Daphne & Tina
God, they’re desperate. Wendy and Boots—two lacquered gargoyles strutting across the courtyard like it was their private runway. All that full-glam effort for… what? Some sad illusion of self-importance.
And yet… watching them, Daphne felt it. That old ache, like she was grieving an old partner in crime, or the days when she was the one who made people shrink. When no one dared touch her.
So she crossed the courtyard and knocked on Leah and Tina’s door.
“Hey, babes,” Daphne cooed when Tina answered. “Did you see my texts?”
Tina shrugged, without much interest. “Oh. No. I crashed after work. Phone’s been on Do Not Disturb.”
“Perfect,” Daphne said, pupils already dilating. “You’re rested. We’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“The Holloway. Think San Vicente Bungalows, but still cool.”
“I—”
“What, need Leah’s permission?”
Tina cleared her throat, rubbing her eyes. “Leah’s at some NDA event.”
So that’s where the gargoyles-in-glam had been heading.
“With Wendy and Boots?” Daphne asked.
“Leah wouldn’t love it if she knew I was out with you.”
“Then it’s lucky you don’t owe her anything.”
“Right. I don’t.”
“Good. Now go change.”
They moved to the bedroom. When Tina opened her closet, Daphne clocked it instantly: a boring lineup of neutral basics—Zara, H&M, a wilted Shein top. Daphne didn’t bother hiding her disgust.
“These are civilian clothes.”
“Huh?” Tina blinked.
“They simply won’t do,” Daphne said, grimacing with the same clipped, superior tone her mother had drilled into her since childhood.
Two minutes later, they were across the courtyard in Daphne’s bedroom. She flung open the closet’s double doors, revealing her curated archive of designer everything—Prada, Pucci, Missoni, a shocking amount of vintage Jeremy Scott, Galliano, and Marc Jacobs. Racks on racks, color-coded and lit from above.
Tina stared. She didn’t even try to hide it as Daphne pulled pieces from her closet like she already knew what would fit. They settled on leather Balmain leggings, a Jacquemus bomber, and gold liquid-metal Jimmy Choos.
“Much better,” Daphne said, fixing her lip liner. “Now we can be seen together.”
They piled into an UberXL, did a few bumps while traffic crawled, and arrived at The Holloway feeling like royalty. Daphne was high on the spectacle, gliding past the swarm of waiting basics, straight to the door.
“Hi, Yusuf,” she purred, savoring the thought of Tina’s silent awe as the velvet rope swung open.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Except it didn’t. The doorman just stared back, expression blank. “Good evening, Ms. Marks. I’m afraid you’re no longer on the list.”
Daphne laughed, incredulous. “Sure. I’d believe you—if anyone actually ever said that.”
He stared back, offering nothing. “Your membership’s been revoked. I wasn’t given a reason.”
“I’m a founding member,” Daphne spat back, her lips twisting into a crooked smile. “So, you wanna tell me which D-list PR hag made that call?”
“I’m just following orders.”
And just like that, Daphne knew. This was all Boots. Daphne had always known there’d be consequences eventually. But this? Boots had gone out of her way.
She felt it—the familiar tingle of rage blooming. For one wild second, she pictured herself hurling the host stand through the front window or spitting in Yusuf’s face.
Then she caught Tina’s expression. Not blank indifference. Something else. Embarrassment. So Daphne just smoothed her hair, reapplied her lipstick, took a deep breath, and reined it in, smile just shy of hostile.
“They’re doing a private shoot,” she said at the curb, loud enough for Tina and the entire queue to hear. “Not really my scene tonight anyway.”
Tina watched Daphne jab at her phone, muttering under her breath, before she threw one last glance toward the club, her expression wounded and wary, like a celebrity ducking the paparazzi, just as the UberXL pulled up.
“You know where that NDA event is?” she asked, offhand, once they slid into the backseat.
Tina tossed her a glance like it didn’t matter. “Some hotel. The Folger?”
“You mean the Faubourg,” Daphne corrected, as if Tina should have known better.
“Yeah. That.”
And now, here they are. Daphne isn’t sure what she’s about to do. Confront Boots? Crash the party? Just walk in and dare someone to stop her?
Ahead, a cluster of influencers floods the exit—over-glossed, underfed, chirping goodbyes into front-facing cameras with identical voices pitched just above sincerity, that omnipresent TikTok vocal fry.
Daphne doesn’t break stride, but she reads the exhaustion behind their ring lights. They look brittle up close. Generic clothes made from cheap fabric. She doesn’t need to guess where those dresses end up. In two weeks, they’ll be sun-bleached and sagging at the edge of a landfill, buried beneath someone else’s yesterday and long-forgotten ‘fit checks.
They breeze past security and pile into the elevator. At the top floor, the doors glide open. “You look so hot,” Daphne says, tugging Tina into the party. “Come on. Let’s get a drink.”
Tina follows, wary. She can feel it—Daphne’s here with an agenda. But whatever it is? Not Tina’s problem. Not in this outfit.
Then Tina sees them—two women cutting through the crowd. She recognizes one: that brunette Leah introduced her to. The other’s a blonde in a gauzy white jumpsuit. Tina takes her in: that’s not resting bitch face—it’s her whole personality. And there’s no question. They’re coming straight for Daphne.
“Fuck off, Wendy,” Daphne snaps. “You think you can blacklist me, Boots? What kind of drunk power trip are you on that you even found the time? You need to get a fucking hobby, bitch.”
Red Dress holds her ground, leaning in, close enough to spit in Daphne’s face. “Like blacking out before noon? I’ll be sure to hit you up for that, darling. And just so we’re clear, you blacklisted yourself.”
White Jumpsuit sweeps the room. “Security!” she shouts over the music, voice rising with tightly controlled panic.
Then, it happens fast—but not so fast Tina can pretend she didn’t see it coming. Two suited guards close in. Daphne thrashes as they grab her.
“Get your hands off me!”
Wendy and Boots exchange a look, smug and satisfied, as the guards drag Daphne out.
Then, just before she’s gone—Daphne twists back. Her eyes lock with Tina’s, but Tina doesn’t move or speak. She just stands there, meeting the fury in Daphne’s gaze with… nothing. This is the part where she’s supposed to follow. Make a scene. Prove something. But she doesn’t. She just watches, cool, unmoved, and indifferent.
She’s halfway to the bar when a hand clamps around her arm.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Leah asks through gritted teeth, trying not to explode. “What the hell are you doing here? With her?”
“Looking for a wild night, evidently,” Tina replies, deadpan, as Leah’s gaze flicks toward the rooftop doors, where security has returned, job done. No Daphne in sight.
“I told you to keep your distance.”
Tina waves a hand, unbothered. “She invited me.”
“I don’t care, Tina. This is a work event. And that girl is trash.”
“Seems like she gets kicked out a lot.”
“For good reason,” Leah snaps, eyes narrowing, all patience gone. “You can stay. But we’re gonna talk about this later.”
Tina just nods, unreadable. Then she turns to the bar, orders a drink, and smooths her leather pants. In the mirror, she studies herself—so polished, untouchable in Daphne’s clothes. Then she takes her drink and slips into the crowd.