

Atlas walked out his closet and looked at the naked girl one more time. With a smile he raised his hand and spanked the womans ass.

"Get up." He said with a laugh, barely audible over the loud squeal followed by a series cuss words.

Atlas continued laughing as he left the angry woman in his bedroom. Making his way down the long hallway, he loosened the red tie around his neck as it became uncomfortable. Maybe a bite to eat, or perhaps he should be reporting to his boss, the head of security. After all, Atlas was only just a security technician, the only one in the mansion. The rest were simple guards taking turns on gate duty and beating up poor bastards deemed traitors by the king. The head of security was an withered old dick of a man with half his face covered in scars and a unnatural deep scratchy voice that frankly creeped the shit out of Atlas.

No, the old man will have to wait; Atlas noticed Margaret walking in from the gardens and towards her bedroom with an amused look on her face. Thankfully, she didn't see him when she turned the corner. He smiled as he decided to follow her, quietly at first, but then he began to whistle a tune from a Disney movie that had dwarfs in it, an almost forgotten memory from his childhood. Atlas was in a rather good mood this morning, probably from fucking one of the maids last night, and he wanted to share is recent conquest with Margaret.

If there is anything that Kent refuses to do, it's walk. No, Kent Silva does not walk, my friend; he strides. With his long legs and chiseled features, it's hard not to notice his confidence. Even as a commoner, even as the High King's mere personal assistant, he stood out. In fact, some whispered, he acted like a better version of the aristocrats. If Kent had heard this, he would have laughed it off, hiding a thin layer of nervousness. Nobody knew of his background. Nobody knew of his previous wealth, of his parents, of how he had once lived; only Chrys knew that. Only the lovely Chrysanthemum knew his whole being. Or perhaps the not-so-lovely Chrysanthemum. She was more of a flame, that one, as opposed to a rose. But regardless, she was his best friend. A big part of his life. Not to say that she was the only female in his life... As gentlemanly as Kent was, he did enjoy a little bit of fun here and there. He stood even taller than before when a particular maid walked by, a beauty with a name he hadn't learned yet. Which had to be fixed.

Now would be a good time, actually.

She was headed towards the kitchen, of course. With a playful smile, Kent began to follow her, slinking in the shadows as if he was the new Tom Cruise, post-nuclear war version. Finally, she turned, and jumped when she saw him. Before she could scream, Kent covered her mouth with his hand gently and smiled impishly at her, using his 'just got caught with the hand in the cookie jar' expression. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to know your name. I was chasing you just now... I'm sorry if I seem a little strange. It's not every day you meet someone so sincere-looking as yourself."

It sounded fake, he knew. On paper, it sounded so sickeningly sweet, so false. But the trick to winning a girl's friendship with that kind of conversation was this: you need to mean it. And Kent did, actually; when talking about others, he meant every word he said. It was only when he spoke of himself he tended to play with the exact details. And she did look sweet. She did look sincere. She did look like the girl he might have fallen in love with, if he had met her before he had fallen in love with Catherine. She looked pure, and he had been drawn to it for a long time. No opportunity had shown up since he had noticed her, but the preparations for the big ball coming up had sent the servants in a scurry. Except for him; he was actually supposed to be following the High King, but it was lunch time! A growing man like himself had to eat, after all.

The maid still looked stunned, but after Kent lowered his hand slowly, he saw that she was smiling. He smiled back and winked. "I am Jolene," she said simply, enunciating each word. "And you are Kent Silva."

He blinked in surprise. So, she knew him already? "Well... yes. How did you know?" he said, beginning to head towards the kitchen. She fell in line with him easily, and the two were talking so easily, anyone would have thought they had been friends for a very long time.

Jolene's eyes darted back and forth in search of any servants in hearing range, and Kent decided to like her even more right then and there. She was a rebel, of course. It was obvious. Her weariness told him everything; she understood caution. She understood the life of a rebel, the philosophy, the mind and the heart and the soul. Or at least, the careful aspect of it. "I'm a rebel myself," she confessed in a whisper. "I've been trying to track down my brother, actually."

"Your brother? Why would he be here?"

