Velvet Wounds

The champagne flute shattered against the wall six inches from my head.

I didn't flinch. I'd been expecting something, just not glassware. Victoria always went for the theatrical option. The golden liquid dripped down the black wallpaper like tears from some sad, drunk god. A few shards sparkled in my hair.

"You missed," I said.

"I wasn't aiming for you." She was already moving, her platform boots clicking against the marble floor with the rhythm of a heartbeat. "I was aiming for the space where your head used to be. There's a difference."

"Sure there is."

The penthouse stretched around us, all vaulted ceilings and gothic arches and candles that flickered in crystal holders. Victoria's private gallery. Her sanctuary. The place where she brought people she wanted to impress, or destroy, or both. I'd been here three times before. Each visit ended worse than the last.

She stopped three feet away. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, something dark and floral and expensive. Like funeral roses. Like the inside of a coffin lined with silk.

"You crashed my show," she said.

"I was invited."

"You were invited to watch, Kylie. Not to sit in the front row wearing that." She gestured at my outfit, the glossy black cropped top, the matching trousers, the thin straps around my waist. Her own creation. I'd bought it from a sample sale three months ago, and she knew it. Of course she knew it. Victoria knew everything about everyone who moved through her world.

"I look good," I said.

"You look like me."

"I look like someone who knows how to dress."

The slap came fast. Open palm against my cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to humiliate. A statement. A punctuation mark. I grabbed her wrist before she could pull away.

We stood there, frozen. Her hand trapped in mine. Her dark eyes wide, then narrowing. The candles flickered. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed.

"Let go," she said.

"Say please."

"I will bite you."

"I'd like to see you try."

She did. Lunged forward with her teeth bared, and I twisted, and we crashed into the chaise lounge behind me. The velvet upholstery caught my fall. Victoria caught on top of me. Her weight pressed down, all those exaggerated curves, that cinched waist, the metal buckle of her belt digging into my hip.

Her lips were on mine.

Not gentle. Not tentative. A collision. A car crash in slow motion. Her mouth tasted like red wine and something sharper, something chemical. Anger or adrenaline or both. I bit her lower lip and she made a sound, low in her throat, that could have been pain or pleasure or the exact place where they stopped being different.

Her hands found my waist. My hands found her hair. That long, black, ridiculous hair that she spent hours styling into perfect waves. I pulled. She gasped against my mouth.

"You're such a bitch," she said.

"You started it."

"You came to my show."

"You invited me."

"I wanted to see you suffer."

"Did it work?"

She didn't answer. She kissed me again instead, harder this time, and I let her push me back against the velvet. The chaise was too small for both of us. Her knee wedged between my thighs. My fingers dug into her shoulders, that glossy black bodysuit, the fabric smooth and warm from her skin.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This had never happened before. We'd circled each other for two years, trading insults at galas and fashion week afterparties, building a reputation as the city's most glamorous feud. The magazines loved it. The blogs speculated. Everyone wanted to know what had started the war between the gothic socialite and the underground designer.

No one ever asked if we wanted to end it.

Victoria pulled back. Her lipstick was smeared. Her breath came fast. The kohl around her eyes had started to run, giving her the look of a beautiful, furious ghost.

"I hate you," she said.

"No you don't."

"I really, truly do."

"You hate that I'm better than you."

She laughed. A real laugh, surprised out of her, and the sound changed something in the room. The air got thinner. The candles seemed to burn brighter. She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time, not as an opponent, not as a rival, but as someone she might actually want to keep.

"You're not better than me," she said.

"I'm sitting on your couch with your tongue in my mouth. I think that makes me the winner."

"You're sitting on my couch because I pushed you there."

"Semantics."

She kissed me again. Slower this time. Testing. Her hand slid up my stomach, under my cropped top, her fingers cold against my skin. I arched into her touch. I hated that I did. I hated that she knew exactly what she was doing, that she'd probably rehearsed this in her head a hundred times, that I'd probably rehearsed it too.

The bedroom was down the hall. I knew because I'd stalked her apartment layout online, because I was a normal person with normal boundaries. She stood up and held out her hand. I took it.

Her bed was black silk and black velvet and black lace. So on brand. So ridiculous. I wanted to make a joke about it, but she was already pulling me down, already pressing me into the mattress, her mouth on my neck, her teeth scraping against my pulse point.

"I'm going to ruin you," she whispered.

"You already tried that."

"I wasn't trying before."

Her hand found the clasp of my trousers. I stopped breathing. She looked up at me, that dark, intense gaze, those lips painted black, and I saw something flicker behind her eyes. Not victory. Not cruelty. Something softer. Something scared.

"If we do this," I said, "everything changes."

"I know."

"People will talk."

"People always talk."

"Your reputation. Your brand. The whole narrative we've built."

She smiled. A real smile, not the sharp, predatory thing she usually wore. "Let it burn."

I pulled her down to me. The candles flickered. The city hummed outside the window, all neon and noise and the thousand stories we'd told about each other. None of them were true. None of them came close.

Her lips found mine again. Her body pressed against mine. And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself forget that she was my enemy. That this was a mistake. That tomorrow morning we'd wake up and have to decide what we actually were.

For now, she was warm. She was here. She tasted like wine and want and the beginning of something that could destroy us both.

I kissed her deeper.

Let it burn.