ceceliaahathaway
Take me from my darkness & set me free.
cecelia hathaway. forty-three. co-owner of vixen.
currently, protecting her family & her Vixens, keeping an eye on Charlene, cherishing Adam, wines and dines with the gals, trying to get into the restaurant business, attending high mass & learning Russian.
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Cece's fingers curled around the grip of the gun hidden beneath the desk, her pulse quickening at the allude of it not being a social visit. However, at the mention of Yves de Metz, she felt reassured, realizing that Nicoleta wasn't working for the Russians. The Turkish might not be her usual clientele, but they didn't pose an immediate threat.
The blonde's gaze flickered over Nicoleta, taking in the woman's careful demeanor and calculated words. There was something in the way she held herself, a mix of determination and underlying tension that made Cece wary.
"Yves de Metz," she repeated slowly, letting the name roll off her tongue. "Not exactly a common topic around here. You must be quite determined to find him."
She leaned back in her chair, maintaining a composed exterior while her mind raced through possibilities. "And what do I get for helping out a… friend?" Cece's voice was smooth, though she hesitated on the word 'friend,' as if testing its weight before letting it slip. "We both know I can find this information for you," she said, her thoughts briefly drifting to the last time she'd contacted Father Doherty for a work matter. "Your curiosity about Yves de Metz intrigues me, but you'll understand if I need more than just your word to go on."
She observed Nicoleta closely, noting the careful smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, the way she sat there with deliberate precision. There was more to this request than met the eye, and Cece intended to find out what it was.
"You want discretion, and that comes at a price," Cece continued, her tone turning more businesslike. "Information like this isn't something I just hand out for free. So tell me, what exactly is in it for me? Why should I go out of my way to help you find Yves?"
'Keep things interesting.'
She wonders how interesting, exactly, this difference is between Cecelia and Charlene, between sun and moon. But Cecelia's eyes are sharp – sharper than she'd expected, admittedly – so she thinks twice about pursuing that particular curiosity.
It isn't the time, anyway. She's here for Aviv.
And the first step, the first goal post, is to have a private audience with Cecelia. She's surprised enough she's achieved it that for a moment, Nicoleta doesn't know what to do with the hard-won privilege. As the business woman turns to shut her office doors, she's accosted by the impulse to catch her unawares; hurt her, kill her. A malevolent, irrational impulse — Nicoleta's fingertips itch with the desire to do it. Yet even if she managed to leave the club alive, before the body's discovery, a dead Hathaway would get her no closer to Aviv or his captors.
So she contains the impulse, debates her options. There's the classic route of threats and torture. Scare Cecelia, hurt her enough that she knows it isn't just a bluff, and that she'll be spared only by divulging useful information on Yves De Metz. But all it'd take is a scream from Cecelia and the office would swarm with security.
So Nico slinks into the seat opposite her patroness and gets comfortable instead. They're no longer mirrors, she can tell Cecelia's ill at ease. Not just because of her words – a cut-to-the-chase straightforwardness that Nicoleta would've otherwise appreciated – but because her body language conveys it.
"It is not social visit, this is true." She agrees, taking the time to set her martini glass on the desk between them. "I was looking for different person, because I want to see him again. I thought maybe, this is the place for man like him." Her words are careful, and as calculated as any bit of improvisation can be. "Yves de Metz." She smiles again, but doesn't let it reach her eyes. A sad smile, punctuated by a sigh. "But I see you instead, and this is good enough surprise for me. Still, I am hoping you can help me find him, avec de la discrétion, bien sûr... Your face tells me this name is known."
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The shock was palpable as he beheld her departure from the realm of haute cuisine, his jaw slackening at the sight. Little did Gideon suspect, she had savoured her fair share of Bratwursts in her time. "Ah, let's not feign ignorance to my appreciation for a humble sausage nestled between a slice of folded bread," she quipped, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Now, the burning query on everyone's mind (no? Just Cece's then): is sauerkraut also on the menu?" she teased, a hint of mischief in her gaze. "Ah, the stars align! I mean-- Sauerkraut is the God of German condiments, is it not?"
With an excited glint in her eye, she seized her slice of bread, licked her lips, and indulged in a rather lascivious bite. "Mmm, positively divine," she purred, savouring the moment. "Care to taste, darling? Or shall I be the sole arbiter of such delectable delights?"
"Well, hello there, Felix. Oh? Well, I have to say this can get a little long sometimes. It's much more fun being in the middle of action than on the sidelines of it. You can ask your dad all about that one day."
After licking a bit of sauerkraut from the corner of her mouth, Cece hummed at the boy's curiosity. TV? She hoped he meant her guest appearance on Grand Designs, and not that sensationalised episode from a shall remain nameless trashy station, portraying her as some kind of scandalous socialite. "Oh my! Really now? What did you think? I might just yet get a two page spread in next month's edition." She was talking about the next copy of the Architecture Digest, of course.
"Oh, well I better get back to my seat. I'll see you two after the game though, right?" She wasn't taking not for an answer as she assumed the opposite and allowed the returning lunch crowd to swallow her up and return her back to her original seat. Mmm, this Bratwurst really was divine.
'I'll have one.'
His jaw hangs open for a moment, in mid-address to his child when he hears those words. No. Surely he's just-... Movement catches the corner of Gideon's eye, and just as he snaps his neck to bring her into his visual filed he realizes that no, he's not just imagining that Cecelia's followed him here.
Had she locked eyes with Felix behind his back and found it too awkward to rush off and pretend otherwise? But why would she care if she'd been seen by a five year old?...
Cecelia asks about his son and that theory dives out the window. She doesn't even know who he is... Could've ignored him by all accounts — so why is she choosing to approach them instead? The surgeon straightens, lamentably lacking in the time it would take to consider how best to navigate this.
"Suppose there's no reason you can't have one too."
Because what the hell else is he supposed to say?... Sure, I'll get you a hot dog? Didn't know you were a fan of Bratwurst Big Dogs?... The obscene pictures of her plastered on her car come unbidden to mind, and suddenly Gideon wishes he'd chosen literally anything else for lunch. Desperate to purge the images from his mind, he clamps a hand over Felix's shoulder, moving the conversation along as if his life depends on it.