"Well, he's the one who 'converted' me, in a sense. Actually, he convinced everyone. He was even in the papers," she said proudly, as Kent's heart begin to sink at an alarming rate. "I was already working here by the time I recognized the injustice of this High King bullshit, and he hated it, but now he appreciates it. He said he can count on me to get him out of trouble, if the situation arises. And like I said, he was in the papers..." Her voice quivered then, and trailed off, as if finally daring to think a thought too sinister to consider. Kent almost begged her to stop, but the strength in her dark eyes seemed to comfort him in his dread, and reassure him of her capability. I can handle it, those deep irises whispered. So Kent listened.

"I'm just worried," she finally admitted after a moment or two. Their walking had slowed by now, but they only had a few steps before reaching the kitchen. How could he tell her now? "Have you seen him?" she finally asked, stopping before the entrance. He stared at her, speechless. How... She had asked... But... Oh, how could this happen? A new bitterness and hatred for the High King and his drones stung his lips. How dare they steal the light of this Jolene girl, this maid he had just met and connected with. And now she was going to hate him. Or hate the High King. And probably do something reckless in the middle of the ball.

But how could he lie to her about the death of his brother?

"Jolene, I'm so sorry, but..." Kent hesitated, wanting to avoid her eyes, but he couldn't. He stared deep into them, his hands firmly, stiffly, even awkwardly, at his sides. He hated being the bearer of bad news. "I'm so sorry, but... the High King has already gotten a hold of him."

The two were silent. Jolene said nothing. She didn't collapse, she didn't weep... she didn't show any emotion, actually. They merely stared. And didn't speak. Two servants, standing before the kitchen entrance... waiting to be interrupted. Kent understood this; Kent acknowledged this. But he couldn't tear himself away from this moment. Let whoever find them, find them. But he did hope it would be Chrys.

Isobel's expression visibly softened at the High King's smile. Her mood changed like the wind once more. The anger diminished, her icy exterior thawing like a pond melting after the winter. Her pouty frown turn upwards into a flirtatious, playful smile. She was going to get what she wanted. Okay, maybe it wasn't going to play out exactly as she'd wanted. Finn being there was such an inconvience and he'd ruined her perfectly planned entry to the study. But she would get the attention she desired from the King in just a moment.

"You can go continue your rounds now, thank you," the High King told Finn, who replied with something inconsequential that Isobel didn't pay any attention to. She was far too busy planning her next words and movements.

The moment Finn shut the door behind himself, Isobel began to walk slowly towards the King. Each of her movements were accentuated, gradual and grand, to show off her lovely figure and tease the King so he'd want her. There was nothing Isobel wanted more than to be wanted by the King. It was the highest compliment for her, the very thing she craved.

She elegantly slid into the gap between his chair where he sat and the desk, body pressed against the desk facing him.. She placed her hands flat on the desk either side of her slender body and used them to lift herself onto the desk. She stretched out a hand to brush his cheek playfully, running her fingers down onto his chin before letting it slip away.

She fixed him with a small, teasing smile. "You seem so angry this morning, Marcus." Her tone was playful and her voice was high-pitched, her pretty forehead furrowed in pretend concern. "I hope you're not going to be angry with me, Marcus. Not when I've dressed up especially for you..."

---

“Good morning, dear,” Vivian’s voice was filled with a certain tenderness. A tenderness that only be achieved through years of friendship and trust. It wasn’t true love by any stretch of the imagination, but her fondness for Philip shone through in the grin she gave him.

“Yes, of course,” she said in response to his previous words. Her hands were at his chest, playing with the fabric of his collar. Her slender fingers brushed the skin at his collar bone as the tension hung in the air for a moment. Philip’s breath froze for a moment. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to reach out and touch her lovely cheek. He wanted to run his fingers along her cheekbones, tracing the pale outline of her face. But he couldn’t. Because, if he gave in, she’d won. In reality, she’d been winning since the day Philip had laid eyes on her. But, he liked to keep the illusion that he had some degree of self-control and that she didn’t influence his every decision, even though they both knew he was fooling no one.

