𝐯𝐢𝐢.
𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐠𝐲𝐩𝐭
─── ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ───

I can't get Elara Stewart out of my head.

It's fucking annoying.

Not to say that Elara herself is annoying. No, not at all. She's quite the opposite.

She's invigorating.

Electrifying, thrilling, so unlike any of the women I've had the utmost pleasure of meeting since my rise to fame. So much so that the thought of her has consumed me completely.

That, and the fact that she genuinely knows little to nothing about me.

Most want one of two things: an autograph, or sex. Elara on the other hand? Passed every test.

If I'm being honest, a woman has never intrigued me like this since my high school years. Though I didn't start to feel this way until she wrapped those dainty little fingers of hers around mine, and pulled me to the dance floor.

But she wasn't all over me. Didn't take advantage. We kind of just... melded perfectly together. As if we were two corresponding parts, meant solely for each other, and fit no one else.

I respect her for understanding my 'business' boundary.

But after feeling her body flush with mine, how her hands traced up my neck and buried themselves into my hair—which I usually let no one touch, period—I'm beginning to regret what I said.

I want to erase that 'business' bullshit from her head entirely. As well as that unmalleable mask she holds effortlessly over that exquisite countenance of hers. A mask that'd interested me since the second I saw that photo.

I should probably explain myself...

I knew who she was before we'd met.

When Mel started bringing that serpent of a man to my recording sessions, around my house, and at private clubs and after parties, I did a little digging.

He always acted secretive. Like he was supposed to be anywhere but with her, which was the only excuse I needed. Especially if he was going to be lurking around at every turn.

Knowing Mel, she loves that kind of thing. Strives for the thrill of what you can call a risqué romance. Even if she'd have to be a home-wrecker to achieve that goal. She enjoys it.

So, I immediately deemed it necessary to look into him once I suspected something was up.

One minuscule internet search was all it took to confirm what I thought to be true. Little skater-boy Ryan Patel had a girlfriend.

Not just any girlfriend, but Elara, who I'm now in yet another fake relationship with. Who I'm also sure most likely knows about her ex's infidelity.

Whether it was kismet or pure coincidence, she ended up being one of my top choices for my music videos before we'd even met. Her manager had already reached out to me about it. To give her a chance for growth, to create a stronger 'bad girl' aura needed for D.D. Who'd be better than me, right?

However, just from looking at her portfolio, I knew she wouldn't need much more direction, just a big name to give her a push. Not to mention her stunning features. I didn't choose her because of this though.

As someone who knows what it's like to hide behind a false version of myself, it's easy to discern one of my kind.

Initially, her apathetic expression steered me away from thinking anything of it. Until those eyes met mine. Behind the graceful unbothered look that suited her so well, was one laced with eerily bewitching, refined despondence. Beautifully broken. So deeply flawed, misunderstood, taken advantage of; underestimated.

The more I surveyed that photo, the more I saw a piece of myself within her. It called out to me. She called out to me.

I had to see that mask for myself in person. Up close; as close as she'd let me.

But when we met she wasn't that sad girl in that headshot. She was more than that. Human.

Not something to be examined for my enjoyment. Not some sort of sick, trauma-bonding experiment, which I thought would be validated once I met her.

She deserved so much more than that.

A knock sounds through the trailer, causing me to jump. The image of the perfectly painted blonde model vanishes completely.

Shit. I'd gotten so lost in my thoughts that I forgot where I was; and what I'm supposed to be doing.

Who I'm supposed to be meeting.

"Coming," I run a hand through my hair, unhappy with how it was styled half an hour ago, but it'll have to do. My hair is the least of my worries right now.

I open the door to find Tarri, the director of the music video as well as an old friend. She's directed several of my music videos in the past and is extremely gifted.

For how incredibly young she looks, you wouldn't expect her to be in her mid-thirties with two kids. Dressed in slacks and an evergreen v-cut blouse, she smiles radiantly and tucks her clipboard under her arm. Presumably finished with rounds, then.

After an hour or two of bouncing between departments—costume, hair, and make-up—I'd come to my trailer to intentionally keep myself away from Elara. With so many people around, if I fuck up and say the wrong thing...

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Her gaze flicks to my hair, to the inside of my trailer, then back to me. I return her smile effortlessly.

"No, not at all. What's up Tarri?"

Though her expression says she doesn't believe me, Tarri (thankfully) drops the possible Elara subject.

"You're needed back at wardrobe for another fitting." She raises a dark, thinly plucked brow, and steps aside as soon as I reach for the door handle behind me.

"Cool. I'll head over, then."

"Perfect. I'll let them know." A manicured hand reaches for her walkie walkie-talkie-clipped casually at her side. She lets me pass, and as I start my venture toward my destination I hear her call out to whoever it may concern that I'm headed back for refitting.