"My son. Felix, meet Cecelia Hathaway. Cecelia, meet Felix. It's his first game. And he's fighting for his life, aren't ya, fella?... So not sure we'll make it to-" The boy interrupts him with a tug of his sleeve and an eager exclamation as he looks up at Cecelia.
"Dad, that's the lady from TV!!"
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Cece lingered outside Lord's Cricket Field, a palpable sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. Weeks had passed since she dared to face the unforgiving world, weeks marred by the insidious whispers of scandal following the Van Duyns' murder mystery party. Like a moth to flame, gossip devoured her reputation, reducing her to a mere recluse. Her days had blurred into a monotonous routine, punctuated only by the mundane tasks of caring for Happy, the only one who hadn't left her, and the hollow facade of work.
Adam's recent departure to Reykjavík (a text), had left her feeling even more adrift, a solitary figure in a sea of loneliness.
As Cece approached the cricket field, an eerie sensation crept over her, like unseen eyes tracing her every move. Shadows danced menacingly, casting doubt upon her already fragile resolve. Each passerby felt like a potential assailant, lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.
The weight of her secrets bore down on her, suffocating her with each passing moment. And still, she couldn't deny the morbid curiosity that drove her forward, toward the looming spectre of her blackmailer, and the inevitable confrontation that awaited her within.
Plus, she refused to cower in the face of her tormentor, no matter how ominous the surroundings.
Footsteps echoed behind her, prompting Cece to whirl around, brandishing her gun with trembling hands. "You, you leave me alone! You can't take anything else from me. YOU HEAR ME! YOU'VE ALREADY TAKEN EVERYTHING!" She cried out, her voice choked with desperation and defiance.
Then, searing pain erupted, engulfing her in darkness.
As Cece gradually came to, the world swam hazily into focus. Her fingers instinctively reached for her gun, only to find it gone. Panic surged within her as the searing pain at the back of her head throbbed relentlessly. Disoriented, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings, the dim light of the stands casting eerie shadows around her.
Shaken and wounded, she staggered away, seeking solace amidst the sea of faces in the stands.
There, she descended into a numb fog, oblivious to the world that was starting to build around her until the weight of a stranger's gaze settled upon her. Startled, she turned to find Gideon, standing just a few stands to her right, his eyes a mix of intrigue and concern.
She harboured no resentment toward him for shying away from her tainted presence. She'd embarrassed him the other night.
As he rose along with the others for tea, Cece hesitated, a flicker of hope igniting within her. With tentative determination, she trailed after him, unable to pinpoint exactly what it was about the man that drew her to him. Yet, wherever he went, she found herself in need to be closer. "I'll have one." Was it humiliating to feign ignorance, to pretend that he hadn't glimpsed her a mere few weeks ago, entangled with another man, captured in the grainy embrace of photographs reminiscent of those bad 1970s pornos?
"And who is this?" She knew. She was happy. Did this mean he'd won? At least one of them had. "Let me take a wild guess—cricket aficionado bringing dear old dad along for the match, am I right?" She mused, locking eyes with the young Gideon.. he really did have his father's everything. "Hey, rumour has it they're unlocking the gates later for a friendly match with the locals. Fancy a bit of friendly competition? I could arrange an invite if you're feeling like you can take your old man on."
LOCATION — Lord's Cricket Ground, London.
DATE — Early May, 2024.
STARTER — Closed for @ceceliaahathaway
Felix had wanted to watch a cricket match, so a trip to Lord's they'd taken.
It doesn't matter that the day's swelteringly hot, that Gideon wishes the dress code in the Pavilion had allowed for shorts instead of chinos, or that he's rather certain his five year old son doesn't actually have the requisite attention span to watch an entire game of cricket, even if they'd only bought tickets for the last two days.
Three hours in, and both father and son's attention alike is beginning to flag. Felix is complaining about the fielding team and the wicket keeper, Gideon is wishing he'd roped Damon into this particular excursion in his stead, and both father and son are absolutely famished. He's counting down the last eight minutes to the lunch break, eyes roving over the other spectators when his gaze snags abruptly on a familiar face.
Long enough that to pretend he hasn't noticed her might be an unpardonable faux pas.
So he offers her a nod, and finds his attention raptly re-occupied by the match. Funny how that works. Four minutes, three minutes, two minutes, one... The bell rings and the crowd shifts in mass exodus towards the doors that lead to a promised lunch. He tries to move quick, to steer Felix towards any option for food that a Hathaway might find beneath them — and finds himself standing in front of BBQ Smoke Shack, staring at a giant advertisement for something called the Bratwurst Big Dog.
"Fancy a hotdog, Felix?"
#communicating via story#with gideon rutherford#if you match i'll track you down and throw your laptop in a river somewhere#i just had to get the background in here
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No sooner had Val finished speaking, Cece’s face lit up with excitement. "Oh, Val, of course, it's going to be a girl! I can feel it in my bones!"
Cece leaned forward, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "You’re going to need all the relaxation you can get before your little princess arrives. Trust me, this spa weekend is going to be absolutely divine! I’ve already started planning everything. There’s this secluded little retreat just outside of Paris..." Was that too much? "– no hustle and bustle, just pure tranquility. You’ll love it. The massages, the facials, the serene gardens... it's heaven on Earth."
She continued without pausing for breath. "And don't worry about the boys, we'll make sure everything is taken care of at home. You deserve this, Val. And the baby shower! Oh, it's going to be spectacular. Imagine, an entire day of pampering surrounded by your closest friends. We’ll have the best gourmet food, mocktails that will make you forget they're non-alcoholic, and those cute little games that everyone secretly loves. Plus, a surprise or two that I have up my sleeve. It’ll be a day you’ll never forget."
Cece's enthusiasm was contagious, and she barely stopped to breathe as she went on. "Godmother..." Was she surprised? Hardly, but still.. very much, touched. "– Val, you’ve made me the happiest woman! I’d be honoured. I’ve always dreamed of spoiling your little ones, and now I get to be the official godmother? It's just perfect. We’re going to have so much fun planning everything. I promise you, this is exactly what you need. No London stress, just a few days of bliss and baby excitement."
She finally paused, a broad smile on her face, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "So, what do you say? Ready to be pampered and celebrate this amazing new chapter in your life?" She was ready to click "add to cart" on those tickets to Paris the moment she received a firm—or even slightly hesitant—confirmation from Val.