Suddenly, her hands left him as she flopped away on to his bed, her movement self-indulgent and exaggerated. The bed creased around her. The maid would have to make it again when she left, but for now it was no concern of his. Philip leant back against one of the wooden columns that held the canopy over the bed as he watched the negligee creep further up her thigh temptingly. But Philip kept his cool, not flinching at her obvious flirtation.

“There seems to be one problem though…” The First Lady said in a more serious tone. For a second, Philip worried she was about to tell him she no longer required his help and the thought left him utterly lost. But he exhaled a breath of relief as she continued, “I don’t believe you have any dresses in here, Danny Boy.”

The sound of his original name was strange, after being referred to as Philip for so long. But the familiarity was lovely, giving a real feeling of intimacy between the two to Philip. Nostalgia flashed between them, each of them with their own sweet memories.
“I believe you are right,” he told her softly. “That is, unless you happen to have left any dresses here…” The words slipped through his slips before he had time to censor them. It was a flaw that set him apart from the aristocrats, highlighting his common roots. The aristocrats always knew what to say. Words never slipped out by mistake. Every sentence was carefully planned, almost unconsciously.

Philip looked Vivian straight in the eye, knowing she would be perfectly aware as to what he was referring to. In the old world, when he’d first been seeing Vivian, she’d left his house in the morning following a night they spent together. She was wearing a change of clothes she’d sent one of her father’s men to get her, but she’d left her dress from the night before behind at Danny’s, as he’d been then, house. It had cost him nearly four month’s wage, but he had arranged and paid for the dress to be beautifully packaged in an expensive box in a department store, all wrapped in delicate red tissue paper to match her hair and sprinkled in red, scented rose petals. He’d paid to have it couriered back to her. Inside the box, he’d also included a necklace he’d purchased for her in the store. He knew now she would’ve seen it as nothing more than a simple trinket, much lower quality than anything she would be used to. But he had hoped, at the time, that she would have at least appreciated the gesture.

Breaking the tension, Philip took her hands in his, ready to leave his room with her. He used his grasp of her hands to help her up from the bed and lead her out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Once his advisor had left, Marcus allowed a sigh of relief to pass through his lips, carrying the smoke of his last puff of cigar smoke with it. Slowly, he leaned forward and snuffed the cigar out against an ornate cigar tray, leaving the butt in there for a maid to clean up. It took him a second or two before he adverted his gaze toward Isobel and the sight he saw brought a smile back to his face. To compare this woman and his wife was nearly impossible; both of them held a mysterious, seductive air about them that he found absolutely impossible to ignore.

Mark watched her saunter over, praying she'd remove her skimpy dressing gown to let him see what was beneath. He knew by now, of course, no such thing was going to happen. His mistress was a tease, she loved to show him what he couldn't have, putting on shows for him just to build up his anticipation. Any other man would have swiftly become irate and annoyed, but not Marcus. No, he had learned to wait and let her have her fun "teasing him". It wasn't long before he'd be able to have his way with her. Subconsciously, he squirmed ever so slightly in his seat just imagining it.

Mark slowly leaned back in his chair as she sat herself up on his desk. As Isobel's delicate hand rubbed against his slightly unshaven chin, he smirked and winked slightly at her, obviously in a much better mood than he had been in before.

"You seem so angry this morning, Marcus," she cooed in a flirtatious tone. He watched her pout and furrow her forehead playfully. Mark chortled softly and shook his head slowly as if he were casually dismissing her comment. Oh yes, his blood still boiled, but how could he possibly stay angry with a woman like this before him. "I hope you're not going to be angry with me, Marcus. Not when I've dressed up especially for you..." Slowly, he stood up in front of her and bent down slightly, placing his face mere inches from hers as he smiled again in a mischievous way that clearly conveyed the thoughts racing through his head.

"Angry with you?" he whispered, raising a thin, brown eyebrow as he furrowed his own forehead in feigned worry. Mark's breath smelled strongly of tobacco but it was a scent one was forced to get used to when they spent so much time in his presence. "Why would I be angry with you, love? It was just another street rat pretending he to be stronger than me, nothing more." He placed the back of his left hand against her cheek, caressing it softly as he met her eyes. He laughed softly again in a breathy way. "I have to say, I'm a fan of this night gown, it flatters you..." Mark leaned in close to her ear, even though there was no one in the office to eavesdrop. Whispering always had a way of building up the anticipation. "...but I'd rather see what's beneath that pretty little dressing gown."

