| paris, france
"YOU'RE HUNGOVER," those were the first words that her mother tutted to her at half ten in the morning.
"Erm, of course, mother," she spat in annoyance, "I did go out last night, and I told you to not barge into my apartment. I'll be getting rid of that key under the plant soon."
Stella's mother raised her sharp eyebrows to her daughter threateningly, "Oh really? I don't think you will. As I recall, you like to go out every two or however many days it takes you to recover from your hangover, and drink yourself to your grave, and then you like to forget your key so..."
"Sounds about right, mother," Stella grinned cheekily from the comfort of her silk white sheets on the California king bed. Being the heiress to one of the biggest, luxury fashion brands on Earth had its perks, "I'm glad you're familiarising yourself with my routine."
Her mother, Serena Greaves, simply grunted under her breath in frustration, "What have I told you a million times, Estella? You're stamping on your once pretty reputation with your own shoes."
"At least they're Louboutin, Ma," Stella cackled, "You've taught me that at least. Besides, I don't want that stupid reputation from when I was 16."
Serena ignored the Louboutin comment (although it did warm her heart that her little Stella was adamant on only wearing the best) and pushed open the curtains of her room to reveal two glass doors that led out into the balcony of the penthouse. Ultimately, light flooded into the room and shot to the hissing Stella.
"Well then what do you want your reputation as? The rebel daughter who parties every other night and lives off her parents' money?" Serena quipped.
"Actually, yes," Stella fired, "I'm twenty three, not thirty three. You should be happy that I even graduated from ESMOD with flying colours. I don't have to take over the brand until you decide to retire. I'm hoping that you'll hold out a while."
"Yes, but the thing is, Stella, you're an adult at twenty three and we agreed that you'd help in the company once you'd graduated. It's been almost two years! You don't need to take over; you just need to help or at least stop partying almost every night with Serge and Gina," Serena sighed, "I'm tired of coming here too many times a week to check if you're alive! I walk into a shop and I see you on the front of the magazines and papers drunk off your bat, coming out of a nightclub at three in the morning! Now i've got to run to a meeting. Don't forget that we have that annual gala tonight. Your glam team will be here four hours before the event and then you can choose your dress and look."
Serena ran out of the apartment quickly, leaving Stella to dwell in her thoughts.
The Paris Gala was an event that was always hosted at the start of January in the French capital. Of course, it was exclusive as hell, and also one that was very publicly documented for the high amount of powerful people present. Only the most important and prestigious people in the city were invited, no matter what profession. As the daughter of Serena Greaves, she'd been attending the gala of mostly pretentious businesspeople for years and years.
However, if you knew Stella one bit, you'd know she marvelled at social events, and even loved them. Rebellious was often associated with dark, grunginess, but Stella was not rebellious in that way; she was just opposed to helping in the company so soon and instead wanted to have fun at the tender age of twenty three.
She liked attention on her, it was simply a fact. It wasn't a terrible thing; it wasn't like she was promoting anything bad (debatable, in some views), she just liked eyes on her. A smooth talker, and a looker too, Stella was the perfect shining star at a red carpet event.
-
Stella was at her finest; in a dress costing ten times as much as the average person's and geared up for a night. She was clad in a floor length, almost form fitting red dress with cut outs on her waist to show her slim figure and a scarily high slit on one side of her leg to show off the endless body part.
Until she was maybe 17, Stella walked the red carpet outside alongside her mother, never the main one. From then on, she manned the carpet on her own and soaked up the attention. One look at her, you could tell she owned the carpet and as soon as she stepped onto it with her rocketing heels, you'd instantly see the attention shift on her. She was Paris's sweetheart, although not very much one.
"Stella! Stella!" they would scream at her, "This way, Stella!"
She strutted the carpet like what a catwalk was to a model. It was her stage almost, although she was known for being Stella 'the world is my runway' Greaves, so it made no difference.
Pursing her lips here and there, plastering a flirty smile every so often, Stella finished up the carpet quickly, itching to go inside and see a few friends of hers. She was not yet such an innovator that people were wanting to do interviews with her. As of now, she was just a spoilt heiress and model, who they wanted to put into their 'fashion fails' or 'best looks' article.
"You see, this is the reputation you should be upholding," her mother greeted her inside the fancy hall with a kiss on both cheeks, "Elegant and sparkling."
Stella rolled her eyes, "Are we still on about this? I thought this conversation was reserved for your early morning scoldings to further worsen my headache."
Her mother laughed lightly, as if she thought Stella was joking and waved the topic away, "Where will you be sitting tonight? At my table?"
"No," Stella said quickly, "I had Margie call in ahead. Serge asked me to sit with him because he needs me for some reason," Margie was her personal assistant, and frankly the person who kept Stella functioning as the petite brunette implemented every command, no matter how crazy.
"Oh yes, that's fine. Look, he's over there," her mother had pointed out the lad who was a some feet away, "The placards had been set and I was confused as to why your name wasn't at our table. Have fun, darling."
Stella waved her mother goodbye and strolled to a table where she saw the five foot nine boy dressed in a suit, laughing with his friends.
