The Cinderella Agreement (Completed) [Featured Story]

26: The Fallout (2)

¡Not edited!

Paris' house looked a little different at night—a good kind of different. More regal, more elegant, more brooding. The water in the fountain glittered under the moonlight and for a small, masochistic moment Mit considered dunking her head into it.

"I didn't peg you for the smoking type," Paris said as they walked into a room positioned by the house foyer. Mit wasn't very sure of which noun to properly quantify the space, but judging by the large vanity pushed against the wall, the bright lighting, and the superficial paintings hung on the wall, it seemed to be some sort of beauty slash recreational room.

"Excuse me?"

Paris gave her a knowing smirk, picking up a mascara tube and twirling it around in her hands. "Don't worry. I'm not going to judge you or anything. A lot of people...get a little loose before parties."

"Um, okay," Mit replied dubiously, not in the mood to explain to Paris that her reddened eyes and general demeanor were of a consequence of sadness and not drug use. But still, it couldn't be that hard to tell the two things apart. They weren't all that similar. Anyone with active perception would be able to detect that. Mit briefly wondered if Paris herself was just a little bit high.

She sunk into the chair before the vanity when Paris' hands pressed down on her shoulders as a signal to sit.

"I like your top," Paris spoke, rather surprisingly, whilst squirting a liberal amount of foundation primer into her palm. "It's so pretty."

"Thank you," said Mit, although it sounded more like, "Thfank fyou," since her cheeks smushed towards her mouth as the other girl slathered on the product to her face. She thought she should probably say something nice back, so she reciprocated, "I like your outfit."

"I like it too." Paris laughed, almost taking out Mit's eye with the eyeliner wand held in her wobbly hand. Mit stayed as still as possible, fixing her stare on the closest painting—which vaguely resembled a three headed frog with the hair of the forty-fifth president of America in all honesty—save for the moments she had to close them or slit them a certain way.

A maid opened the door and timidly walked towards Paris, before whispering something into her ear. The brush in her hand immediately stopped its movement across Mit's left cheekbone, as did the whirring cogs in Paris' mind. "She's here?" Paris inquired doubtfully. "I told her I'd meet her there."

"I don't know, Miss," the help said, already stepping backwards. "She's waiting in the next room."

With a groan, Paris dropped her fan brush, muttering a small apology before trailing after the maid.