“I believe you are right,” His smooth voice ringing just below a warm hum. “That is, unless you happen to have left any dresses here…” At his words, a flood of memories invaded her. Vivian’s face softened, taking her back to that night, back to the relationship she kept so secret from her parents and sister. It wasn’t that she was ashamed, that was not the matter, Vivian just feared the harsh opinions and crippling actions her father would take after discovering a measly paperboy was pursuing his daughter. Her blue eyes looked into his orbs as the most sincerely sweet memory came back to her. This boy had really cared for her, so much that he had sent her dress back. Any normal scumbag would have kept the thing, sold it on Ebay.

The returning of the dress was not what had touched her though, it was the simple trinket attached. A long necklace with a coupled charm attached. Expensive yes, but only for the middle class. It was unlike anything she had in her jewelry, but perhaps thats because everything she owned was adorned with so many diamonds. It had been a lovely symbol of some kind of devotion, and in all honesty Vi adored the thing. Even now, she had wished she kept it.

It was sometime after the package that Vivian began to break down. Her family would never approve, sh could never approve of the old Philip. She was upset, to say the least. She thought that she had been so deeply wronged by a simple and poor man. Something that her family thought disgraceful. Vivian flushed the necklace down the toilet, after a month or so of not speaking to Philip. Years later though, and even in this moment, she regrets doing such a horrid thing. Of all the wasteful things she had done, this was the most prominent and tainted memory. He had really cared, she had really cared, but she just couldn’t do it.

Vivian never wanted to tell him, even now. If he asked she would simply say it was lost in the war. Soon he was pulling her from the cloud bed and pulling her toward the door, the two were headed off to Vivian’s closet. A room in itself. Which was good, that way they would have more privacy. There was little to no threat of Marcus walking in, or a maid for that matter. Those rotten little gossipers. Vivian absolutely loathed the young girls that swept and shined the house, they were effective, but also liked to spread rumors about the hallways. It was tiresome.

Into the echoing hallway, there was only a single maid mopping the marble floor down the way. Vivian was sure that they would have a clear pathway to her closet, it was just around the corner after. Her hands reached for his, and almost too flirtatiously led him to her large walk in closet.

Once secured inside Vivian locked the door behind them, her closet was more like a private dressing room; it had a large couch, a vanity, and an attached bathroom. Vi could lock herself up in here and not be disturbed, and she had done it many times before.

“Sit there.” she instructed, pointing to the pale couch. “Now it’s most likely that I will wear black, but I feel as if they might expect that..” Vivian trailed off in thought, getting to work. She was very possessive over being the most fashionable woman at the party. It was one of things that she just had to be; the most beautiful, the most fashionable. Philip’s opinion, although completely untrained, was honest and she appreciated that.

Silence hung between the two as she fingered through her long line of extravagant dresses. They were all custom, tailored to fit her curves perfectly and show off everything that she wanted. She rolled her toes in the carpet, massaging her foot. “Close your eyes.” She said abruptly. Her fingers reached and released the sleeves that held her nightgown on as she turned to face away from him. Underneath she wore only a lacy pair of nude panties. No bra. The women rarely wore a bra anymore, most of her dresses provided all the support she wanted.

Vivian undressed without looking back at Philip to make sure he was being a gentleman.

Marcus stood up slowly, his taller form giving him the ability to look down on Isobel. But he bent down a little so their faces were close, so close, in fact, that Isobel could feel his warm breath on her face. His breath smelt of tobacco, a smell most strongly disliked. But not Isobel. To her, the smell was comforting. It made her think of Marcus. It was what she constantly smelt when they were close, and most memories that involved being in close proximity to Marcus were good ones. The smell was familiar and just… Him. It would be unusual if she didn’t pick up the underlying sent, the smell of Marcus.

