Code and Glitter: Polish and Fire |DNF|

Chapter 1: Courtesy of the Press

The hotel suite smelled faintly of hairspray and perfume, the kind that clung to fabrics and made every breath feel expensive. Someone had cracked open the balcony door to let in early evening air, but all it did was let the city hum inside. It was a clean, polished noise, the kind that belonged to days like this.

George sat in one of the vanity chairs, back straight without needing to be told. He had done this more times than he could remember. Camera-ready posture was muscle memory by now. A makeup artist leaned in close, tapping a tiny brush against George's cheek, not that there was much to alter. A whisper of concealer under the eyes, a little color on the mouth so he looked present and well-rested, then light pomade threaded through dark hair to make it fall just so.

"That's enough, Lex," his mother said, accent sharp, watching the process through her reflection. She wasn't even being harsh. It was simply how she spoke about aesthetics: nothing more, nothing less than precision. George was naturally photogenic. There was no need to sculpt what already worked.

His mother, on the other hand, required more attention tonight, not because she needed it, but because she demanded perfection. Catherine Davidson was the kind of woman people described as effortlessly elegant, though anyone who had ever worked with her knew there was nothing effortless about it. Every angle was strategy, every choice had a purpose. Her hair was being smoothed into soft curls, her lips touched with a color that matched the crimson on her nails. Her phone rested in her hand, the screen bright with a gossip headline half-concealed by her perfectly ringed fingers.

She let out a short laugh, the kind that didn't disturb her lipstick.

"Oh dear. Look at this," she said, angling the screen toward George without taking her eyes off her reflection. "The Taken kids are at it again."

George glanced, mostly for politeness. He was used to these updates. The Taken family and the Davidsons lived in the same world, orbiting the same events, the same galas, the same whispered rooms where everyone made small talk with their teeth showing. They were not friends, nor enemies, but they were aware of each other. Everyone in their tier was.

"What now," George asked, leaning forward for the comb to pass through his hair one last time.

"A charity pop-up," she said, scrolling. "Casual, but not that casual. And look at him. They let him attend in baggy denim and a t-shirt. No tailoring, no styling, no attempt to polish anything. It's sloppy." She shook her head with theatrical disbelief. "His mother must be blind."

George suppressed a smile, because it was always entertaining when she slipped into commentary mode. "Which one?" he asked, even though he already knew.

"Clay, obviously. Well, Dream, as he insists on being called these days." She waved her hand. "I don't care what alias he goes by. His mother should know better. They all should. They have no sense of presentation."

George hummed lightly. He did not know Clay personally, only as a figure in the background of events, another name on the social feeds, another rich kid with an audience. Their families' mutual awareness had always been observational, never relational. But even from afar, he knew his mother wasn't exaggerating. Clay Taken dressed as if cameras didn't exist.

"I don't understand it," Catherine continued, tapping once on the phone before locking it. "You are always being watched. The least you can do is look like you understand that. Image is all you have before anyone hears you speak. If you abandon that, you abandon control."

George nodded because he always did. It was not obedience, not really. It was simply the truth of how he'd been raised. He modeled for her campaigns, walked runways during summer shows, and had learned how to give off warmth without ever sweating under stage lights. His image was curated, but it was also him.