House Rules

Reign

The elevator ride was so long, Lola had almost talked herself out of it before she reached the top floor.

Because of course Stéphane Narcisse lived in the penthouse.

The inside of the elevator was all mirrors. It didn't help Lola's nerves to see her anxious expression everywhere she looked. She was beginning to second-guess her wardrobe choices as well—a pink dress that, at first glance, looked quite modest with its cap sleeves and round neckline and skirt that fell past her knees. Unless of course, you looked again and saw that the fabric was thin and slightly sheer and clung to her in all the right places.

He would like the dress, she knew that. But did she want him to like the dress—and, by extension, her—in that way?

It was Kenna who had first showed her the sex blog—Poppy's Sex Journal—which documented an anonymous woman's sexual exploits in the wealthy social scene of the city.

Lola had thought it was all fictional, until she recognized one of the men Poppy had written about. She never named them, but how many others had a butterfly tattoo on their left wrist?

And when Lola had confided in Kenna that Poppy's 'best fuck of 2022' was a man with whom her father sometimes did business, Kenna had said that it was fate: "You have to do him."

And thus the dance had begun.

After a few 'chance encounters,' and Stéphane's expressed interest, and Lola almost dying of embarrassment after she got drunk in front of him, here she was, wearing a nothing dress in an elevator to his penthouse.

It was fine.

The doors finally slid open, and Lola stepped into a large foyer with dark wood flooring and green patterned walls. It gave the impression of a deep dense forest.

Footsteps approached, and there was Stéphane, tall and slender and smiling. It was a warm smile, but under it lurked the part of him that simultaneously frightened and fascinated Lola. She had only seen hints of it, but if Poppy's Sex Journal was accurate, it was certainly there.

"Lola!" he said, embracing her briefly. "Welcome to my home."

"Thank you for inviting me," Lola said.

"Of course." He pulled back to look at her properly. "My, don't you look—" He paused, letting his eyes roam before raising them to hers again. "—utterly ravishing."

She flushed. "Not what I would normally wear, but I—" She didn't want to say that she wore it because she thought he would like it. She couldn't be too honest, too easy. "I thought it time for something different."

"Well, if this is the direction your wardrobe is taking," he said, offering her his arm. "I certainly won't be complaining. Come, I'll give you a tour."

Stéphane's penthouse was not exactly extravagant—though Lola thought the floor-to-ceiling fish tank in the bathroom was a bit much—but it did speak of a man who was exorbitantly wealthy and was not afraid to show it.

And yet, he knew the names of every artist whose works he had on his walls and displayed on shelves. "Marisela, I met her at a speakeasy three years ago," he'd say, or "If you want to see his current masterpiece, it graces the outside of city hall, much to their dismay."

Lola was beginning to realize that there was a lot more to him than his particular tastes, as described by Poppy.

They had circled back to the kitchen. "Have you had lunch?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I– I hope you didn't..."

"No, that's good," he said. "I have something in the oven for dinner, but that'll be a bit yet."