Mark smiled at her mischievously. "Angry with you?" he questioned, his mock concern matching her previous expression. "Why would I be angry with you, love?”

The term of endearment made Isobel squirm with delight, pulling in a quick, almost excited, breath. She found the way he spoke to her beautiful. Every word that left his mouth was perfect, each sentence beautifully formed and delivered to create his desired effect. There was such charisma and charm to his voice that Isobel found impossible to resist. The first time she’d laid eyes on Marcus she’d been eleven. His father had had a business meeting in Isobel’s own father’s casino. Isobel had been behind the bar, helping the bartender who she’d grown close to in serving. She knew her father wasn’t keen on her helping out with the tasks that were for the ‘common’, but Isobel liked the bartender’s floppy brown hair and witty observations of the customers. Marcus had been twenty at the time. His father was eager to force him into the spotlight, and so, for some reason he had been at the meeting with him. Isobel had recognised him instantly from the Bennett Inc. commercials. And though, at this business meeting he looked a little out of place, Marcus still glowed with natural charisma and charm. And, though Isobel didn’t speak to him at all that time, she’d watched him with utter fascination. There was something so alluring and attractive about the man, even to an eleven year old Isobel, that she could not put her finger on. And that magnetism was still there now, after ten years, even after everything that had happened. And Isobel still couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Even now.

Marcus continued, “It was just another street rat pretending to be stronger than me, nothing more." He lifted a hand to her cheek, stroking it lightly and looking her in the eye. His laughter was soft. "I have to say, I'm a fan of this night gown, it flatters you..."

Isobel gave him a lovely, grateful smile at his appreciation of the garment. It had been hideously expensive, handcrafted from only the finest materials. But now she was ever so glad for the way the clingy fabric clung to her curves, showing off her lovely figure.
Marcus lent in close, whispering softly. "...but I'd rather see what's beneath that pretty little dressing gown."

“So impatient, Marcus,” she mock scolded. “What am I going to do with you?”

Isobel smiled, thinking over exactly what she was planning to do with him the moment this gown came off. She was as ready as he was for the end of the games and to simply cut to the chase. But many years of seduction had taught Isobel not to give in straight away. The urge may be overwhelming, but you had to fight it and continue to tease. The payoff was always worth it. And Marcus, was definitely worth it.

Isobel twisted her body on the desk, pulling her feet up onto it. She stretched out, full length along the cold wood. She was laying on her side, facing Marcus, her face cradled in her hand. The position pushed her chest forward, flaunting her figure and curves right under the man’s nose.

To many men, this would make them impatient. But not Marcus. It was a quality she admired about the man; his self-control. He could be so angry that he’d lose his control many an occasion, but in a social situation he was controlled and collected. She found his disposition attractive, which made watching him finally lose his self-control and be given what he wanted so pleasing to Isobel.

---

As Philip heard the click behind him, indicating the door had been locked, a whole rush of thoughts filled his head. Maybe he could seduce her right here, right now. The door was locked, no one could come in. He could have her pretty little body back in his arms finally. That cruel King didn’t deserve her. Vivian was the most elegant, beautiful, sophisticated woman he had ever met. It felt as if she were so wasted, stuck ‘married’ to the King. When Philip first heard news she had got married, he was heartbroken. It was as if everything he’d worked for had been worthless. But it hadn’t taken long for Philip to realise their union was more one of convince than anything else. Which meant, he still had a chance. Philip was uncertain that Marcus even spent much time with his wife, let alone slept with her. This thought comforted Philip. The thought of any other man having from her what they’d shared was the most disgusting thought. Philip felt that Vivian, although she’d always controlled him, was his. Not his to do with as he pleased, the way the King saw her, but his to be with and touch her and listen to her. Philip struggled to see why Vivian put up with it. He was not an avid follower of the King’s sex life, but he was more than aware, like everyone else in the manor, that the King was far from monogamous. Philip had no idea why Vivian conformed to the standards expected in a marriage, when Marcus didn’t even try. The blonde had always wanted to ask, but he refrained, probably mostly due to the fact that he was a little afraid of what the answer might be.