No sooner had Cecelia said spa, Val was sighing a breath of relief and anticipation. What she wouldn't give to get away for a weekend. Perhaps it was the expecting mother in her or all of the problems London was having but escaping for a few days was exactly what she wanted.
There were people she could delegate to, tasks she could put off for a few days more for the sake of her mental and physical health. She doubted anyone would fault her for it, even if it did send a twinge of guilt through her.
Val couldn't keep the smile from her face.
"Don't test our luck Cece. I have three boys already. A girl would be...unexpected." But oh so wanted. Only a month or so more and she would finally know if she were to be outnumbered even more than she already was in her house. "Who did you have in mind for the trip? And where? Anywhere but London, yes?" The questions came out unhindered as her mind ran away with the possibilities.
There was one more thing she wanted to discuss with her best friend. She hadn't brought it up until now because quite honestly, she assumed it was a given at this point. The question should be asked all the same however. Val re-centered herself, taking a small breath. "Even if it's not a girl, would you do us the honor of being the godmother?" It had taken her two children too many to ask it of her best friend.
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Cece regarded Nicoleta with a curious, discerning look, her polished demeanor never faltering. She noticed the subtle hesitation in Nicoleta's response about the Pickle Dottie and tucked that observation away for later. "Allergic to pickles, huh? That’s a new one," she mused with a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle.
"Yes, Charlene and I have always been like night and day. Keeps things interesting, I suppose," Cece continued, her tone light but her eyes still sharp and assessing.
She took a sip of her own drink, her gaze never leaving Nicoleta’s. Cece was trying to figure out the Romanian’s angle, but she knew better than to push too hard, too soon.
The mention of a quieter space aligned with Cece's own need for control and understanding of the situation. "Of course, we can move to my office," Cece replied smoothly. "It's quieter there, and we can discuss whatever you need in privacy." She gave Nicoleta a polite smile and gestured for her to follow.
As they walked through the bustling room, Cece stayed a step ahead, leading Nicoleta past elegantly dressed guests and conversations layered with hidden agendas. Upon reaching her office, she opened the door and stepped aside to let Nicoleta in first.
The office was a stark contrast to the lively party outside – it was tastefully decorated, with a large mahogany desk, shelves lined with photos and awards, and a few pieces of contemporary art on the walls. Cece closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise.
"Please, have a seat," she said, motioning to a pair of comfortable chairs arranged in front of her desk. She took a seat behind the desk, folding her hands neatly on the surface, and waited for Nicoleta to settle in. Her hand slipped under the mahogany desk, gripping a small gun she kept hidden there.
"So, why are you really here tonight?" Cece asked, her tone polite but edged with suspicion. "I doubt this is just a social visit."
"I will take her number if you give me this," Nicoleta replies – because she isn't about to lose any potential lead in her search for Aviv's whereabouts – "But if I can tell you little secret... You always seem to be the nicer one."
She has no fucking clue if that's true, but her one-night-stand had implied that much yesterday, and all the press she'd found while 'researching' the Hathaways, back it up as well. Charlene seems to gather a very specific kind of attention, compared to her sister's more pristine image. Nicoleta wonders vaguely what that means about their mob ties, and which of the two is better connected to the French.
"I am allergic to pickles." It seems safer than admitting she doesn't know what the hell a Pickle Dottie even is. "Maybe my sister answers this differently, but I was not big fan of these groups. I like my friendships... One on one." Sometimes literally. The Romanian offers the businesswoman a demure smile. "We are the opposites, us sisters... Toujours au contraire. Just like you and Charlene, yes?"
And then, because she hasn't come to reminisce on Things That Never Happened, Nicoleta takes a sip of her martini and adds; "Do you have office we can speak in?... This is amazing, all, but little too loud. Maybe I am getting old."
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She was tempted to tell her to ditch the girl and book an emergency appointment at Stuart Phillips as soon as possible, but she didn't want to be insulting; overall, she did look quite well put together. Certainly, she appeared much more presentable than some of the hobsquabble she was currently dealing with. "I see."
Did she remember her? Cece, felt on the spot, because truthfully she didn't.. even this suggestion about a sister.. no surely she'd have remembered her. She loved her house sisters. Her Greek goddesses. Delta Zeta.. "Oh, right, of course!" she said, hoping to sound sort of believable.
Charlene? Now things started to make sense. "She's doing alright," she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. "If you’re looking for Charlene, I can give her your number and let her know you’re trying to get in touch. That way, you two can catch up."
Now it was her turn to test the waters. "You know, the other day I was reminiscing about the sub place we all went to after finals—Sam's. Could you imagine going for a Pickle Dottie right now?"
"Stuart Phillips?... No, I have my own girl."
The closest thing to such a girl is now lying strangled in her own bedroom, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling. Nicoleta shoots her patroness a smile, playing with the stem of her martini glass. "You do not remember me, oui?..."
More like they've never met, but the devil's in the details. And in this case, those details included every scrap of media the Romanian had perused on Cecelia Hathaway, prior to orchestrating this accidental run-in. "My sister was in your college."
She offers the hint helpfully, making sure not to lay it on too thick. Nothing particularly memorable or suspicious. Nothing concrete enough to threaten her ruse.
"You miss those parties, ever?... Sometimes I do. How is Charlene?"
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As Cecelia made her way out of the auction, her mind raced with the myriad tasks awaiting her attention back home. She had emails to answer, calls to make to her daughters, Happy to walk, and a garden to tend to.
Amidst her busy schedule, she addressed the young lad, who had assisted her in carrying her new picture to her car. "Oh, Kieran," she called out absentmindedly, "just lay it down in the back. I've already prepared the canvas sheets."
Engrossed in typing a reply to an email, Cecelia was taken aback when she heard a voice that grated on her nerves like no other. Wait, what... was he trying to steal her picture? In a flash, she reached out with both hands, gripping the frame tightly. "THIS IS MINE! Kieran, get security!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with urgency and frustration.
As Cecelia hastily intervened, her heart raced with a mix of indignation and disbelief. How dare HE attempt to snatch her newly acquired possession right under her nose? With a firm grip on the frame, she refused to let go, her determination flaring like a beacon in the chaos unfolding before her.
