Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Eshe | I can't

"You sure?"

Eshe managed a nod. Without further prompting, Cait set her shoulders and set off with a sassy sashay.

Eshe looked up into her own eyes, and saw far too much reflected there. The truth it sucked her into a vacuum of blackness and pain. Into a moment, a brutal moment where the stitches she's sown carefully shut over her hidden vulnerabilities had been plucked open, one by one, and laid bare with a lens for the world to see.

And now here, with that image blown up and on display, it was like the gown she wore melted off her body, stripped away leaving her naked. Exposed as she'd never been before.

Unconsciously, her hand flitted over her thigh, where beneath the dress a secret burned hot with longing as her fingers trace over the thick ridge high up on her left inner thigh.

A sweet spot. A secret...

"Ah. There's the little darling they're all talking about," a female voice clipped behind her. Each word poised as daggers meant to inflict pain. Pain she was otherwise immune to by contrast to what was already storming inside of her. But it was the chill that accompanied the voice—sharp as an arctic wind slicing straight to the bone that had Eshe jolt.

She turned around slowly, and knew who it was even before her eyes made contact.

Not with the woman—a model as well-known as Iona required no introduction, but with the man who escorted her. A man she had gone to every length and conceivable effort never to lay eyes on again.

"Eshe," Charles Eaton was more handsome than she'd thought possible, in a classic Tom Ford and wheat blond hair styled to suit his chiselled good looks. His eyes, even in the warmth of the lighting, were so cold. Always so cold.

Just the weight of his gaze froze Eshe to her marrow. "What are you doing here?"

"We were invited. Or did you think you could take that from me as well?" Iona angled her head with a smirk. Everything about her was long. Long neck, arms, torso and legs. Endless stretches of gorgeous lines that had made her a favourite among photographers around the world. She wore a black dress—eerily similar to Eshe's in style, her hair in a slick bun and emeralds dangling from her ears to contrast her deep red lips.

Venom flashed in her eyes. Not that she could fault her. With Vogue's press release earlier in the week and Eshe's name buzzing on everyone's lips, it was no wonder Iona was livid. Not only did her plan fail against Cait backfire, but now her place at the top of the fashion totem pole was compromised.

No one was happy to have their place in the world usurped.

Charles brushed a hand across Iona's shoulders, calming her with his touch but Eshe saw it for what it was—control, manipulation, about as subtle as an owner jerking on a dog's leash. As a man fascinated by the study of the mind, he'd found his way into Iona's head and was making himself home there. He'd always been a collector of the rare and beautiful. Antiquities, books and artwork.

Women.

"Give us a moment," he said breaking his gaze from Eshe. "I'll find you shortly."

Lifting Iona's chin with a crook of his finger, whisper light. Eshe's stomach turned with a vicious lurch of venom and bile. She knew that touch well; could almost feel his fingers cradling her face in the same manner, as it had a thousand times before.

Iona's red lips pressed to his, passionately and possessively. "Da," she murmured, laying the Russian on thick. "Don't keep me waiting too long." She left with a hot parting glance and

Eshe wanted to move, scream, run but with a snap of his fingers her feet locked to the floor and she saw the flicker of amused pleasure in his eyes to know she was still so...conditioned.