Who's Your Daddy?
Chapter One: Satin Dresses
Clary Fray, newly twenty-one, was stressed. On the surface, her life was near-perfect for someone of her age.
She had skipped out on college, instead opting to go to art school for two years, taking up photography as a side hobby. Since she was in the middle of Manhattan, it gave her easy access to runways and fashion shows. Clary always took her camera, and somehow managed to snag some top-notch photographs of models and such.
At a show, one day, for the European-based line Seelie QUEEN, one of the other designers that had been watching caught her taking her pictures. He pulled her aside afterward and Clary had been afraid that he was going to turn her in, but he said he just wanted to look at her work, because he'd seen her around.
And, what do you know, Magnus Bane had actually offered Clary a job in his art department as an intern.
Even so, the new job was turning out to be pretty stressful. At first, Clary had assumed that being surrounded by gorgeous model boys (and girls) would be wonderful, but it was more work than she ever thought it would be.
Clary looked at herself in her vanity table's mirror. She wasn't nearly as beautiful as the models she knew. How could she compete with that?
All she had was her curly red hair, green eyes, and freckles. The models, every day, in any situation, were far more attractive than she ever could be, even when she was trying to look pretty. Would anyone ever even look twice at her?
Not that she was on the market. Her eyes darted half-guiltily to a picture stuck into the side of her mirror. It was of Clary and her boyfriend, Simon, taken when they were still in high school. When they were happy.
Simon's arm was around her waist in the picture and they were both beaming, dressed to the nines in formal wear. Prom.
Clary and Simon had been best friends since they were in elementary school, and had fallen in love as teenagers. High school sweethearts, she remembered. Those were the good times.
Then Simon had gone off to college (environmental studies major; he'd picked it at random) and Clary had to finish off her senior year in loneliness. She was left to wonder what had happened to their talks of growing up and getting married, while Simon lived the college life. They'd grown increasingly distant, until his sophomore year when the formerly happy couple lost contact entirely.
But, four months ago, she'd gotten her new job. Clary had gone to the coffee machine on the second day to get her usual morning cup of the stuff (she'd forgotten to hit up Starbucks) and, what do you know, he was there, filling a large to-go cup with decaf. Simon had asked her out again, and they rekindled their relationship, although it seemed strained. At least to Clary.
There were other pictures of the two of them around Clary's mirror, from photo booths and malls and restaurants and such.
Clary found herself staring at a different sort of photograph altogether, one that she had taken from a Bane Inc. fashion show before she worked there.
It was of a magnificently good-looking, blonde-haired god of sorts named Jace Wayland strutting down the runway, looking more like an avenging angel than Clary would have expected possible, especially for a male model. He was so incredibly handsome...
Jace Wayland wasn't his real name. It was a pseudonym, meant to differentiate him from his fraternal twin, Sebastian Morgenstern, who was hot in the modeling world, too. Their father, Valentine, was in politics, currently a state representative but pushing for President. So, instead of going by his actual name, Jonathan Morgenstern became Jace Wayland.
And Clary Fray had a crush.
Which she shouldn't.
Because one day she would probably become Mrs. Clary Lewis. If things kept going the way they were, that is.
She had a bit of a collection going, of pictures of Jace, all stationed around her mirror like orderly soldiers. Clary probably had more pictures of him than she did of herself and Simon.
Jace in his commercial campaigns and on the runways, looking gorgeous in every shot.
What a beautiful man.
Then Clary caught her own gaze in the mirror and feelings of unworthiness, like an old shoe might feel if old shoes had feelings, crashed over her. She was so average, like... a Raggedy Ann doll in a world of Barbies and Kens.
Angry tears flowing into her eyes, Clary stood up abruptly and stomped over to her bed, flopping down on it and burying her face in her pillow.
Barely a minute had passed when there were a few sharp knocks at her apartment door.
Clary groaned and started walking through her single-floored abode (it was all she could afford), hastily wiping any remnants of tears from her eyes and praying that whoever it was wouldn't notice.
Clary opened the door to reveal a beautiful, tall, glamorous young woman standing in the hallway. It was Isabelle, one of Clary's best friends. The black-haired girl gave Clary a bright smile, immediately reaching down to hug her tightly. "Happy birthday, Clary! I can't believe you're twenty-one!"
"Yeah, I can't either," Clary said as her friend pulled away. "Thanks for stopping over."
"Stopping over?" echoed Isabelle. "I'm taking you out for martinis, now that you actually can go legally."
Clary didn't meet Isabelle's toothy grin. "I don't know, Izzy..."
"Nonsense." She held up a manicured hand. "Now let me in so I can dress you."
"But-" Clary tried to protest, nonetheless moving out of Isabelle's way.
The model marched past her, grabbing her wrist and dragging Clary towards her own bedroom, only releasing her after they crossed through the kitchen. "No buts, Clarissa. I am going to dress you whether you like it or not."