Kieran, sensing the urgency in Cecelia's voice, sprang into action, darting off in search of security. Meanwhile, Cecelia's eyes narrowed as she faced off against the would-be thief, her resolve unyielding. She couldn't let him get away with this brazen act of theft, not when she had worked so hard to obtain the painting.
As she stood her ground, Cecelia couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. This was no mere inconvenience; it was a challenge to her authority, HER INTEGRITY! With a steely gaze, she held firm, refusing to back down until justice was served! "LOOK, Riffraff. You better let go or I'll scream." She meant it too.
Utter disbelief twists his features into wretched scowl. Very fucking Hurlingham of her. His empty hand sat on his thigh, as a reminder of why he should never show any restraint around absolute imbeciles. Truthfully, Johnathan didn't think she had it in her, then again she was the personification of a migraine where the only way to get rid of it was to overdose.
He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as a hand wrapped around his clenched jaw, attempting to tune out her grating voice, as one would when hearing the sounds of foxes screaming at night. That, would be less painful than this, he decides.
Percy tries to talk to him again. But when Johnathan opens his eyes, Cecilia enters his line of fucking sight again as she's suddenly now at the front, flashing her psychotic smile that would surely only cause indigestion. It wasn't over though, not yet. In fact, she'd done him a fucking favour.
The car park had mostly emptied out, and Johnathan patiently waited for she-who-must-not-be-named. Something, he'd now sworn, to never do again. Luckily she pops out with a young lad in a suit, who probably worked at the auction, carrying his painting. Fucking fantastic.
Once the boot opens, Johnathan appears by the younger man's side, grabbing hold of the painting edges. "Cheers, mate." A nod, as he slides it from the other's grip, then a look to Cecilia, rather smug. "I can take it from here."
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After spending the day with Valerie, Cecelia realised the urgency of returning to Vixen. The recent events had left a mountain of paperwork awaiting her attention—unanswered emails, disorganised store inventory, and the pressing need to arrange for a HR representative to speak with the girls about the recent incident. Some of them were deeply affected (Maria even calling in sick), and while Cecelia couldn't comprehend their sympathies for the victim, she knew it was crucial to address their concerns and provide support during this difficult time. After all, Vixen was more than just a business—it was a family, and Cecelia was determined to uphold its values of compassion and resilience. She was not, Charlene.
"Quick reminder, beauties: safety first! Check your props and costumes, and let's ensure we have a smooth and sexy show."
The 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' theme week had proven to be a resounding success for Vixen, and Cecelia couldn't be prouder of her girls. Despite the chaos of the week leading up to the event, they had all demonstrated true professionalism, putting in the effort to perfect their performances. Cecelia admired their dedication and commitment to their craft. Even with the unexpected vacancy left by Maria, Chloe had stepped in admirably, showcasing her preparedness and dedication. Cecelia made a mental note to acknowledge, the Hungarian's contribution and commitment—it certainly wouldn't be forgotten.
With a penchant for mingling with VIP guests, particularly those in the French booth, Cecelia headed towards The Velvet Corner—affectionately known as such—only to be intercepted halfway. "Bonsoir.."
Captivated by the woman's French charm and appearance, Cecelia had been on the verge of extending her hand, anticipating a potential networking opportunity, when the woman's next words gave her pause. Matching her hair to Cecelia's own?
Before, Cecelia had mulled over the reasons behind her blackmail. At first, she suspected it was all about money, yet even after meeting the demands, the threats persisted. She then considered the possibility that someone aimed to sabotage her marriage, but the lingering question remained: why? Was it fueled by jealousy? Did someone else crave an unhindered path to her? The notion sent a shiver down her spine. Was this her twisted admirer?
"Ah, do you also frequent Stuart Phillips Salon?" Yet, upon closer inspection, the cut seemed more reminiscent of a DIY job in front of a home mirror than the work of a professional stylist. As this realisation dawned, another warning bell rang loudly in Cecelia's mind.
LOCATION — Vixen.
DATE — April 15th, 2024.
STARTER — closed for @ceceliaahathaway
Well, no point in being a good thief if not to use the spoils. The redhead's words return to her, along with that high, disbelieving laugh. 'They wouldn't talk to you anyway, did you see the people in that club?? They're made of money!'
So Nicoleta has made herself up of money, too. Scrolled dozens of articles on Cecelia Hathaway, saved enough pictures on her latest phone to inform her shopping spree. And by the time she's done, she's bought half a wardrobe, some makeup, an expensive wig, and a book to brush up on her French. If Aviv returns before she can put it all to use, Nico figures she'll just bash his brains out with the book instead.
And then she waits.
It's the hardest part, because it involves staying still. She's got eyes on the Club before it opens, but Cecelia isn't among the first to come in, which might've been unexpected but vraiment chouette of her. The hours crawl by, and Nico begins to think she won't show at all, and that she'll have to do this all again tomorrow. The desire to bash Aviv's head in becomes all the more appealing a fantasy as she gives up and decides to enter the club for a drink. Maybe a chance to get information out of someone else. Another bartender, perhaps, or one of the patrons.
She orders a martini, which isn't her drink of choice but the only one on the menu she remembers how to order in French. It's been years since she's had any practice, and since then she's gotten rusty. But she's always had a knack for picking up languages, learning the essentials quicker than most. Unless it's English. Fuck English.
And it's right there, with her martini glass freshly in hand as she turns to survey the crowd — that she spots her. Cecelia Hathaway, sweeping through the Club with all the airs of an eagle in flight. Slipping off her stool, Nicoleta begins to move.
She catches up, navigating the crowd and cutting into the woman's path from a diagonal, twisting abruptly to stage an accidental run-in. The alcohol in her glass sloshes over the rim and she startles back, feigning surprise. "Excusez, madame."
Her native tongue bleeds heavily into her French, but all she needs is the woman's attention. "Cecelia! Quel belle surprise! And oh, look... We have same haircut now."
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"My dear Val, you always know how to lift my spirits," Cecelia exclaimed with a warm smile, setting down the bags of scarves and pastries before embracing her friend. As they settled into the sunroom, Cecelia listened attentively to Val's musings about kombucha and pregnancy, nodding sympathetically at her predicament.
"Consider me your distraction, darling," Cecelia replied, her tone gentle and reassuring. "And as for your baby shower, I haven't forgotten. In fact, I've been cooking up quite the plan." With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she leaned in closer to Val, her excitement palpable.