I can't help but let my mind wander as I walk for the umpteenth time today. I've been all over the place. This usually doesn't happen.

Normally, to suppress reoccurring thoughts or images that give me severe anxiety if I think too much about something, I turn to drugs.

I'd pop a few Xanax, or a benzo or two, and chill the fuck out. And if that didn't work? I'd start to mix shit I definitely shouldn't mix.

But since I'm giving this whole sobriety thing an actual shot, I can't. Won't.

When I say sober, I mean sober off of the more... serious shit.

Pills, coke, molly, oxy, the list is never-ending. I've only been allowing myself a few drinks per day if any at all, and marijuana whenever I'm in situations like this. Thank fuck weed is legal in California.

I finish smoking half of a joint when I finally reach wardrobe five minutes later, feeling much less anxious than I did a moment ago. To most, smoking like this would instantly get someone high as a kite, especially the strain that I usually get. But weed is like nicotine to me. Just more potent and with longer-lasting effects than a cigarette can give. My tolerance is unbearably high right now. Need to lay off for a week or two.

My stomach drops when I open the door.

There, lounging with her legs elegantly crossed in a folding canvas chair surveying her makeup, is the woman I can't seem to escape. A woman I won't be able to escape for a long, long time. A year if I'm lucky. Maybe less.

Even if this doesn't work out, we have a falling out a month in, or we call whatever this is off entirely, I won't hear the end of it from tabloids and news outlets for at least two months. Until another celebrity couple succumbs to scandal. Then a year or two will pass, and we'll somehow be brought up again in posts made by fans that'll go viral. Then the media will catch wind, make up a fairly believable story, and we'll both be back in the forefront of everyone's gossip-obsessed minds, clinging from one drama to the next in hopes of a distraction from their actual lives.

"Well, if it isn't the hottest man in existence," Exclaims Adam, one of the most renowned clothing designers in the industry right now. He's smiling ear to ear, showing off his impeccable teeth and faint dimples that indent his cheeks.

"Handsomest, sexiest, most irresistibly delectable man—," I say as he walks forward. He takes me under his arm with a short laugh.

"No need to tell us what we already know." He motions to Elara who's still hyper-focused on touching up her lipstick.

"I know, I just like hearing it." At this, Adam rolls his eyes and pushes away from my side. Elara turns in her seat and eyes me carefully as if debating how to greet me.

As an acquaintance? Or something more.

She raises to her feet, movements graceful and fluid. With a subtle sway of her hips, she steps away from the chair with seemingly choreographed precision. All the while those eyes stay locked onto mine.

Dressed in a white satin gown that's almost delicately sheer, lace bordering the bottom seam and at the top, it clings to her in all the right places. I can't help myself, gawking respectfully at her figure in that dress. Holy shit is she gorgeous.

I saw her earlier today during a brief meeting before we all dispersed and fulfilled other tasks needed from us, but she wasn't wearing this. It's for the video, then.

Deep down I wish it wasn't, because I don't think I'll be able to stand anywhere near her if that's what she'll be wearing. Particularly if it's for the scene I'm thinking of. If so, I'm screwed. The fuck was I thinking saying that business remark anyway?

Her hair is gelled back, giving it a natural wet look, and her makeup is barely noticeable. I bet if I was close enough I'd be able to see freckles. I wonder if she even has any.

Just as I'm about to speak she lifts her arms and twirls on her feet, giving me a full three-sixty view of her impossibly short dress. Through lazy lids and a stare that practically eviscerates my fucking soul, she says, "What do you think?" In a dangerously seductive tone.

Oh, she's good.

I leave Adam's side and stride over to her, keen on making an impression on not only him but Elara too.

Another two steps left me a foot away from her. I wrap an arm around her waist as one of hers does the same, effectively erasing the spacial barrier that kept us apart. I take a strand of her hair and twine it through my fingers. "I think," Voice a mere whisper, I duck low until my lips are inches away from her ear, "That you're playing a dangerous game, my Darling little Devil."

She shudders, grip tightening on me. When I pull away, face tantalizingly close to mine, a satisfied smile etches itself across my lips.

She does have freckles.

"What?" Elara's airy question only makes my smile widen.

"Nothing," I say, and finally bring myself to withdraw from her clutches before I'm rendered unable to do so. Especially when she looks at me like that. Like I'm edible.

Which, in her defense, she may be doing without realizing. I know I'm attractive. My appearance tends to have that effect on a lot of people. Men and women, so I'm used to it. Just not from her. She isn't like the rest of them.

Thankfully, Adam had made himself busy while Elara and I shared our—moment, and spoke just in time. "So, I managed to find that outfit we misplaced earlier for you to try on. Must've gotten lost in transit. Apologies, again." He says as he makes his way back to us from the opposite side of the trailer. How or when he got over there? I have no idea.