Clary scampered after her helplessly, trying to keep up with Isabelle's long-legged, high-heeled stride.
Isabelle had reached Clary's bedroom, and was now placing two dress-bags she had been holding behind her back on the bed, unwrapping them carefully.
Both were cocktail dresses, one black and lacy and the other green and satiny.
"Mine," Isabelle said, gesturing to the black dress, "and yours," with a nod at the green.
Clary opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Finally, "Um... I don't know..."
"Wear it," her friend said firmly, so Clary gritted her teeth and picked the garment up off her bed.
"Fine, Isabelle," she groaned.
Isabelle was already undressing herself, pulling off her tank top as if it were nothing. Wow, Clary noticed. She really has no problems with that, stripping down in front of me. Does that come with being a model?
As Clary reluctantly tugged off her denim cutoffs, she unintentionally started glancing at Isabelle every so often.
Isabelle was so beautiful! Why wouldn't Clary feel so inferior, as inferior as she felt as she surreptitiously surveyed Isabelle's moderately pale body, all smooth curves and milky skin.
Clary glanced down and was met by her freckled, twig-like body. Why couldn't she be beautiful like Isabelle?
"Do you need something?" Isabelle asked, pulling a dress strap over her shoulder and then fluffing up her hair.
I really need to get over my low self-esteem, Clary thought, blushing at being caught staring. "No, I'm just nervous." Envious, really.
Isabelle looked skeptical for a moment, but then stomped over to Clary, yanking off the latter's shirt.
"W-what are you doing?" Clary gasped as Isabelle forced the green dress over her head.
"You were taking too long. I'm dressing you." After a few adjustments, Clary sputtering hopelessly, the dress was fully on. Isabelle then pushed Clary onto the vanity table's seat, facing away from the mirror.
"I-Isabelle-"
"Stop talking." The model was pawing through the ginger's makeup supplies scattered across the vanity's surface. "Damn it. Don't you have any real makeup instead of this preteen shit?"
Clary took offense to that. "What's wrong with lip-gloss?" Lip-gloss made her feel pretty. And besides, it was Mountain Dew flavored!
Isabelle shook her head sadly, as if she couldn't believe her ears. "Honestly, Clary, the fact that you had to ask that question worries me." She began rifling through her own purse, a gigantic black leather bag with a logo for Seelie QUEEN on the side of it. "But, thankfully, I always make sure to bring makeup with me. Now hold still."
Then she set to work on Clary's hair, hair-spraying and teasing and twisting it until she was satisfied, which seemed to take forever.
"Are you done yet?" Clary grumbled, and was met with a sharp tug of her hair, followed by a mist of hair spray.
"No. Almost done."
"When do I get to see?"
"When I tell you that you can." After a few more minutes, "Alright, now. Go ahead and look."
Clary rose shakily to her bare feet, turning around to see her reflection as if in a daze.
Her eyes looked huge and green, framed by thick eyeliner and impossibly long, black eyelashes. Her cheeks were hollowed to almost skeletal proportion, lips a smooth and dark shade of purplish-red.
Clary's vibrant red hair was slicked back into a voluminous pouf, which opened seamlessly into a cloud of hard curls that draped down the back of her neck.
She was in a bright green, satin cocktail dress that hit just above her knees. The color was of spring grass, but more vivid. The dress itself was sleeveless, and seemed to be 1920s-inspired, what with the drop-waist and high, emerald-framed neckline. Sadly, it wasn't the most flattering style for Clary's body type, but the dress still looked beautiful.
Then it hit Clary. I look like I just stepped off a runway, she thought. But I'm still not as beautiful as the models are.
As if to prove her point, Isabelle put a hand on her hip, which she, in turn, pushed out. It was a harmless enough gesture, but it made Clary's stomach turn. She tried not to cry, since this was supposed to be a fun night.
To distract herself, she went into her closet to look for shoes to wear. Without thinking, she grabbed her usual footwear, a pair of green Skechers sneakers that made Clary feel like a marathon runner. She started to put them on over her naked feet until Isabelle interrupted her.
"The hell do you think you're doing?" Isabelle was outraged; it was obvious. "You can't wear those hideous sneakers to get martinis!"
Clary had forgotten what she was wearing and where they were going. Blushing, she pulled them off.
Isabelle was already fishing through Clary's closet, grumbling to herself. "God, Clary, first the lip-gloss and now you don't have any decent heels! Do you do all your shopping at Forever 21 or something?"
"No," Clary pouted, although it was lost because the model had her back turned. "I didn't do all my shopping there." Only some of it. "And besides, I am twenty-one."
"No excuses. Grow up. You're not a teenager anymore, so stop acting like it. And more importantly, for God's sake, stop dressing like it! How does Simon even look twice at you?"