"I thought, instead of a traditional baby shower, why not indulge in a spa weekend getaway? Just you, me, and a few of our closest friends, relaxing and pampering ourselves to our hearts' content. It'll be the perfect escape from all the chaos, and a wonderful way to celebrate the impending arrival of little girl," she suggested, her voice tinged with anticipation. "What do you say?"
@ceceliaahathaway
Location: Cecelia's House
Date: April 15th
"Did you know, my dearest Cecelia, that you cannot even drink Kombucha while you're pregnant? Not even an ounce. Something about being raw and unpaturized and the possibility of high alcohol contents."
She swept into the sunroom with a bag on each arm. One full of spring scarves and one full of pastries. If she couldn't drink during this stressful time then Val was determined to drown herself in clothes, food, and her best friend's company.
"Please distract me. I distinctly remember you offering," a dainty cough, "mentioning a baby shower at the awards party." Not able to speak for long due to the events that had unfolded and the aftermath of dealing with it, Val was craving more.
In truth, they were still handling things and they would be until Lisette was safely home. She just needed a few hours to loosen her shoulders and uncleanch her teeth. Cecelia was her greatest comfort and she felt almost no remorse in hiding away in her presence for the afternoon.
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Cece: That's fine, darling. Just send me an email for my records and attach your medical certificate. Xx
Text | @ceceliaahathaway
Maria: Do you think I could have the night off?
Maria: I'm not feeling the greatest.
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Cecelia's heart raced as Gideon's tension radiated through the darkness, his grip tightening around her wrists. Despite his attempt to maintain composure, she could sense the uncertainty in his voice, juxtaposed by her own excitement. What? George and Isobel, didn't do things in halves.
The abrupt, piercing scream shattered the oppressive silence, its reverberations echoing through the darkness and stirring a tumult of conflicting emotions within Cecelia. While her pulse quickened with a surge of exhilaration, a whisper of caution cautioned her against recklessness.
She understood the gravity of their situation, the lingering spectre of danger following in the wake of recent events. Yet, beneath the veneer of apprehension, an undeniable thrill thrummed through her veins, beckoning her towards the unknown depths of the tunnel. Besides, neither George nor Izzy had any associations with the shadowy underworld that Cecelia found herself tangentially involved with.
"Of course, darling. Please, be careful. I'll wait right here for you..." A pause, a laugh, was he kidding himself? "Let's not delude ourselves. I'm not staying behind. I'm coming with you, because clearly, someone needs to watch your back. Remember, I'm trained in three martial arts and rhythmic gymnastics. What are you going to do? Direct our murderer to death?"
She crept deeper into the darkness of the tunnel, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls, before she finally reached a weathered door. With a creak, she nudged it open, wondering where they had ended up now. She groped around cautiously, making sure to avoid Mr. Sensitive Gideon in the process, until her fingers found a light switch on the wall. The butler's pantry? Her gaze snapped to an unsettling scene unfolding before them: a bloodied knife resting ominously on the counter, its presence accentuated by a trail of crimson stains. Their next clue!
"What do you--" The shriek wail of a car alarm sliced through the tense atmosphere, jolting Cecelia into recognition—it was her own vehicle's alarm. What in the world? Had she accidentally triggered it with her keys? No, that couldn't be right; she'd checked her coat and left the keys at the coat check earlier. "Apologies, that's my car… just a moment," she interjected, momentarily breaking character as she swiftly made her way through the house, dismissing a few concerned guests along the way. Retrieving her coat, she extracted the keys and hastened outside to rectify the situation.
As Cecelia stepped outside, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach at the sight before her. Her cherished Aston Martin, once a symbol of her (and Adam's) success and refinement, now served as a canvas for her deepest shame—photographs of her affair with Ayaz plastered across its elegant surface. Each image was a piercing dagger to her heart, a cruel reminder of the betrayal that had shattered not only her carefully constructed facade but also led to Adam's recent departure. He's not coming back, Cece.
"No..., no, NO!" She scrambled, paying no mind to Izzy's concerned inquiries or the bewildered stares of the other guests as she approached her tarnished car. "No, no, no, no, no!!" With trembling hands, she began to tear at the damning images, each rip a testament to the unraveling of her carefully guarded secrets. Was he looking? Was he judging?
Weighted with sorrow, Cecelia painstakingly cleared a small space on the windscreen, her eyes refusing to look anywhere else.
The once-glamorous evening now lay in ruins, its allure overshadowed by the harsh reality of her own indiscretions and the painful consequences they had brought with them.
With a heavy heart and a soul burdened by regret, she sank into the driver's seat, the echoes of her shattered illusions ringing in her ears. Without a word, she turned the key in the ignition, the engine's low purr a mournful accompaniment to her solitary departure. With one last glance up towards the house, the guests, and Gideon, Cecelia swallowed and broke away.
This was the end.
He practically has to break into a jog to keep up with Cecelia's imperial march across the ballroom. Feeling certain he'd manage it in far more dignified a manner were it not for the vice-grip on his hand. They enter the library, immediately ensconed by silence.
"Didn't expect to see you here either. Didn't know you knew the couple." Gideon begins carefully, trying to read her expression as she sweeps purposefully across the floor. Is she still mad at him for last time? For his abruptness with her on Awards' night?... But she'd accosted him in the men's washroom, is it honestly on him to apologize for that?
"Hey, about last time—" But if she cares or not about last time, Cecelia hides it well, cutting him off with instructions on looking for clues. "Right. Secret passageways." Gideon echoes, unable to hold back a disbelieving scoff. What does she think this is? Scooby Doo and Guess Who? There's no way George and Isobel would splurge that much money just to—
A loud click echoes in the chamber, followed by the sound of cranks and pulleys as one section of a bookcase gives way to exactly that. Oh God. He doesn't have to glance at Cece to imagine the look of sheer triumph on her face. Who'd thought it was a good idea to indulge that? Sure enough, Cecelia starts to sing, the bossy tone he's used to hearing slipping into something buttery smooth as she croons the chorus to New York, New York. It's a low, pleasing sound, and he's disturbed to find she can more than carry a tune. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given she must possess some eye and ear for talent to hire the Vixens she manages, but he'd never thought...
