Speeding down the busy Parisian streets, Caitriona moved through the tightly packed vehicular bodies like smoke. Whipping in and out as the engine roared between her legs. She loved the exhilarating rush of riding a motorcycle and took any available chance to turn her wheels to the motorways where she could really push for speed and fly.

More than a few horns blared or the occasional French curse shot out behind her but Caitriona was having too much fun to care. Added to that, she was a touch past what would be considered fashionably late considering she whom she was meeting with for dinner and drinks.

Friday night traffic was thick, both inbound and outbound, as people came into the city for the night or the weekend and local Parisians headed out of town in droves.

Taking a sharp corner down a sliver thin side street, her foot touching down to anchor her turn, Caitriona it closed the final stretch and slowed her speed to enter the underground parking facility.

The valet gave a shake of his head as she rolled past, his eyes equally appraising of her Ducati and her legs—bared as high as she could go in a lacquered pair of black shorts and long leather frongs that belted around her exposed waist like a grass skirt. Finding an available spot on the first level, Caitriona steered her bike into place and killed the engine.

The hard, sexy rumble faded into silence as she sat back and lifted off her helmet.

The only downside to wearing one of these was what it did to her short cap of hair which she'd freshly dyed at the salon this morning into a deep sapphire that faded into silver-purple tips. Fingering the strands into a haphazard mohawk, Caitriona slid off the seat and secured her helmet in the top box.

Whisking up in the elevator up to the rooftop patio of the Shangri-La, a gorgeous hotel with all the opulence of Versailles, Caitriona touched up her burnt plum lipstick and gave her tousled coif one last finger comb for the desired messy-chic result.

As the doors parted, Caitriona flounced onto the opened rooftop patio with poised confidence though insider her belly fluttered and her knees weakened with exhilaration and nerves. The gorgeous space densely packed with high fashion society elite. And that sensation shot up her spine and into her head as she approached the table where Evan and Thea sat.

Springing out of his seat, unbuttoning the sapphire velvet blazer, Evan pressed a kiss to her cheek. "You look wonderful. So glad you could join us."

"Sorry I'm late," she said to the entire table as Evan pulled out a chair to his left. Placing her between him and Iona. At the opposite end of the table, Thea sat, flawless in a white sleeveless cashmere vest, closed at the chest and fell to her knees over ripped dark pants. Her dark hair loose in messy waves.

Her eyes danced around the length of the table, her pulse quickening throughout the journey. Iona, the face to launch the Femmenizer campaign along with the head honchos of Vogue magazine whom Caitriona knew all by name.

But it was Karl Yoren, the photographer for the coming shoot, who had her truly speechless.

His photography was tastefully erotic, but always high fashion. Whether shooting celebrities or models, individually or in groups, he somehow kept it serious and playful at the same time. Colorful, confrontational, and full of narrative through facial expressions, billowing dresses, calm seas, or simple studio set-ups.

A master of storytelling.

She sat down, directly from—#fangirlscream—Karl, and accepted a menu from the server, Caitriona settled on an Ahi Tuna salad as everyone else was already tucking in to their entrees.

"And who are you?" Karl asked, elbows set to the table and fingers steepled.

She took a quick, calming breath before answering. "I'm Caitriona Emerson. The stylist for the Femmenizer campaign. And a huge admirer, if I may add" She reached across the table to shake his hand, and he accepted it with a limp grip of thumb and two fingers.

"So tell us what the vision for tomorrow will be?" he asked, bringing a forkful of tender beef to his lips.

"Oh, well, I'm pulling pieces of a monochromatic. Layering tone on tone but breaking the pieces with texture to—"

"Yes, yes, thrilling." David Nast interrupted, the Chairman and the most senior member of Vogue's board of directors.

"I don't do monochromatic," Karl lamented, his gaze pinned to Evan.

"Well I plan to use different cuts and fabric," Caitriona spoke up, "so as to achieve—"

David's doughy palm flashed before her face. "Evan, we'll also need to discuss the trajectory for the subsequent issues. I want each feature to gather in speed and momentum. Are you sure that this...mixture is a good idea?"

"We think the eclectic tonality of faces will speak to a broader public audience," Evan answered, sliding his knife through his Chilean sea bass. Pale white flesh glistened against his fork. "And the models were all hand selected by Cait."

"Hm." David's head bobbed stiffly. "Yes, well, I hope you had a hand in this process, Evan. A million-euro campaign is beyond the scope of an assistant."

Caitriona's jaw unhinged, her mouth spilling open and she had the barest flicker of gratitude that there was nothing in there to tumble out on to her lap. "I'm not his assistant."

A spark of indignation surged and as her body jerked to stand, Evan's hand closed over her knee and squeezed hard. Holding her steady as he laughed the comment aside.

"I've reviewed the numbers," Evan spoke, carrying on as if she'd never uttered a single outraged syllable. "And I support the plan. Thea and I have modified in a few areas, all of which we covered in this afternoon's board meeting."

"Yes, but I'm still concerned about the timeline. It's rather...tight. Tighter than anything else we've done in the past."

The conversation steered around her, over her. All questions lobbed to Evan or Thea, but never—never—directly to her. She might as well have been one of the chandeliers or a chair for all it mattered. And the longer she sat there steeped in it, the more furious she became.