"All good."

I take the hanger from him, where an off-white, cream color shirt hangs inside along with brown vintage pleated slacks. With my hair styled as it is now, I'll doubtably look like I just stepped out of the sixties.

When I step into the dressing room and close the curtain (it's pretty much a glorified closet with the door taken off), Adam asks a question I hadn't expected. "So, how did you two lovebirds meet?"

My chest tightens. There's a brief pause. Elara's probably scrambling for a response to that just like I
am. Might as well be somewhat honest.

As I pull on the slacks, I say, "At a club."

"Love a good club romance. Usually how I meet all of my boyfriends." Adam jokes. Elara's nervous giggle flits through the curtain.

"Wish I could say the same. For meeting all of my boyfriends that way, I mean. It's—it's an otherworldly experience isn't it?"

"Tell me about it. The mystery, the rush, the excitement of meeting a total stranger and taking them home. Then you're completely infatuated with each other, it's a whirlwind for sure. As you know." Another nervous laugh from Elara. She can't keep this up for long.

I curse under my breath while flinging each arm through the button-up shirt, and exit without bothering to fasten it together.

When Adam sees me, he picks up a pair of brown leather dress shoes. "Put these on, Mr. Crimson." He wiggles his brows, knowing how much we both hate the nickname. It's one of our inside jokes.

As I slip them on, I catch Elara's eye in the mirror. She's sitting in her chair once more, which happens to be directly in front of the changing room I'd just been in.

Greedy eyes linger on the tattooed skin of my chest and skims down every line, every shade of ink permanently etched into my body. She sucks in her bottom lip and—fuck, her eyes go even lower.

Down to my naval where a large cybersigil starts, and continues down to my v-line. Which is half-hidden by the slacks clinging low at my hips. So, with nowhere else to keep her attention, she lifts her gaze to meet my own.

She's very quick to avert my eyes. Embarrassment twinges her face at being caught red-handed. She must not be wearing any foundation, because her cheeks heat to a sensual pink color that I permanently want to memorize.

A smug smile threatens its way to the surface. I push it down, pursing my lips instead as I make my way into the room.

I stop to examine the clothes in the full-length mirror next to Elara's chair. "All I need now is a toothpick and one of those fedoras."

"We could make that happen. Just say the word." Adam bends down to survey the length of the pants. He meticulously adjusts the fabric with a skilled, precise hand. He pins and folds as he sees fit, ensuring a perfect fit.

Too engrossed in trying to tame my slicked hair, I don't notice Elara leaving her seat to grab a cowboy hat from the rack near the dressing room until she puts it on my head.

My head snaps her way. Grinning slyly, she crosses her arms, looking over the entirety of my face. "I like the old-school vibe."

I subtly lift a brow. "Old-school?"

"Yes, old-school. Need me to define it for you?"

"Old is in. So no, it's not exactly old-school, and no, you don't have to define it for me." I wave a hand in front of me, referring to my clothing.

"Hm. Sounds like something an old-schooler would say." She smirks before walking away, back into the second changing room next to the one I left my clothes in.

"Coming from someone dressed like Carrie." She turns her upper body to look at me, keeping her feet firm to the ground.

"Carrie, like from the old-school Carrie movie?"

I hum in acknowledgment and give a nod. "You got me there, but yes."

She pivots to face me fully. "First of all, her dress was much longer than this one. Second, Sissy Spacek rocked that dress. Pig blood and all."

"Preach." Adam hums, clearly impressed by her name-drop, still crouched, piercing a pin into the material of the pants.

"When did I say she didn't rock it?" The suggestiveness in my tone makes her expression lighten.

The corner of her mouth lifts, one of the sweeter smiles I've seen from her since we met. Then she disappears behind the dressing room curtain, leaving me to stare long after she entered it.

After another ten-ish minutes of being prodded, accidentally poked by needles, and told to turn this way and that, I'm finally back in my original clothes, and finally alone with Elara.

I insisted on walking her to her car. Mostly everyone's gone now, but you can never be too careful. Especially on set.

"I was thinking," Elara starts after a minute of listening to each others footfalls on the pavement, "We need to get some sort of story in place. So when people ask questions like..."

"Adam."

She smiles. "Right. So when people ask questions like Adam, we'll have identical answers." I look down at her. Her hair is still slicked, pushed behind her bare shoulders, and cascades down her back to the bottom of her shoulder blades like a molten balayage waterfall.

Although I like her crop top and denim shorts, I like the dress much better. Better yet, the slip-on 'dress' she had on at the club. A subject I could rant fervently about for hours on end.

"I agree." Only because I want to spend as much time as I possibly can with you.

"Let's discuss over dinner. Preferably before we start shooting. How does tomorrow night sound?" An air of indifference settles over her.