No, he'd rather not think of that, actually. And doesn't need to dwell on it further, as Cecelia turns away and disappears through the new opening in the bookcase, leaving him to look around once more in amazement, wondering what other trinkets in the library were actually just props set up for the party's benefit. Had they really spent good money on this??... He's starting to wonder why he's friends with these people.
'GIDEON, GET IN HERE!'
Christ. He practically jumps out of his skin and it has nothing to do with any farcical possibility of murder. "Ladylike." It's delivered on half a sigh, half a grumble as he rolls his eyes and moves to follow in the direction of her voice. "It's Mr. Holliday, actually. One would think you'd know that, given we've been married... How many years has it been, Dearest?" He's put on his American, but there's a good deal of sarcasm in it this time. Truth be told, as the Rutherford begins fumbling in the dark, he'd rather discuss Guildford. If she and Adam got out safely. If all her girls did, too. Something real.
"Anyway, the theme of this whole shindig..." He starts to opine in the dark. "It's a bit... much, no?" To call it uncouth would be putting it mildly. "I mean after what happened. Not that George and Isobel would know, they weren't in attendance as far as I know bu- Hey!! Watch it, that's my-... Would you just-" His 1920s wife has taken to batting her palms over his torso, in search of a cellphone he doesn't actually have on him. Trying to restrain her arm before she pokes his eye out, Gideon grits out;
"I know we're meant to be married but for goodne-"
A shrill scream goes up somewhere behind them and they freeze, one of Cecelia's wrists in each of his hands. He can see the whites of her eyes in the dark, but where she looks excited, thrilled — he's lived too many of these scenarios in real life to play-act the appropriate response. And wouldn't this be just the perfect set-up for a real life homicide?... He's being irrational, he knows, but dread begins to trickle down the back of his neck. He releases her wrists. "How 'bout you just stay here, okay? I'll go take a look. You wait, and when I return we can go through the rest of the tunnel together."
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@msmelissalin
Event: A High Stakes Poker Game
Dated: 21st of April, 2024
Location: Top Secret (Invite Only, snoops).
Her life felt like it was unraveling, fraying at the edges with each passing day. She was barely clinging to sanity. Her only solace? A ball of fur named Happy. Her daughters were engrossed in their studies, and she couldn't bear the thought of them resenting her too, knowing she had caused their father pain. As for her friends, burdening them with her troubles seemed unfair; they had their own losses to grapple with or were joyously building new lives and new babies. She was alone with her anguish, desperately craving an escape from the overwhelming weight of it all.
Alone, forgotten, and hesitant to risk a breakdown in the office around her girls, Cecelia found solace in gambling. She was skilled at it too—almost too skilled.
She knew what this kid wanted her to believe he had—two Queens in the hole. But did she buy it? Hardly. Why? Because one was already on the river, and she held the other two. Still, she'd play along with his game. Even if it meant cleaning out his parents' credit card, which he likely swiped a few hours prior. BarelyLegal was BarelyPuberty, and she had to give him credit for making it this far.
"Oh no..." she typed, scooping up the pot yet again. She popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth and scratched Happy's head with her toes, another night of victory and companionship. And then... ping.
What was this? You've been invited to attend... Her toes paused their gentle massage across Happy's forehead; he let out a protesting sigh, but her focus had shifted. She had always excelled at various endeavours, but this invitation suggested something more—it whispered that she was not just good, but exceptional! Say no more. This was her kryptonite. With a decisive click of her trackpad, she promptly RSVP'd. Now, what to wear?
The game started at midnight, so she had time, but not all the time. With a push of her chair, she had it out, Happy trotting to catch up as she flew up her stairs to find something to wear.
Two hours later, she ascended to the top floor of the Rosewood Hotel in London. The room looked expensive. Anticipating encounters with a few familiar faces from Vixen (money, Vixen attracted money), she had dressed to impress. While rumours might've been circulating about her recent indiscretion (thanks to Van Duyn's lack of adequate security), she refused to let gossip paint her as someone lounging in sweats and a Bulls shirt every night—well, she had done that earlier, but not tonight, not here.
Retrieving her phone and the QR code she'd received, Cece effortlessly checked in and paid her buy-in, securing her chips before confidently claiming her seat at the table. As for drinks? Certainly, but only after she polished off the red raspberry slush puppie from the nearby SPAR. What can she say? Despite her refined demeanor, she still had a knack for embracing her Yankee roots.
Amidst a few courteous greetings, Cece couldn't help but sense that some were already underestimating her. But that's alright; she'd make sure they regretted it as she swept the table and perhaps invested in a new horse with their misplaced assumptions. Just as she was organizing her chips, the door swung open, revealing a vision of radiance. Locking eyes with the newcomer, Cece took a deliberate sip from her drink. "Who said you needed to be a Goddess to join the party?" she quipped with a playful smirk.
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Assaulted! Assaulted by hard, expensive paper, and the hand of a brute. She hastily wiped at her cheek, realising it might soon become evidence. "Congratulations, you've officially devolved!"
The man sandwiched between them—Parcel, was it?—appeared uneasy. Well, she was taking no responsibility for that. He could just as easily attribute his discomfort to the other blonde; after all, she wasn't the one insulting him. Reaching across, she snatched Johnathan's paddle and, with a furtive glance around for security, flung it into the pot of the nearest potted fern. Checkmate.
With a flick of her hand, smoothing her precisely trimmed hair (every eight days), Cece lifted her paddle for the last bid. "$10,001," she announced, her tone carrying a touch of flair and finality. He couldn't outbid her without a paddle. Auction rules.
AND, "sold to paddle number 42, congratulations!" With a smirk, she rose from her seat, gracefully excusing herself from Perty's presence. Dodging Johnathan with practiced ease (SUCKER!), she strutted over to the man orchestrating the successful bids.
Now, all that remained was finding a willing accomplice to help her wrangle her purchase into the back of her car. While it wasn't feasible to drop the picture off at the hospital today, she'd have Ernest, her lighting maestro, on speed dial for a quick resolution once she decided whether she preferred warm or cool white to illuminate the bear.
Johnathan drew back when she leaned over, as if the smell of her perfume would make him break out into hives. And there came the itch, of needing to slam someone's face against the chair in front of him. He wonders, since Cecilia, though it was beyond him, magically counted as a woman, if Percy would be feeling extra charitable today.