Caitriona stayed as long as was deemed acceptable before escaping the bullsh!t, moments after Iona was whisked away by her manager and agent to rest for tomorrow's shoot. And got as far as the rooftop elevator bank when Evan caught up with her.

"Let me go!" she snapped, jerking her arm out of his grasp.

Slicing in front of her, Evan held up his hands, beads of sweat dotting along his hairline. "Will you hold on a second? What's gotten into you? A table full of board of directors are sitting a dozen feet away and you want to walk out barely a second after dessert is cleared? Do you have any idea how that makes you look?"

"F*ck how I look. And f*ck you, Evan." Pain scored the back of her throat. Bitter and sharp and raw. Tonight's spectacle was a cutting blow she hadn't expected or braced herself for Maybe it was because they'd slept together several times since she'd signed the contract last week that added fragmented layers of disbelief and hurt. The longer he blinked at her like a stunned owl, the more her rage burned away the dense fog of her hurt. "What the actual f*ck was that?"

"Cait, you're over reacting."

"You cock-blocked me."

Evan drew back, genuinely appalled. "I did no such thing."

"Exactly. You did nothing. Just soaked it all up like a f*cking sponge. Assistant? Are you f*cking me?"

"Despite the poor choice of words, as a contractor, you work under me—report to me, those are the facts, Cait. I'm responsible for this campaign. And David is...old school. I'm sorry that upsets you but this is the nature of the business."

"Whatever Sponge Bob," she said, flashing her palm in his face much like how David had done to her at the table. "Save the mansplaining for someone interested in swallowing your bullsh!t." As the elevators pinged open and a throng of young women poured out, Caitriona stepped inside and punched the call button for the lobby, not bothering to meet Evan's face as the doors shut.

Alone, she let out a single, grating scream as she pressed her hands to her face. No, she would not get emotional or weepy. Not for him and not over this crap. Digging around in her clutch for her iPhone, knowing Eshe was already fast asleep well before midnight, she launched as message to Earl.

Where are you? Drinks at Emporium?

Barely a second later, Earl's reply chimed.

Sorry boo, out with Vaughn.

Biting into a seething French curse, Caitriona launched out of the elevator—lost in thought, she narrowly missed colliding with Iona out the side doors leading to a cobbled courtyard most of the hotel guests used for smoking.

"There you are," she laughed, brushing away long strands of sable hair from her face. A lit cigarette between fore and middle finger "I was hoping I'd find you."

"Hey...what are you doing out here?"

"Escaping," Iona mock whispered. "I couldn't stand another boring minute. I'd rather jump off the roof."

Caitriona tried to smirk but her lips fell flat. She was too exasperated for snark, it seemed

"Here, I think you need this more than I do," Iona teased, handing over the freshly lit cigarette.

Accepting it Caitriona inhaled a drag of sweet tobacco. She didn't smoke often but tonight seemed to call for it. Blowing out a plume of smoke, she assessed Iona. Dressed in a scrap of something that was supposed to pass for a dress, Iona was all legs on stilettos and out of her skull stoned but not so far gone as she was out of control.

Clearly she was comfortable being spiked on drugs and riding the waves.

"What did you take?" Caitriona asked before pulling a second drag.

"Couple Molly and coke." Leaning against the wall, Iona rolled her eyes shut and sank her teeth into her bottom lip. "I haven't rolled like this in six years. It's incredible. Paris always has the best sh!t." Reaching between her breasts, Iona pulled out a slender capsule, held it out to Cait on an open palm in offering.

Caitriona eyed the capsule. She'd done plenty of MDMA in her time in Paris. She knew how to roll and where to get the pure stuff that hadn't been laced to stretch a batch or enhance a buzz. Some liked to kick up the dose with speed or cocaine whereas Caitriona preferred a clean high. Like weed.

Picking up the capsule, Caitriona looked it over. "Where'd you get it?"

Iona pursed her lips. "I met a guy over in the eleventh arrondisement last night after I snuck out to party."

Caitriona wracked her memory. There were only so many dealers in the city, and even fewer of them who'd have the connections to get their product into Iona's hands. "Philippe? Or Saint?"

"Saint." Iona's eyes sparked with lust. "He's so handsome, no?"

Yes, Saint was a looker—sinfully so—but also honest. Reliable. Popping the M, she dry-swallowed the capsule. "Don't you think you should be sleeping? We've got a really early start tomorrow," she asked settling next to Iona against the wall.

"Come on—don't tell me you're going to be equally lame. I had seriously high hopes you'd be as fun as you look." Iona stroked a finger across Caitriona's thigh, playing with the long strands of leather fringe.

A vengeful spark of rebellion lit within her belly. She wasn't exactly in the mood to head home and sulk in a corner herself, and if Iona wanted a night out—who was she to say no? "What did you have in mind?"

Gleeful, Iona clapped her hands together and bounced on six inch spikes. "I want sexy. Dirty. Underground."

Drawing out her phone, Caitriona smiled, the first licks of M tingling in her palms. "I know just the place."

**Author's Note**

As for the scene above - have any of you experienced something like this in the workplace? Where you're overlooked and dismissed by someone of greater seniority because, to their opinion, they found you lacking? Either because of lack of education, title, [INSERT discrimination of choice HERE]?

Working in corporate finance, I've had more than my fair share, let me tell you.

PS - the song is from American Horror Story, played at the end of the first episode and ERMIGAWD was it intense. I thought it kind of summed up how Cait was feeling after that awful dinner scene.