Famous; Roman Roy

introduction

"So how long have you known the bride? And have you met fuckface, the groom?" The man had asked, his hands sitting on his hips, suit jacket unbuttoned. His hair looked like it had been caked with some sort of gel, and she didn't really have the nerve to tell him otherwise "Don't be a pussy, it's such an easy question. It's get to know you type shit."

She cleared her throat "I knew Marguerite when she worked for Vogue. I sometimes send her pieces, depending on if she wants a stylist or not."

He raises an eyebrow "You dress people, for fucking money? I forgot that was a thing" he then squints a little "Where do you live? Brooklyn?"

"Manhattan and Encino" Carson corrects wincing a little. She was wearing $3000 shoes, they didn't look cheap and he shouldn't think that they were.

"And Encino?" He mocks, snickering a little "Of course you're on the fucking west coast."

He was annoying her. Really.

Marguerite Garnier had chosen to marry into one of the worst families in America. I mean, seriously, the Roy family? She was a Garnier. She could've bagged a god damn Kennedy if she wanted to. But instead, she had pined after the sad sack that was Kendall Roy.

Then again, maybe that was her type. Carson Archer was not close to the former Vogue editor at all, they had used to be interns together at Vogue, and then Carson had been fired and Marguerite had been promoted.

They didn't speak much, except through assistants when they'd ask one another for favors. Either for tickets to shows, or for certain pieces, fashion was the only thing that made them talk.

And now, Carson was sure that she had been drunkenly invited to this wedding, seeing as Roman Roy was now stuck in her face, practically interrogating her about her upbringing.

"If you ever want a less ill fitting suit, I'd be happy to set you up with something less disgustingly void" she commented, shooting a look at his partially pinstriped suit "Pinstripes are for Wall Street. Not weddings. Unless you're a gangster."

"Please" he says rolling his eyes "You're like a fucking con artist, do you wake up and call Mar-Can-You-Fuck-Me and tell her what the ghosts in her closet want her to wear? Or do you just predict what color underwear Kendall wants?"

She purses her lips "Confidential"

"Seriously?" He raises an eyebrow and shifts his legs slightly, squinting at her "Is that seriously what you do?"

"I dress people who are either important or, think they are."

"What am I?"

Carson shrugs her shoulders "Well, that depends on how much you're trying to pay me."

"So, essentially a scam? I could pay my assistant ten dollars more and she could do your job."

"How many CFDA's or IDA's have you won?"

"The fuck is that?"

She narrows her eyes "You live in New York, how do you not know what the CFDA's are?"

"Uh, probably because I have a real job. But I'm curious, go on. Tell me about the candy land awards."

"The Council of Fashion Designers of America, I've won stylist of the year twice. I've been nominated several times."

"Congratu-fucking-lations! Did you put that on your little resu-"

"It's a very legitimate career" she snaps at him "And you know, your brother uses one."

Roman rolls his eyes "Of course Kendall does. He couldn't tie his own shoes if he wanted to. In fact, I am sure he gets turns on every time Mar-Can-You, Marguerite bends over to do it."

"She doesn't really, does she?" Carson is unsure of what to believe, having heard so many rumors about the pair over the course of the evening and wedding ceremony "Does she?"

"You think I stay around that long?" Roman asks "Ew. No. Never."

"They never have you over for dinner?" She jokes, taking a sip of her glass of champagne

"Even if they invited me, I'd say no. I don't want to know what their place looks like." He then clears his throat, looking her over a little bit, a grin striding up his face "So, I'm curious. How much would you charge me?"

"For a single event and if you're borrowing from my selections, $10,000. If you're sending me to buy pieces, then you set a budget for me."

"I set the budget?" He narrows his eyes and whistles a little "Is this really that bad?"

"For a wedding, yes."

"Geez. Sorry" he rolls his eyes "My girlfriend doesn't set my clothes out on my bed, and well I don't have a girlfriend."

"I wonder why."

"Hey" he snaps "You don't have permission to make that kind of joke."

"Really? Why?"

"What's your name again?"

"Carson Archer."

He pulls out his phone, not giving her a second glance and scrolling through his phone before handing it to her, opening a contact for her to type her information into "I'll have er, someone will contact you. Okay? Is that cool?"

"Are you trying to hire me?"

"What? I have money. Loads of fucking money to spend. Might as well try out the entire Candy Kingdom."

"Candy Kingdom?"

"All of you little fashion fuckups" he waves a finger at her, tracing a circle "You're like taffy, I could chew you up and probably stick you behind my ear. Finish later. Make you wait for it."

Carson squints "Are you trying to hit on me?"

He shrugs "I don't know. I'm just trying to hire a stylist , have to one up Kendall, the Prince of Fuckdip."

"Has anyone told you that you're disgusting?"

"All the time. In fact, I'm sure if you asked-"

"Be quiet." She hands him his phone and then continues "Call me when you have a check waiting."

"What? No special deliveries?"

"If you're good" and with that, she stalked off, preferably to offer some sort of congratulations to the bride and groom. Not bothering to look back once.

He was hot.

A douche.

But hot.

And she wasn't going one to turn away the opportunity for money, or sex for one thing. Even if it was at a wedding.