Velvet Lies
1102 Words
Velvet Lies
His shirt’s on the floor by the easel.
My lipstick’s smeared.
My bra is nowhere to be found.
Lucien leans back against the wall of my studio, chest bare, hair a mess, still flushed from everything we just did. I’m pacing by the racks of fabric and finished pieces, not even pretending to hide the way I’m dragging this out. The power shift is delicious.
He’s always the one smirking, teasing, hovering close like a storm.
Not today.
Today, I’ve got the storm leashed.
“You really like torturing me, huh?” he mutters, his voice still a little hoarse.
I smile slowly. “I’m just doing what you do.”
He watches me stalk the room like I own it — because in here, I do. My studio is the only place I’ve ever felt fully alive since my world fell apart. It’s twenty minutes away from the Harrington estate, tucked in a converted warehouse that I made my own: one side all mirrors, racks of clothes, a glowing vanity from my mother… the other side with my canvases, dried paints, jars of herbs, old joints, incense, sketches. It smells like lavender, s*x, and ambition.
I pluck a hanger from the rack — the black dress.
I made it months ago. Clean, lethal, backless. It hugs every curve like it was sewn onto my skin.
“I want to see it,” he says.
I c**k my head, lips parted. “Scared you’ll lose your mind again?”
“I already did,” Lucien mutters, standing up and walking toward me. “But that’s not the one you should wear tonight.”
I pause. “No?”
He looks me dead in the eye, stepping into my space. “Wear the red one. The one you made and never wore. The one I know you’re saving.”
I study him, slow and still. “Why?”
His fingers graze my hip, then trail the air like he’s already imagining me in it. “Because you were made for fire. And you know what red does to me.”
I smirk. “And what if I want you to suffer?”
He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Then make me suffer, kitten.”
The game shifts. I disappear behind a panel, slipping out of my robe and into the dress. Red. Liquid satin. The slit is high. The neckline low. The back? A scandal.
When I step out, I don’t say a word.
I just walk slow to the full-length mirror and stop.
Lucien inhales behind me.
I feel his eyes before I feel his hands.
They trace the air near my waist, like he wants to touch but knows better. “Cut the slit higher,” he says, “just a little. Take in the waist right here. Show them it’s yours — that you’re not wearing the dress. It’s wearing you.”
I lock eyes with him in the mirror and tilt my head. Slowly, like a challenge. “I’m wearing it to taunt you, Lucien. Just like you taunt me. How’s it feel?”
His jaw tics.
I smile, lazy, dominant. “Hmm. I thought so.”
The tension crackles like thunder before a summer storm.
And then—both of our phones buzz.
Mine first.
Lena: Black velvet or gold corset? I need your eyes. I’m on my way to the studio. We’re getting ready together, bring wine, prepare to hype me tf up
I go still.
Lucien’s buzzes next.
Lena: Wear a suit. A real one. Don’t embarrass me. And don’t do that thing with your hair — you know the one. Be hot. Behave.
“s**t,” I murmur, turning toward him. “She’s coming.”
He doesn’t move. Just watches me with that unreadable look.
“She’s coming, Lucien. What if she—”
“I’ll be gone before her heels hit the stairs.”
I fix him with a stare. “She’s not stupid.”
He smirks. “No. But she is in denial.”
My heart thuds. Because he’s right.
Still, I reach toward the rack and pull something down — a velvet corset and sleek black pants. One of my signature pieces. Lena’s been begging to borrow it for months.
I lay it out, smoothing the fabric. “She’s been dying to wear this,” I say quietly. “So let her. Let her have something she wants.”
Lucien watches me.
Then the door buzzes.
“She’s early,” I hiss. “Get in the back. Now.”
He’s gone in a blink — slipping like a ghost through the curtain that leads to my paint-and-canvas side.
I open the door.
Lena steps in like a glitter bomb, holding a bottle of rosé, oversized sunglasses on her nose. “Ugh, this city is a sweaty liar,” she groans. “Why is it so hot?”
I raise a brow. “Maybe you should wear less.”
She grins. “Maybe I should. You already look like you’re about to seduce the entire guest list.”
Then her smile falters.
She sniffs the air. Looks around the space like something’s off.
Her eyes flick toward the mirror. “Wait… were you… is someone here?”
I blink.
She narrows her eyes. “You weren’t with Theo last night… were you?”
I say nothing.
She walks toward the rack and gasps. “Is this what I think it is?”
I nod.
“You’re giving me your velvet corset?!” She clutches it to her chest. “Am I dying?! Is this guilt?! What aren’t you telling me!?”
I fake a laugh, but inside my stomach’s doing flips.
And then she says it.
“Also… how’s Lucien already at the studio?”
My heart stops.
I blink again. “What?”
“He texted me. Said he’s working on his look. Said he’d already seen what you’re wearing…” Her brows shoot up. “Did you send him a pic?”
“No,” I say, too fast.
Lena’s staring at me now. The dots are connecting — but she won’t let them.
She doesn’t want to.
I shove the dress back on the hanger. “Help me with your hair, would you?”
She exhales. “Yeah, okay. But I am coming back to that comment.”
As I fake focus, I feel Lucien’s presence still lurking just behind the curtain. Silent. Waiting.
And I know the night’s going to be hell.
Because if Lena’s glitter is cracking…
We might not make it through what’s coming.
- Writer
