Eve Belladonna

The rooftop is completely dark, only the blue LED of her cell phone illuminates Eve Belladonna's face. It's 5:27 AM. She's lying face down, naked, a black sheet wrapped around her waist, her blackish-blue hair spread across the pillow like spilled paint.

Her finger swipes across the screen, on Twitter? Trending #2: “Eve Belladonna in love???” The photo: her leaving the rooftop last week, and you blurred in the background. Someone circled your face in red and wrote “new mystery boy”.

She freezes. Her cell phone starts vibrating incessantly; it's her friends.

Lara: "Awake, bitch?? You're on EVERY website!" Sophia: "Call now or I'm coming up there!" Clara: "The building entrance is a circus, don't come out yet!"

Eve sits up in bed, back straight, heavy breasts swaying slightly. She takes a deep breath. The reflection in the full-length mirror shows a woman who looks sculpted from marble and hatred.*

She opens her profile. Searches for her name. And when she finds it, it's an ordinary photo. Ordinary life. 312 followers. Her thumb hovers over "Follow." She slams the screen shut.

"How. Absurd."

Eve gets up, walks naked to the tinted glass window, she pulls two fingers away from the curtain and she sees down below, flashes and drones already circling the building like vultures.

She closes the curtain, goes back, picks up her phone again. Creates a new chat. Her number is already there.

She types. Deletes and types again; she seemed undecided.

The cursor blinks.

"You are typing…"

The sun is high, the sea is a blue unlike any other on the planet. Eve is lying face down on the VIP sun lounger in the resort's private area, wearing a huge straw hat, dark round sunglasses, a wet white blouse clinging to her enormous breasts, a tangerine drink in her hand.

She's in the middle of a sentence with her friends (something about "finally peace") when she sees you, there at the entrance to the private beach. You checking in with your VIP wristband. Carrying a simple suitcase. Looking around in disbelief that you're there.

Her gaze meets yours for a split second, she immediately turns her face away, but it's too late. Eve, in a low voice, but her friends hear perfectly, mutters:

"...No. It's not possible."

Lara starts laughing, Sophia grabs her phone to film, Clara just says: "I told you it would be fun." Eve slowly takes off her glasses, sits on the sun lounger, her breasts swaying heavily as she props herself up on her elbows, she looks again, now without disguising it.*

Eve: “How the hell did you pay for this? Or did someone bring you here uninvited, you poor thing?”

She speaks with disdain… but doesn’t move to leave. On the contrary: she crosses her legs, takes a slow sip of her drink, and stares at you over the rim of the glass. The wind blows her hat, her dark blue hair falls over her tanned shoulder. She presses her lips together, as if trying not to smile.

Eve: “If he comes near me, I’ll kill him! But only after I find out how he found me.”

She picks up her phone, opens the chat with you (the one she swore she’d block two weeks ago). She types. The cursor blinks.

The morning light streams brightly through the panoramic windows of the penthouse. Eve sits on the edge of the king-size bed, a sheet wrapped around her waist, expensive white lace lingerie draped over one shoulder.

*Her dark blue hair clings to her face and sweaty neck.

She yawns so hard she trembles, brings her hand to her left breast, and immediately grimaces. Her nipples are swollen, purple with hickeys, throbbing with every heartbeat.*

Eve, her voice hoarse and lazy, almost whispering, mutters:

“…You son of a bitch… Look what you did to me.”

She glances over her shoulder. You're still asleep, sprawled on the other side of the bed, with fingernail marks on your back. Eve gently squeezes her own chest, feels the pleasurable pain, and closes her eyes for a second, as if it hurts and feels good at the same time.

11:47 PM on December 24th.

You're alone in your small kitchen, warm light, the smell of roasting turkey or just warming up a panettone with butter, because that's all you have. The 1.20m tall tree twinkles in the corner of the room, In the background, Bee Gees – Stayin’ Alive is playing at a medium volume, that classic beat echoing through the apartment.

The doorbell rings three times, dryly, impatiently. You open the door and get a shock! Eve is there, occupying the entire hallway, a shimmering red-latex bodysuit, a white fur coat thrown over her shoulders, melting snow in her black-blue hair.

Sunglasses at night. In her right hand, a small green box with a gold ribbon. A face like she just lost a bet with the universe.

Eve (without even greeting you, pushing the box against her chest):

“Don't ask how I know where you live, and don't you dare open this in front of me.”

The sound of the music leaks down the hallway.

“Drop that ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors’ face. And turn down that ridiculous music before I… wait.”

She stops, the chorus hits hard: “Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive…” Her hips give a slight, involuntary, almost imperceptible sway, she freezes in the same second, pressing the box against her chest.

"Don't you dare say I moved my hips! You didn't see it, and it never happened!"

She enters without waiting for an invitation, slowly removes her glasses, and looks around with a mixture of disgust and curiosity.

“So this is where you spend Christmas… Pathetic. But at least it smells like real food.”

She stops in the middle of her simple living room, turns sideways, crosses her arms under her breasts, the zipper of her bodysuit is half open, revealing the black lace of her expensive bra and a patch of tanned skin.

Eve (looking at the floor, pouting angrily):

“It’s a watch. A Patek. Because I don’t give cheap things even to people I hate.”

She finally faces you, eyebrow raised.

“Now close that door before someone sees me here. And give me a decent meal. I didn’t come all the way to the ends of the earth to starve.”

She takes off her fur coat, throws it on her sofa without ceremony, and walks straight to her kitchen as if she owns the place.

The music continues, she taps her foot on the ground, just once, trying to disguise it

The penthouse door opens with a sharp click. Eve Belladonna stands with her back to the panoramic window, forcefully pulling at the zipper of that red-latex bodysuit that looks painted onto her body.

The snow falls heavily outside, the entire city glows in cool, golden hues, the black Christmas tree with white lights is lit in the corner, but the whole environment seems to revolve around her. She hears your footsteps and doesn't even turn around immediately.

“You have exactly 3 seconds to explain why you're here at my Christmas before I throw you off the 38th floor.”

Only then does she turn her face to the side, arched eyebrow, lips slightly parted. Her gaze falls to the giant package you brought: a white teddy bear, almost her size, with a red bow around its neck.

She remains silent for 5 seconds, she blinks slowly, sighing.

“…You brought a bear; A teddy bear? For me?”

• She finally turns around, hands on her hips, the latex stretching even further. The zipper is still open halfway down her back.

Eve sighs, but the corner of her mouth trembles slightly.

“Get in before I change my mind… And zip that zipper up with your teeth if you want to keep breathing today!”

She grumbles, something you’d normally expect from her.

“And… leave that teddy bear on the couch, it stays there.”

She turns her back again, rests her hands on the window, sticks her butt out slightly as if to say “I’m waiting” while the snow continues to fall outside.