"Aurier," she spoke in a friendly tone. Serge Aurier was a footballer for Paris Saint Germain, a very important aspect of the city, and one of her best friends after having met at a club two years ago.
"Oh Stella!" he exclaimed, hugging her overzealously, "It's good to see you. You look hot."
"Only you, Serge," she sighed in amusement at her friend's forwardness, "Why did you want me to sit with you? Not that i'm objecting by any means. You just saved me a whole dinner of explaining why i'm not yet the head designer or some shit like that of the company."
"Oh I wanted to introduce you to my new teammate, Julian," the Ivorian pointed at a new boy, who was significantly taller than him and looked extremely out of place. She looked at him, and instantly recognised his face from some of the football matches she had watched. He was German, she knew.
She smiled at the tall German warmly, "Ich heiße Estella Greaves, aber du kannst mich Stella nennen!" ("I'm Estella Greaves, but you can call me Stella")
He was taken aback by her ability to speak such fluent German, "Du kannst Deutsch?" ("You can speak German?")
Stella responded in English, giving Serge a little comprehension of their conversation, "My grandmother's German and my mother is half. I grew up bilingual."
"She likes to swear at me in German," Serge commented, stifling a laugh, "And when she's drunk, her sentences are a mix of the two languages. It's so weird."
This was about the time that the event photographer, who snooped in everyone's business and forced photographs, came over with the massive camera in his hand, "Stella Greaves! Wonderful to see you here. And you two boys. Would you care for a picture?"
She was tempted to say 'no', but she knew that wouldn't sit well with her mother if it was leaked out. Instead, she grinned and huddled between Serge and Julian, her hands going around their waists. Thankfully, it was two shots and the photographer left.
"No one really explained to me; what's this gala for?" Julian inquired curiously.
Stella let out a short, bitter chuckle, "It's a gala for the most important people in Paris. If you're important in whatever profession, you're here. You've got to be careful, because that means there's a lot of big egos in this room."
Serge eyed her amicably, "Including your own, Greaves," he turned to Julian, "Stella's the daughter of Serena Greaves, who owns one of the most famous fashion brands, Von Greaves. Her mother wants her to help in the company on the way to taking over the brand, but Stel can't stop partying."
"Serge, you can't say much about my situation since we party together all the time," she glared at him, "Besides, I want to enjoy what time I have left free. I do also have a job in modelling."
"Von Greaves is a German brand, no?" Julian frowned.
"Yes it is," she smiled, "My German grandmother founded it."
"Oh look, the event is about to start."
-
Before the fancy food with tiny portion sizes was served, it took a whole 45 minutes for the speeches and monologues to conclude. It was her least favourite part of the event; it almost sent Stella to sleep, but Serge kept poking at her. Poor Julian practically had no idea what was happening or what anyone was saying aside from the two people who spoke their speeches in English.
The three of them were sat at a round table with Marquinhos, Marco Verratti and Layvin Kurzawa. Stella was well accustomed with them since she sometimes attended some of the matches at the Parc des Princes.
"Thank God that's over," Stella groaned as she watched waiters in black waistcoats strut from one door in the room with trays in their hands.
The three course meal, which consisted of lobster, was soon devoured by the guests and further social interactions started as music played.
"Miss Stella!" a man's voice called, making her turn around, "Your mother said i'd find you here darling."
The fashion heiress grinned and greeted him with air kisses on both sides of the cheek as customary, "It's wonderful to see you, Karl."
The fashion director and icon eyed her dress, "Oh you look stunning as always, dear. I wish you'd have taken up that offer for the shoot last month. You haven't featured in a campaign for me since you were 21! If you change your mind about this whole business, Chanel would be lucky to have you! However, in the meantime, am I expecting you front row at Fashion Week?"
"I'd never miss it, Karl," she quipped pleasantly.
Karl nodded in delight and casted his eyes over at her two companions, "Serge," he curtly nodded.
"Mr. Lagerfeld," Serge tried his hardest to keep in his laugh. The two had met a few times, but the first was not a memory that sat well with Karl Lagerfeld.
One gloomy afternoon, the model dragged Serge to the set of a Chanel shoot, hoping for some company. While doing God knows what, the footballer managed to knock over a rack containing some of Chanel's latest pieces, which ultimately dirtied them and ripped one of the delicate pieces when it caught on a sharp block. To put it simply, Karl Lagerfeld had not been impressed in the slightest.
"Who's this?" Karl said curiously, flashing his eyes to Julian who had been stood there confused as to what the man was saying, "A boyfriend of yours, Miss Stella?"
She snorted and changed to German, "This is Julian Draxler. He's a new player for Paris Saint-Germain and he's come from Germany."
The two shook hands, and Karl smiled intimidatingly as it seemed to Julian, "Oh German? Oh I do love knowing people who speak my mother tongue. I don't get to speak it often enough," Of course, as it were, the Chanel creative director was German, "Although Miss Stella, you didn't answer my question."
She flushed, "Oh gosh no; we just met today!"
Karl Lagerfeld dropped a wink and smirked, switching to French and patting his muse on the arm, "Il est beau. Vous auriez l'air bien ensemble; dans ma campagne pas moins."