November 4.
The cold wind greeted them. For the past two days, it had swept through frigid New York, now cloaking the capital in its chill. Her body was a marvel — at thirty-two, she possessed what they called the charm of a mature woman and the physique of someone in her twenties. She took great care of herself, and her genetics were nothing short of glorious. With her hourglass curves, generous bust, and wide hips, she was every man's fantasy.
—Thank you, darling. —murmured Monica to a brunette known for that serious gaze that seemed capable of melting the Arctic. She was pure beauty; at twenty-eight, she did nothing but dazzle. Alongside her stood two other women—Karen Mulder and Stephanie Seymour—each a top lingerie model now lending their faces to a club destined to dominate the next decade: Victoria's Secret. The brand was in transition, soon to feature young Brazilian models whose Latin allure would sweep through every magazine spread.
Monica's perfectly arched brows framed her large eyes, which she never bothered to enhance. Her flawless nose and rosy lips matched the milky complexion she owed to cold climates and meticulous skincare—a beauty that struck at first glance.
The Vogue magazine reference to Ava Gardner—the world's most beautiful animal—was no exaggeration. One couldn't help but stare at this woman in motion. Men lined up to shower her with gifts: rings, necklaces, golden bracelets—treasures that all ended up in her possession. They handed them over willingly while she simply smiled. Nothing was sweeter than the gifts of someone who truly wished to please you. It was the essence of her allure.
—Monica, darling. —called Winona, approaching from behind. A fixture in the fashion world, she was charming and kind, eager to see the new collections. She adored a red blouse with a cascading drape that caught her eye.
—Billy? —she asked, almost with a trace of desperation.
—I have no idea. He's in Atlanta, negotiating something about wildlife and scientific journals. —replied one of the guests, settling into the shared dressing room. Winona wore loose trousers that concealed her hips and a white sweater that hid the rest of her figure, along with glasses that gave her more the look of a librarian than a Hollywood angel. Yet the innocence of her face made her beautiful from every angle.
—He'll be here soon. —Monica told herself, as she sent a message to Billy about her arrival in New York. They shared a penthouse in a stunning building overlooking Central Park—one of the most luxurious towers in the city.
A message she doubted would reach him, yet there she was, eager to take a long shower while waiting for his arrival.
—Girls' night? —asked Stephanie Seymour, who was certain that wine was the only thing she'd need for the next four days. Endless work hours and sleepless nights had carved deep marks into what they called the delicate art of exhaustion.
…
Billy arrived when the party had faded into drowsy silence. Most guests had either gone home or claimed one of the five to seven guest rooms available—not exactly impressive, but sufficient. Two master bedrooms with private baths, three guest rooms, a study, and a small service room near the kitchen where the housekeeper slept. It was everything but glamorous.
Empty bottles lined the counter—five of rosé, two of red. They probably had steak for dinner, thought Billy as he entered, suitcase in hand, passing the closed doors down the hallway until he found Monica, sitting up, her eyes half-open in the dim light. It was six in the morning, and she had barely gone to bed. Winter had shortened the days, and no light seeped through the blinds.
—I expected you later… maybe tomorrow. —said Monica as she rose. Her red lingerie, a recent gift, clung vividly to her skin as she helped him remove his jacket, tie, and shirt, kissing him softly. Sometimes that gentleness was what she loved most. She turned off the lamp and guided him to bed, running her fingers through his hair until both drifted toward sleep. It was their quiet ritual—no need to be exhausted to long for rest.
—I got lucky, found a private flight. —Billy said, glancing around the room. Monica's suitcase lay scattered across the floor.
—I missed you so much. These days apart felt like a whole life lived alone. —Monica whispered.
—It seems that way. —Billy laughed, gazing at her through the dark. Her eyes, deep and black, were wells that seemed to pull him in from every direction.
They leaned their foreheads together and shared a long kiss. She felt peace—something almost magical in the way they found calm in each other. She closed her eyes, and so did he. The alarm was forgotten; they had fifteen hours to set things in order, even if it meant missing rehearsal. The warmth between them was enough.
Their bodies pressed close as they drifted off. Monica was to leave by ten that morning.
…
Winona awoke with a headache. Wine never mixed well with her sleeping pills. Her eyes stung, and a dizzy spell lingered as she crossed the hall toward Monica's room. She undressed along the way, each garment falling softly to the floor, revealing her pale skin, rose-tinted breasts, and the delicate line of black fabric tracing her hips—her lifted, sculpted figure a testament to divine genetics.
She glanced toward the bathroom. A cold shower was what she needed.
Her vision blurred. It was nearly noon. Monica wasn't the one asleep this time. Winona slipped on a robe, but a sudden wave of dizziness sent her collapsing onto the bed, against Monica's warmth. Half-asleep arms instinctively wrapped around her, silk robe against skin, fragility meeting curves.
Billy opened his eyes to see a tangle of dark hair. He closed them again, but something felt different. His hand brushed against a stomach—it wasn't the same. He opened his eyes once more and saw Winona sleeping beside him. He exhaled quietly, rose, and headed for the shower as the woman curled into the warm side of the bed.
...