“Sit there,” she told Philip, indicating the creamy coloured couch. Philip took his seat as she continued. He was no expert in fashion and, really, he had little interest in women’s fashion at all, but Philip was so enjoying listening to the sound of her voice that the subject matter didn’t bother him. “Now it’s most likely that I will wear black, but I feel as if they might expect that..” she told him.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed, turning around and beginning to undress. Philip had no desire to avert his attention, but he didn’t like to disobey Vivian, and so he turned away. But from the corner of his eye, he was still vaguely aware of the cream flush of her skin, wrapped round her body. Her fiery hair hung down her back as she slipped into the black dress.
Philip opened his eyes to gaze at her in the dress. She always looked lovely in black. It made her look elegant and slim. It was understated and simplistic, yet still impressive and easy to appreciate. “Very beautiful,” Philip commented earnestly, running his, albeit untrained, eye over the dress. But Philip’s intentions were not as pure as he was attempting to portray. The man had a plan of his own as to how this morning meeting would go. Philip stood up from the sofa, searching for a specific dress he’d seen on her before that he knew she had in her closet. He thumbed carefully through the dresses, searching first for the colour. Finally, he triumphantly found the dress, lifting it off the shelf.

“Try this on…” he said softly, handing it to her. “I just want to see it on you.”

He turned away again to give the illusion of privacy, but privacy was the last thing he had in mind when choosing out this dress for her. The material was soft and coloured the richest midnight blue. It looked stunning against her hair and skin, creating an almost ethereal loveliness to her. But the dress also had a zip that ran from the middle of her bottom, right up along her back, following her spine. Vivian would never be able to do it all herself, giving Philip the perfect opportunity. He would need to brush his warm hand against the soft, sensitive skin at the small of her back to help her, teasing further and hopefully tempting her.

---

The grin upon his face broadened as Marcus heard a soft, shaky breath being drawn in by Isobel. Oh yes, two could play at her little game. As he moved his lips away from her ear and looked back into her eyes, his smile grew more sincere and friendly than mischievous. The traditional purpose of a mistress had always been to have another woman lying around that you could use whenever you wanted to. Yet, that wasn't how Mark felt his relationship with Isobel was. He actually felt close to her, felt not only the physical attraction, but an emotional one. It was like falling in love all over again with a new woman, and yet, it wasn't. Deep down, he knew he still loved Vivian. Truthfully, he loved both women, both in a different way. Her cooed response brought him back into the present.

“So impatient, Marcus,” she mock scolded, her voice a soft, sultry purr. “What am I going to do with you?” Oh, he could give her a nice list of things...but he held his tongue and kept watching her, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. So, he watched her sprawl out on top of his desk, flaunting all of her curves, showing him what he was missing out on. Mark slowly unbuttoned the front of his suit jacket and let it slide off of his arms, falling down on to the chair behind him. If he had had his way, he would have torn it off hurriedly...but that would be giving in. There was nothing worse in Marcus's mind than showing weakness- even the smallest of weaknesses was still a weakness. No, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of driving him mad with want. Not yet, at least. A man could only restrain himself for so long in the presence of a woman like Isobel. Still wearing his waistcoat, he continued to watch Isobel, fighting to restrain himself as he planned carefully what he planned to do when the robe came off. Not that their ideas were unalike.

"You have a face that could launch a thousand ships," he purred, elegantly using the old Greek quote describing the beauty Helen of Troy. "No one's beauty compares to yours..." Marcus kept his voice low and sensual as he mentally undressed the beauty before him. Just as he mentally unhooked her bra, he felt himself begin to snap. With his fuse already burnt short from the incident that morning, he absolutely craved sex at that point. Mark placed a hand on top of the piece of fabric tied around her waist, holding the dark blue robe shut, the only thing that stood between him and getting a glimpse at her bare flesh beneath. He hooked a finger under it and slowly tugged, attempting to untie it. "Why must you always be such a tease, my love?" he muttered playfully as he slowly leaned down again over her, placing his face close to hers again. Gently and in a painfully slow manner, he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss upon her lips. It lasted for only a few seconds before he pulled away and smirked, the mischief returning to the grin. "But, I can tease you too," he added.