Emma Frost's supposed success, in Daisy's assessment, had been built almost entirely on telepathy. Continuous mental conditioning, mind-control at will, a physical presentation engineered for maximum impact—dyed her hair blonde, got implants, maneuvered through every major power faction and the men who ran them for decades. The ambition was genuine.
The White Queen title hadn't been hers by right—it was a Hellfire Club designation, not a personal inheritance. But after Emma Frost wore it long enough, the question of whether it had ever belonged to someone else simply ceased to come up.
Emma was difficult to deal with. Daisy didn't fear her, but she didn't want the headache. Those psionic abilities had no concept of personal space.
Emma's telepathic power ranked second only to Professor X—and not by much. Daisy had no intention of testing the sliver of mental strength she'd leeched from Dark Phoenix against that.
"Maki—decline everything."
She had no free time for pointless evenings.
But when you're in the game, you don't always call the shots.
That same afternoon, Pepper Potts arrived in person with a different invitation and lobbied Daisy thoroughly: a women's-only social gathering, no particular agenda, just a collection of wealthy young women with nothing better to do, meeting for an evening.
Pepper herself was lukewarm on it. But as President of Stark Industries, certain social obligations came with the territory. Two of the guests' family companies had active partnerships with Stark; declining would send a message she wasn't trying to send.
She had her own circle of friends, but they didn't move in this world. So: Daisy.
Pepper's disaster relief foundation had just sent thirty million dollars Daisy's way, and that goodwill was doing some quiet work in the background. More importantly, the words "girls" and "fun" were having more effect on Daisy than Pepper realized. Her professional days had been an unbroken rotation of old politicians, Baldy, and Tony Stark. An evening that was none of those things sounded genuinely appealing.
She pictured it. An exclusive women's gathering at this social level. The girls there would definitely be especially... open. Her pulse ticked up slightly.
No world-ending crises were scheduled for the weekend. She agreed immediately.
The maid made her own feelings about this type of event perfectly clear with a single expression. Daisy left her behind and drove herself to the party in the Porsche.
December had settled over New York with intent. The temperature had dropped. The guests hadn't gotten the message—they arrived in cocktail dresses and abandoned their long coats the moment they stepped out of their cars. Daisy acknowledged the cold, didn't flaunt her exceptional constitution, and wore a wool coat deliberately. She removed it precisely at the entrance.
The venue was another private villa, hosted by one of the wealthy daughters.
She came in a yellow side-slit evening gown, each stride revealing a length of leg. Her shoes were single-strap heels—one clean band, nothing complicated. Most of her jewelry had been destroyed in the bedroom incident, so she'd done a quick replacement and kept it to two pieces for the evening.
The host led her in and made introductions.
Most of the faces meant nothing to her. Every family name meant something.
"Miss Bloomberg—I know your father. His tenure as New York City mayor was remarkably efficient. The economic recovery metrics under his administration were exceptional. New York's current position as the national economic leader owes a great deal to him."
"Miss Aerin? The Estée Lauder family? I've met your father. Brilliant man."
She worked her way down the line. One by one, the color drained from their faces.
Miss Aerin was thirty—a full decade older than Daisy—and perfectly capable of holding her own in most rooms. But she hadn't taken over the family business, which meant she couldn't push back with authority, and having her entire identity absorbed into your father left her with nothing to stand on.
Daisy's public profile was thin by design. In rooms like this, it was known. The weapons business carried its own weight—especially when the clientele didn't advertise. Their family companies—cosmetics, real estate, luxury goods—had their own gray-area dealings, but compared to an arms company, they were practically saints. In methods, means, and approach, the gap was enormous.
Pepper arrived with the kind of entrance that earned glances—a violet evening gown, a statement jewelry set, slightly lost for the first three seconds before Daisy waved her over and ran the introductions.
Compared to Daisy who sold missiles and submachine guns, the wealthy daughters were clearly far more interested in Pepper—asking constantly what Stark Industries had developed lately and how much the Iron Man suit cost. Two of the more optimistic ones floated the question of Tony Stark's preferences in a life partner, with apparent seriousness.
Pepper answered it all with unimpeachable grace. Not a crack in the composure.
Only Daisy knew that if she handed Pepper a submachine gun right now, Pepper could take down those two gunning for the Mrs. Stark position without breaking a sweat. She kept this observation to herself and stayed close.
They occupied the top tier. Below them, many smaller circles scattered across the room. The most numerous were girls sent by entertainment companies to liven things up.
A well-known all-female band was working hard on stage—tank tops and shorts, heavy eye makeup, screaming themselves hoarse. The crowd shed its careful manners accordingly. Some kept it conservative and cheered along; others threw their outer layers into the air and committed fully—a room full of trim waists and long legs in every direction.
The drummer was generously built, generosity her crop top had already been working hard to contain. At some point—for reasons she kept to herself—she stripped it off and threw herself into a drum solo. The sticks hammered in time with the music, and certain indescribable things followed the beat, and the room hit its ceiling.
"Beautiful country," Daisy said, to nobody in particular.
This was significantly better than watching Asgardian brutes who only knew how to wrestle.
The service staff were all women—garter stockings, lingerie, and heels—moving through the crowd like butterflies: smiling constantly, never still, delivering drinks.
Most of the guests had dropped the performance of propriety by now. Girls stood or sat however they liked, in clusters of two or three, talking freely—some of them quietly voicing very specific opinions about very specific male supervisors and coworkers who hadn't understood the meaning of the word "no."