OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

06

06

SHE STARES INTO HER closet solemnly. Nothing to wear — again — and it's only been a week since she'd last sent her maids for her shopping.

Today's a special day, you see. Not because yesterday Bella got driven home in her usual Mercedes but with a man, an older, intoxicated and intoxicating man knowing her name, not because she didn't sleep all night — how could she, after being so—
Today's a special day because her father is holding a meeting with some famous producers.
And they're older.

So she opts for a baby-pink home dress, over-the-knee cream cashmere stockings, and lets her hair fall in locks down her kitten-like arched back as she stares at herself in the mirror.
  She rushes down from her bedroom all the way down the marbled spiraling staircase until she almost collides with one of her maids.
  She squeaks a "sorry, Mirosh—" before attempting to get past the cloudy woman. 

  "Where're you rushin' off to like that?" Mirosh utters at her. Her pale pointed face holds as much kindness as her own mothers. "Your father's got a dinner planned for tonight, you shouldn't be  rushing 'bout and getting in the way of things, dear'."

   "Oh, I just woke up, you see, and I'm actually just—" She's lying. She's been awake for long enough to follow The Weeknd on Instagram and Twitter. But, you see, not long enough to listen to any of his songs.
  She's afraid to hear his voice again.

  "Woke up!" Mirosh stares at her, dumbfounded. "But— it's four o'clock in the afternoon, dear, the chefs aren't goin' to make you breakfast in bed."

  "Oh, I'm not that hungry." Bella says lightly.

   "But—"

"I'll go take a walk in the library, alright?" Bella kisses Mirosh on her pale wrinkled cheek and smiles. "Don't bother with me, Mirosh. Make everything perfect for daddy's big dinner party." She winks at her, still smirking like a child.

  Mirosh shakes her head with a hidden smile and continues to make her way up the stairs.

   Bella sits in the library, a book in her lap and the fireplace warming her stockings, until the clock strikes six thirty in the evening. The sky outside's already darkened, and she hasn't read a page.
  Her thoughts keep going back to last night.

   His cat-like features are almost a dream now. It couldn't have been real, she thinks.

   I don't want to make out with you, Bella, he'd said. But that's what they all could have said. To her, it sounded just like—

   Her stomach rumbles. She decides its time to check up on her father's party.

  One of their dining rooms — the larger one — is decorated breathtakingly with glittering chandeliers and ornamented with lamplights which look like golden angels. The marble of the walls and the onyx black of the table tell a story of wealth Bella loves to hear as it echoes in her footsteps.

  She hears her fathers voice faintly before the tinted glass doors leading to the dining room slide open and she sees them.

   "I'd propose a different approach to the release, however, it is your track—"

  "Daddy!" Bella exclaims, and she's rushing towards her father, all baby pink and cashmere and soft and childish and kissable. She hopes they're watching — she hadn't registered any of their faces yet. "I'm so sorry for interrupting, I just missed you today—" she wraps her hands around his neck and places a kiss on her forehead. Then, she lifts her head up to smile innocently at the men—

  And freezes in her spot. Opposite her, leaning back in his chair leisurely, is the man she'd thought about upon her awaking and before she collapsed into her bed last night.
  And, for the first time, it's not Mr. Archival.

   She blinks furiously, but his eyebrow crawls up his forehead as his eyes assess her attire. She's forcing down a blush — she should've worn something more serious, something less home-like— gosh, her stockings—

  The Weekend is assessing her boldly from across the large onyx black table, a faint smile on his beautifully carved lips.

She doesn't care who's on the other sides of the table — she has no willpower to. It takes all of her to not climb over the table and ask—"are you sure you don't want to make out with me me?"— or hide under her fathers' chair like a little child— it's an unfathomable, insane thought, but it's there.

"Good evening," she breathes. He's wearing a white button-down and a grey jacket. There's a small silver chain on his neck, like a snake or a rivulet of precious metal. If he's wearing a watch, it's hidden.

His surprise, however, is evident. "Good evening. You must be Isabella— am I right, Mohamed?" He's not looking away from her, although his question is addressed to her father.

"You're right, Abel," her father hugs her gently by the waist and smiles up at his daughter. "Why don't you join us for a bit, hm, Bells?"

"Bells," The Weeknd mouths at her.

"I have to go," Bella blushes. "I have— homework." Gosh, could she sound any more like a schoolgirl?

She doesn't look at The Weeknd. She can't or she'll blush incredibly and stutter. The shock of seeing him at their table is way too intense. Instead, she kisses her father goodbye and rushes out of the room— thanking the universe that she doesn't stumble on her way out.

Once she's out, she presses her back against the wall and breathes out a ragged breath.

I'm fucked, she thinks. Her hearts' an erratic mess.

Her father's muffled voice is the next thing she hears. "Bell's actually quite outgoing," he boasts joyfully, and she can hear the clicking of wine glasses. "I believe she's just a little starstruck."

"I don't believe I am one to struck." Abel's suave voice is rolling over her in waves. Everything in his intonations tells differently— that man believes he is.

Her father chuckles.

It's going to be a long evening.