Did she just..?
"What the fuck--" Johnathan hissed, eyes widening as he slowly turned his head to shoot her an incredulous look.
"Language, please." Percy implored.
Yeah, Johnathan thought, that doughy fucking face could do with some kneading. But alas, he had other priorities.
Snatching the guide out of Percy's hand, he reached over the sweaty fuck to return the gesture, not particularly caring where it landed. "Cecilia," he spoke quietly, "Kindly--" A beat. "--Fuck off."
A heavy sigh left him, and once again he had to raise the ridiculous paddle. "$9,000." Obviously, that wasn't enough to deter her, and he rolled his eyes as she made another bid. He fought the urge to grab her paddle and throw it across the room. "$10,000."
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Dearest? She had to hand it to him.. stuffy Gideon Rutherford, was trying. She smiled, taking his hand and dragging him (why did he have to be such a stubborn mule about everything?) out of the ball room and down the hall into the library. Brilliant! She smirked, realising she was the sole sleuth who had caught onto the clue pointing her here: the pair of reading glasses clasped between the fallen Mrs. Future Van Duyn's cold, 'dead' fingers. "Okay, you search the collection of boring Medical books--" If there was a clue about murder it had to be somewhere between the real Van Duyn's textbooks, "and I'll check for secret passageways."
She pulled a book back on the opposite shelf, Wurthering Heights, no, too obvious. Nothing happened. "You know," she remarked casually, "I must admit, I didn't expect to find you here..." She treaded cautiously, aware of the delicate ground she stood on with him. Yet, she found herself less concerned about the possibility of stumbling and falling through. Somehow, amidst the chaos of her life, Gideon Rutherford's indifference toward her no longer held the weight it once did a few weeks ago.
Another book, another nothing. Sigh. "Anything?" She really thought the next clue had to be here. Where else would Van Duyn need her reading glasses? Maybe the kitchen? Did she have any flour on those lifeless fingers of hers?
Cece's own fingers trailed along the weathered spines of the books, her gaze darting around the dimly lit library. As she reached for a seemingly ordinary volume, her hand brushed against something unexpected—a hidden latch disguised as part of the shelf. With a soft click, a section of the bookcase swung open, revealing a concealed passage.
She turned, her eyes locking onto Gideon's, before singing, "These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray.. Right through the very heart of it.." Broadway? Your loss.
"Well, come on, this might've been the very passage the murderer used to sneak into the ballroom we need to follow it!" Intrigued by her own wit and gumption, Cece barely hesitated for a moment before stepping into the narrow corridor. The air grew cooler as she ventured further, the only sound her quiet footsteps echoing against the stone walls. Was he following? "GIDEON, GET IN HERE!"
She reached out, fumbling around for a source of light, before coming across Gideon's whatever-doo,"Well, darling, I know it's the 30s, but surely you can summon a bit of modern magic from your pocket, can't you? I refuse to navigate blindly just for the sake of historical accuracy—SHH." She slapped her hand across his mouth. "Did you hear that?" A shiver ran down her spine. There was definitely something else lurking in the tunnel with them. Something was on the move.
Outside the tunnel, unbeknownst to Cece, the blonde's blackmailer was currently lurking on the premises, fashioning her car into a scandalous scrapbook filled with compromising snapshots featuring her and Ayaz.
There's a reason why he'd nearly failed drama in high school.
And the many afternoons he'd skip the class in favour of sneaking up the rooftop to smoke cigars with friends is only part of the reason why. He doesn't have a single dramaturgical bone in his body, and after a failed relationship with one of Britain's biggest and most beloved stars, he's been put off the art of theatre almost entirely.
Which means he's less than thrilled to be invited to George Van Duyn's murder mystery affair; doubling, in fact, as the man's engagement party. But the number of friends who hadn't entirely turned their backs on him after his messy divorce with Katherine were few and far in between, and it happens that George is such a one. So after running the gamut of possible excuses for declining the invitation, he finds himself very reluctantly acquiescing the honour.
... In a ridiculous suit George's fiancée has found for him out of some familial chest of horrors that likely hasn't been touched since Churchill went to the Western Front.
Brilliant.
"You'll be the most authentic man here!" Isobel crows in delight, the silver bangles on her wrist clinking musically as she claps her hands together. Gideon struggles to return her smile, feeling awkward and ill at ease in the stiff, tight, suit as she ushers him back into the ballroom. "Remember, Gid," She whispers theatrically, before giving him a little shove towards the growing number of guests. "You're Mr. Holliday now!"
Mr. Holliday. Right.
He suspects this isn't the time to tell Isobel that he's forgotten his character card at home, and apart from the name badge she's pinned to his breast pocket, remembers hardly anything about the personality he's meant to be portraying. A bigshot director. Well they were all the same, weren't they?... American, right? Or was it Brit—
"Oh, Mrs Holiday, I'm sure I don't have to introduce you to your husband."
Shit. That's his name, that's... — Cece??
He hadn't taken note of the woman standing just a couple of feet away, who twirls to face him now, a vision in perfect cream and art deco beads. His stomach plummets in surprise. Speechless, as she goes to hand him her empty glass. "Didn't know you knew our charming hosts, Ms. Hatha-"
The room's pitched in sudden darkness, a melodramatic scream piercing the air and saving him from his first faux pas. Holliday... It's Holliday. You're playing a role, you git.
He's still clutching Cecelia's glass like a clown when the lights come back on. Isobel's currently on the floor, with what looks suspiciously like fruit punch staining the front of her dress. Even from where he's standing he can see the amused twitch on the Dead Woman's lips. It isn't until Cecelia Hathaway stumbles into him that he remembers he's supposed to be doing... Something. His arm snaps around her by sheer impulse, but it feels ten kinds of wrong and he hopes dearly that Adam's skipped out on this occasion tonight. Is that why he got saddled the role of playing Cecelia's fucking husband??
Because it's far from the first time the universe is having a laugh at his expense, he helps her right herself and nods with a complete and utter lack of conviction as she suggests investigating the library... For clues. "Ah, yes." He intones in a passably flat imitation of a well to do American. "Let's do that... Dearest."