Truthfully? "I don't know," Clary said miserably.
Isabelle turned her head to look at her friend, brows furrowed. "I didn't mean it like that," she amended quietly. "I just mean wardrobe-wise. Like, do you even have any lingerie?"
"No," Clary replied, confused.
"But what do you do when you and Simon have sex?"
"We haven't." They almost did on many occasions, but they'd stuck to kissing and relatively innocent groping.
Isabelle's eyes widened. "You're a virgin?" The way she said it almost made it sound like it was a horrific disease like leprosy, or maybe even AIDS. All Clary did was never have sex.
"Well... yeah," Clary said, feeling stupid. Only Isabelle could demean her that much unintentionally.
"I feel so bad for you," Isabelle proclaimed ardently, still shuffling through Clary's shoe collection that was mainly composed of sneakers, sandals, and flip-flops.
Clary's next words tumbled out of her mouth. It didn't occur to her until after she said them that they were prying, and none of her business. "When was your first time, Izzy?"
Isabelle said with barely a pause, "When I was fifteen. I was just starting my modeling career and there was this totally sexy guy I knew who was in his early twenties. I told him I was nineteen, and he invited me over to his apartment."
"And you slept with him?"
"Yeah, what else was I supposed to do? But it was definitely worth it."
"Izzy! That's statutory rape!" Leave it to Isabelle, Clary thought, to break the law the first time she had sex. "Did you ever tell him your real age?"
"Of course not. I like the older guys, Clare-bear. They're more mature, and they have lots more experience, if you know what I mean." She finally got to her feet, holding a pair of strappy burgundy heels that had been hidden at the bottom of the pile. "I guess these'll have to do. At least they go with your makeup. When did you even get these?"
Clary flushed again. "Simon got them for me. I don't really like wearing them." Thus why they were at the bottom of her pile of shoes. They made her look like a stripper, after all, and she wasn't good at walking in high heels. Especially four-inch heels, like Isabelle was holding.
"You're going to wear them anyway, whether you like it or not. And besides, they'll make you at least 5'5"."
Clary hated the fact that she was 5'1½" in a world of statuesque women like Isabelle. "Fine. Hand them over."
Isabelle did so and Clary strapped them on, carefully getting to her feet. Her knees wobbled slightly and, when she tried to walk, gave out entirely. Thankfully, Clary had her bed to collapse onto.
"Clary, Clary, Clary," Isabelle groaned dramatically. "Can't you-"
"Just give me a minute to get used to them," the redhead snapped, once again standing up. She felt her legs tremble, but she steadied herself and took a step.
This one was quite more productive than the first, so Clary took a few more, experimentally strutting in awkward circles around her room, Isabelle watching with an eyebrow raised.
Feeling confident in her newfound ability to walk in heels, Clary leaped forward onto one foot towards Isabelle, intending to end in a balletic pose. Sadly, she misjudged her talent, toppling onto her friend.
"CLARY!" Isabelle reprimanded, pushing her into a standing position. "What the hell was that supposed to accomplish? You know, that stupid leap at the end, there?"
"I don't know what came over me!"
"I don't give a shit what came over you! You almost ripped my dress."
That seemed like an overstatement, but Clary's heart sank when she realized how beautiful Isabelle looked, especially dressed up.
Isabelle was clad in a gorgeous, one-shoulder, slinky black dress. It was overlaid with black lace, and it made Isabelle look so sexy that Clary knew she could never compare. It was only reasonable that a fifteen-year-old version of this Isabelle could seduce an older man and convince him that she was nineteen. Clary was in an entirely different universe from the goddess in front of her.
Isabelle had done her makeup before coming over, heavy eyeliner with smoky eyes and dark red lipstick. The colors made her look mysterious, and coupled with her long, straight black hair, infinitely more of a model than Clary could ever be.
"What?" Isabelle asked suddenly. "Why are you looking at me like that? You didn't actually rip my dress, did you?"
Clary felt embarrassed. "No." To change the subject, she started lunging around the room again. "This is harder than it looks, but easier than I originally thought it would be."
"Stop walking like that. You look like an idiot."
Clary froze in her tracks. "Then how am I supposed to walk?"
"Normally!" Isabelle glanced at Clary's green alarm clock, the display reading 7:38 PM. "Damn it! We need to go."
"Go where?" The ginger was now confused again.
"To get martinis! Come on!" Isabelle pushed Clary out of her own apartment, her victim ducking back to lock the front door.
When Clary turned around, she was shocked to see a long, black, stretch limo in the road, waiting for her.
"Your chariot awaits," said Isabelle, standing on the sidewalk. "Just get in, if you can still walk."
A/N: No, I'm not neglecting my Revised City of Bones story. Chapter Nine will be up in a few days, hopefully.
So, what did you think? Chapter Two is already posted! Read and review!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments series by Cassandra Clare.