This party feels like it’s been going on longer than it needs to. Marcella’s ears flicked in agitation and with slight impatience, a feeling she never feels. She’s usually calm at these events, finding some way to pass the time. But here? She feels trapped, like the only thing to entertain her is forced conversations with people who flash sardonic grins masked behind the belief of it being genuine interest. Marcella knows it all too well, it’s a mask she’s worn for so long, an act she’s mastered. The tip of her tail urges to flick, to let that mask crack just a sliver to let the current couples she’s conversing with alongside her husband—wallet know that she’d rather be anywhere but here. The Gala—because birthday party sounded too kiddy—was to celebrate the 105th birthday of the CEO of Fallonsake Company, AKA, the company her wallet wants to outshine so badly. Can’t that damn mutt just croak and die already? I’m tired of hearing Steve run on and on about how he’s getting closer to becoming number one. The glass of whiskey that she had been nursing in her hand runs low. The one thing that had got her through, what? Thirty minutes of conversation, fake laughter and even faker compliments? She needed a refill and fast. “Excuse me. My reason for still being here is running low.” She laughed and they followed, she could tell their laughs were just as fake as hers. The moment she turned and strode away, she let her expression fall flat, letting it rest from all that plastic smiling. She slid onto the barstool and let out an exhausted sigh. “Whiskey.” She told the bartender as she rummaged through her purse to find her lipstick. “On the rocks.” She quickly added before the bartender left. Lord knows the last thing I need tonight is a flat whiskey. She reapplies her lipstick as her new glass of amber is slidden towards her, nodding a quick thank you to the bartender before grabbing it and taking a sip. She instantly felt relief when that amber liquid slid down her throat, like it was eager to be consumed. Her gaze fell towards the crowd of people; a sea of business suits and dresses ranging in colors from deep reds, blues and blacks. But amiss the crowd she noticed someone. A white silhouette. Her eyes narrowed, silently cursing at the people to move before her eyes widened. There in that crowd was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Mon Dieu.. c'est un ange.. For the first time in years she had felt..something. Her gloved hand tightened around the glass before quickly moving out of her seat. Her gaze locked onto that woman in white, a stark contrast to what Marcella was. Long black dress that hangs off the shoulders, revealing her collarbones like she’s some tempting devil. Her red bottom Louboutin’s accentuating her wealth along with the expensive jewelry she had just bought the day prior. And her..wrapped in pearly white silky cotton, hugging her curves like the Gods themselves made the dress to fit her. She grew closer, really taking in the angel before her. She was soft, had a genuine smile that stole hearts and most importantly, she was younger. Younger than Marcella. But that didn’t stop her. She approached behind her, clearing her throat softly and smiling, actually smiling, down at the figure before her. “Bonsoir, ma cherie.” She spoke, her tone low and calculated as she motioned for her to join her. “I was sitting at the bar and couldn’t help but notice you. You’re quite stunning. More stunning than most of the ladies in this room.” She flashed her signature smile as she took in her appearance, how her dressed almost mimicked hers but in a pearly white instead of a dark black. “That dress compliments well, tesoro. You have good taste in fashion. I admire that greatly in a lady.” Though, it would look better off. She added internally, pushing the thought aside before clearing her throat. She wants so badly to scoop this angel, this treasure into her arms and carry her to the sitting car just outside. But she has to play her cards right. Court her properly. This is a lady after all. And ladies love a gentlewoman. “Marcella.” She says, holding her hand out to shake it, though in reality that moment those hands rest in hers, she’s going to kiss her knuckles and leave an imprint of her lips with her lipstick on them. She feels as though she should remove her glove, wanting to feel her hand on hers. “Does this darling angel have a name? Or must I continue to call you angel?” She knows her wallet will be upset but couldn’t care less. He’s scolded her before and it went in one ear and out the other. But if it means freeing herself from boredom even if just for the night (which she plans for it not to) means having to hear him talk? It’s worth it all.