#communicating via story#with gideon rutherford#is it a rat? is it a Gideon's sanity hurrying away? is it the dust monster? who knows tune into Gideon's reply to find out
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She was thinking the playroom. Yes, right in the centre of the room, where all the children could enjoy it. Cece wondered if they'd mine her getting in a lighting director. Although it was a donation, she was certain her name would appear on some form of appreciation plaque. She didn't want to be remembered as the donor responsible for poorly lit art.
"$6000"
Her eyes practically did a somersault at the mention of $6000. Was he serious, or did he accidentally stumble into a stand-up routine? Why would he want an oil painting of a teddy bear? He seemed more likely to decorate his house with nothing but a dumbbell and a Pamela Anderson poster.
Leaning over Percy and his carnation, she quipped, "Could you possibly extract yourself from my life for just five seconds?" Her paddle, raising as she did, "$6500." Surely, he wasn't---
With a fierce glare and a tightening grip on her auction guide, she unleashed a satisfying slap on the back of his insufferable neck. "Cut it out!" she declared, shooting an apologetic look towards Percy. As she leaned back, she raised her paddle once more, announcing, "$8000! And let's make this the grand finale, shall we?"
They needed everyone they had to be on the ground. Whether it was making the Italians feel fucking useless or reminding the Russians that one more fuck up would be their undoing, no one could rest until they got Gianna back.
However, the world kept turning. Johnathan had the power to do many things but moving the date of an auction was not one of them. An undesirable painting, one that no one would want, was what he'd been advised to choose as a carrier for an important shipment. No one will bid on it, we'll make sure of it, they'd said.
It'd sounded easy enough that he'd delegated the job to a lieutenant, but at this moment in time, their skills were needed elsewhere. But just because Johnathan decided to do this himself didn't mean that he had the energy or desire to hide just how little he wanted to be here.
A flash of blonde hair and the most exasperating voice, however, made him regret every decision. And when she spoke to him, he simply walked past her before she could finish her sentence, even though a quip about how he could've gotten rid of his pocket change with her sat on the tip of his tongue.
As if the night hadn't started off to a terrible fucking start, one disaster happens after another. Cecilia was in fucking breathing distance and the man between them smelt like sweat. He introduced himself as Percy, and asked the both of them if they were having a good time. Don't fucking talk to me, Johnathan had replied. Then, the painting, if you could even call it that, came around and she'd stolen the first bid.
He shoots her a glare, pupils turning into pinpricks, staring right past Percy who was clearly judging him, as he wondered what the fuck she was playing at. "What a fucking joke," he muttered lowly under his breath. Raising his own stupid little paddle, he announces, "$6,000." Then, he leans forward and turns to her, "Take a fucking day off, Cecilia."
Percy shushes him before reprimanding him, "Quiet, please."
"Shut up," Johanthan says, before leaning back in his seat.
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@drrutherford
Event: A Murder Mystery Party (with a special guest star: Cecelia's blackmailer)
Dated: 20th of April, 2024
Location: The Van Duyn Estate (mutual friends)
You are cordially invited... The words danced elegantly across the cream-coloured card held delicately between Cece's fingers as she arrived at the imposing gates of the Van Duyn estate. The air was thick with anticipation, and a subtle breeze rustled the leaves of the towering oak trees that lined the winding driveway.
Cece took a moment to admire the grandeur of her surroundings before tucking the invitation and character card into her evening bag. Tonight, she would step into the shoes of Renee Holliday, once a dazzling star of the vaudeville stage and now a renowned American film actress. The role seemed like a perfect fit for her natural charm and theatrical flair. And she had researched it throughly.
Renee was precisely how Cece envisioned herself in the 1930s - successful, an artist, and married to a promising director. But why was she currently in London? She found herself there shooting a film, directed and written by her new husband. Of course, her marital ties weren't the reason why she'd secured the role. Renee had earned the gig due to her ability to steal a scene and perform a handstand on a moving elephant.
She was a star. So, naturally, both she and her husband had been extended invitations to one of London's most renowned annual parties. Speaking of her husband, she'd yet to meet the man who'd play her consort tonight. Would it be too much to ask that he wore black tie and knew how to make a good Marsala Martini? Cece had her fingers and toes crossed.
The doors swung open to reveal a scene straight out of a Hollywood film set. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the opulent foyer, while the sound of laughter and lively conversation filled the air. Cece's heart fluttered with excitement as she stepped into the midst of the glamorous crowd, her eyes scanning the room for familiar faces. "Ah, Miss--" She raised an eyebrow, lifting her newly blinged out ring finger, "Ah Mrs Holiday, so glad you managed to find us. May I take your coat."
"You may." She was greeted with smiles and nods of recognition as she mingled with the other guests, each one a character in their own right. The atmosphere crackled with intrigue and excitement, and Cece couldn't shake the feeling that tonight would be one to remember.
"Oh, Mrs Holiday, I'm sure I don't have to introduce you to your husband." With a laugh already escaping her lips, she turned around eagerly, prepared to meet the man with whom she'd have the pleasure of solving a murder tonight. Oh, undoubtedly, she was determined to win, she wouldn't have dragged herself away from Happy and her pint of Ben and Jerry's otherwise. "I don't—" She stopped mid-sentence, her laughter fading as her eyes met his. It seemed almost too good to be true. Gideon Rutherford, dressed in a suit... for the second time... in less than thirty days. "Now, now, sweetheart, my glass is empty. You know I'd only trust you to get my Marsala just right."
Just then, as the lights flickered and a scream pierced the air, Cece instinctively grabbed Gideon's hand, squeezing it tightly—pure theatrics, of course. When the lights came back on, a collective gasp followed by another scream echoed through the room. There, in a heap on the floor, lay Mrs. Van Duyn, lifeless. Cece's knees wobbled, and she leaned against Gideon's chest, feigning a half-faint. "Oh, darling… How dreadful…" She managed to compose herself, knowing she had to. With the news that the police couldn't be reached due to the power outage and that this murder wouldn't be the last, it was up to them, the guests, to seek justice for Mrs. Van Duyn. Locking eyes with Gideon, Cece took charge as the room began to clear. "Darling shall we investigate the library for clues?"
#i know this is in poor taste considering an 'actual' murder just took place#but in all fairness cece doesn't really care much for them#she also needs some idk distraction she's in the denial stage#hi ho#communicating via story#with gideon rutherford
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