"I'm not sure. I'll have to check my calendar, I'm pretty sure I'm booked out until August..." My smirk falters. She catches it and lightly pushes her side into my arm. "I'm kidding. I'll be free."

"Perfect. A date, then."

She tilts her head and furrows her brows. "A date?"

"A date for them, a meeting for us." At this, her features relax.

"Oh, okay. Much better." Mischief laces her tone and I frown at her.

"Would a date with me be so bad?"

Elara shrugs. "Depends. Are you going to wear a fedora?"

"Do you want me to?" At seeing my smirk, she flicks her eyes to trace the action before redirecting them forward.

"If you wear one I'll immediately pretend like I have no idea who you are and walk out." Her comment makes me laugh.

"Come on. They're not that bad."

She grimaces.

"We left them in the past for a reason. Pretty sure they'll never be back 'in'. The day they ever do, I give you full permission to rub it in my face," She rounds on me then, jabbing a finger through the space between us. "Which will be never because they're downright hideous."

"I'm sure your opinion of them will change once you see me wearing one." She rolls her eyes, but I pick up on the growing smile on her face before she turns her head away again.

"I'm your dreams, Derek."

Another spell of silence casts itself over us. A quiet, enjoyable calm that I would've happily kept. Elara is the first to break it as we near the parking complex.

"Is your last name actually Crimson?"

I swivel to stare at her, unsure if she's being serious until I see the genuine curiosity in her hazel eyes.

Though the more I gaze into them, the more green they seem to be. Not a light summery green, but a dark, pine-forest green—like deep pools of mystery reflecting the secrets of the universe. A green I find myself irresistibly drawn to, eyes I still want to decipher.

"No. It's not," Time seems to slow as I find myself suddenly lost in the depth of her gaze, utterly captivated. So soulful, filled with actual, almost tangible intrigue, so unlike the eyes I'd originally seen.

I realize I've just been staring at her this entire time like an idiot and clear my throat. Amusement shows on her face as she looks at me, waiting patiently for a response. "It's Rossi. Which means red, or red-haired in Italian. I thought Crimson sounded better, and it stuck once my career took off."

To my surprise, Elara smiles warmly. "I think Rossi suits you." Despite her sincerity, I can't help but think otherwise.

Accepting the last name on my birth certificate after adopting Crimson as an alias has been a struggle of mine for years.

When I think of Derek Rossi, I think of a normal teenage boy living at home with his mother. He had an average life, a decent group of friends, and was unknown to the entirety of the world.

He partied sometimes, but never twice in one week. Always came home before curfew and attempted to cook for his mom when she worked late hours. His culinary skills were awful but she appreciated the effort.

He didn't make it past high school.

Didn't get to graduate, go to prom, or attend his hometown's final homecoming football game.

Derek Rossi is dead.

"You don't think so?" I tune back into the present to find that we've stopped at the front entrance of the building.

She's studying me carefully, scanning me with a keen intensity that borders on scrutiny. As if I'm an open book waiting to be unraveled. Something is telling about that gaze, and I feel the urge to be truthful, afraid she'll see right through a lie. She probably can.

"I've been Derek Crimson for a long time, Elara."

"How long?" She breathes out.

I sigh as I scan my memory. "Almost a decade now." Almost half of my entire life.

"Shit. How old were you when it all started?"

"Seventeen."

She doesn't look at me with pity but with... a strange understanding. Her eyes start to water as she stares back at me. Concern bubbles inside my gut as that familiar sadness completely consumes her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Derek." Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to reach out to her and give her a hug slams through me. Since when do I want to hug someone?

"You don't have to apologize. It's been a ride, for sure. Don't get me wrong I'm incredibly grateful for the life I have, the life that strangers around the world have given me. Sometimes I just wish I could've lived a normal life." I hesitate, thinking over what I just said, shaking my head. "Was that a selfish thing to say?"

She shakes her own, keeping her gaze latched to mine. "No. Not selfish at all."

Something in her silent communication as she stares up at me tells me she too understands. "I know what it's like to feel that way." Her eyes seem to say. My heart breaks for her.

For both of us.

"Come on," I say, ushering her through the front door.

She doesn't protest. Neither of us says anything. We walk to the elevator in silence, take it up to the top level, and find her car without a word.

I make sure she gets to her car. Open her door for her, and watch as she enters. "Let me know what time that dinner will be." She says, legs still outside of the car.

I nod. "Of course. Drive safe." I state.

"I will." She smiles, but not happily. Sadness still stains the green within her eyes.

As I watch her peel away from her parking spot, I sigh.

I need a fucking blunt.

─── ⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆ ───

a/n

bit on the longer side since i took a while to update, 4k words :,)

i HATE writers block w a PASSION. like omlll
this chapter took me so long to write. mainly bc i
had no idea where to startttt so idk how to feel abt this one.

let me know what you think <3