Riverdale, New York: Midnight, August 16, Thursday

"A fool thinks of himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool" – Shakespeare

"What?!"

Nappa had been sitting quietly while observing the Hudson River from the limousine. No sounds from outside assaulted his senses for some time during the ride, but as soon as they left Zeus's house he knew this would be a long night.

God help me, but I probably don't rank highly on that request list. He poured a glass of water without looking up. "Excuse me, sir?"

"You've been silent for an hour," Vegeta said irritably. "I feel like I'm alone in a cave."

Sighing, Nappa watched his country's next ruler with the weariness of a long-suffering parent. "Well, sir, you requested silence when we left the restaurant."

"Stop it," Vegeta said as he poured himself more vodka. "Don't be passive aggressive. You know I hate that. I can't read minds, but this is an angry silence from you. So what is it?"

"I'm not angry," Nappa said, "but I am concerned. However, it is my job to keep such matters to myself. My responsibility is…"

"Oh, give it a rest, general," Vegeta said, waving his glass at him. "You have my permission to speak freely. I don't know why you're suddenly being modest after all these years."

Nappa moved the bottle away from him. "You've had enough for now, Vegeta. You're drinking too much too fast. If you're going to do that, at least get a cheaper brand."

The prince rarely heard his longtime bodyguard address him directly, not since his boyhood. He put the glass down and leaned forward. "This better be good."

His face reddening, Nappa pounded furiously on the center table. "Why are you acting this?! We have vital business to take care of, and yet you're chasing an American fashion designer who wants nothing to do with you – which, at this point, I can understand completely. What the hell is wrong with you, son? I trained you personally like you were my own child, between my duties with the Royal Army. Have you forgotten? And not once have I ever denied listening to you when you felt others couldn't. Not once. You have always been a demanding little pain in my ass, but I have never seen you lose focus like this. Worse, you're spending money like water."

Enraged and embarrassed, the prince's voice lowered into menacing growl. "How dare you sit here and insult me like this. Have you lost your mind?"

Nappa shook his head. "And just what are you going to do about it, Vegeta? Kick me out? Tell your father? That surely wouldn't help improve your difficult relationship with him. Also, you may be 38 years old and I may be 59, but I can still beat your narrow ass – and take some enjoyment from the outcome."

"Oh, really?" Vegeta howled with scornful laughter. "Your overconfidence is breathtaking - and I should have you jailed for such impudence. Better yet, we can stop the limo here and try out your rusty Jackie Chan routines. I know all of them well."

Nappa shut his eyes and exhaled to steady his breathing. "But you won't do either because I'm not just your bodyguard and stand-in adviser. I am your friend - one who would still gladly take bullets for you. Separately, you should also accept being told 'no' more, especially by women."

"Hn." Vegeta looked away. "No woman has ever said no to me, except for my mother. It's not like I force myself on anyone. I'm no sick-minded mongrel. These women find me, or I easily convince them that my presence is worth their frivolous time. It doesn't take much."

Nappa huffed and stared out the side window. "You know damn well what I mean."

Besides assassination, he worried just as much about Vegeta falling in love - with anyone. He had never experienced it, and Nappa felt he was too immature to handle the responsibilities. He hoped that would change, because he wanted to see him less miserable, but he also shuddered thinking how the prince would react if yet another person he cared for hurt him deeply – like his father had. King Vegeta was so good that even Nappa had to carefully guide the old man to soften his callousness toward his eldest son.

"Just…switch places with the other guard up front," Vegeta said as he removed his father's watch. "Take the vodka. We'll serve it tomorrow when I meet with the real estate developers."

Nappa nodded respectfully. "As you wish, sir."

London: 9 p.m., September 16, Friday

"Where Angels and Demons Play"

Some would describe the scene as blissfully disorienting. One could move through the shadows to speak privately between statues and pillars or saunter through the museum's grand hall to be seen by anyone worth seeing. Techno music pulsed in the background, with DJs keeping sharp eyes on the mood to adjust their song selections. Two of the industry's brightest stars had performed already, receiving high praise, and now party guests focused on flirting, drinking, fucking, dancing, and making business deals – and taking lots and lots of pictures. Fashion show after-parties were meant to be flashy, bacchanalian spectacles, even while raising money for charity. This gala fit into a list of trend-setting social affairs for those who catalogued such events for cultural and historical significance – and for unrestricted gossip.

Bulma weaved through the crowd with Zeus, nodding and air-kissing gracefully as others recognized her, but she allowed no one to hug her. She wore a small pillbox hat with a netted veil, along with a strapless silver- and black-sequined bodice dress. Her shapely legs and hourglass figure were on full display, inspiring a number of jealous stares from both men and women.

"So glad to see you're here, Bulma. I heard you were quite ill. I'm impressed that you even came."

"Bulma! Darling, you look fabulous. Have you had facial surgery? Who is your doctor? I must know!"

"Well – my, my – here you are, Bulma Brief, all grown up. Revenez à Paris et travaillez avec moi de nouveau. I'm an old man now, and I need a worthy replacement for the fashion house."

Bulma closed her eyes. She loved her profession for being defiantly avant-garde, despite its darker elements: drugs, exploitation, shallowness, and for some, emotional emptiness. These problems weren't exclusive to the fashion industry, but the nature of the beast put them on global display. Those who guarded their privacy and understood and respected themselves often lasted longer- and, over time, received more respect than the fireflies. She empathized with fireflies, though, because she hated seeing good, talented people fail because of ego - or lose themselves in deadly, soul-destroying vice.

"What is this champagne? It's wonderful. Zeus, try some."

"Krug Grand Cuvee, Ms. Brief," the waiter replied, looking delighted. Bulma was surprised that the drink had also been delivered in an expensive Waterford crystal flute. She could always tell the difference.

"How elegant."´ Zeus set his glass on the cocktail table. "To whom do we owe for this treat, good man?"

Looking at Bulma, the waiter fidgeted before answering. "An anonymous sponsor of this gala requested it for you both, sir."

Bulma nodded and searched for a place to sit. "Tell the person thank you for us. Would you deliver the bottle and two more empty champagne flutes to that booth back there, please? We might have visitors later."

"Yes, Ms. Brief."

"How are you feeling, honey?" Zeus asked as they walked arm-in-arm together. "Maybe you shouldn't drink much, or we could return to the hotel. We still have three more days of this unruly festival. You seem less impressed by the couture this year anyway."

"I am fine," Bulma replied softly. "You have forced me to accept my limits since I was ill. Fortunately for my ego, I am still somewhat enjoying myself."

"I love you too, my pugnacious virago," Zeus said, kissing her hand. "Look over there! That's Astrid Armond. Do you mind if I leave for a bit? I'm trying to get a photo shoot with her. She's so stubborn."

Bulma pinched his nose. "Bye, bye." She liked watching Zeus bounce happily between party guests. His suggestion to return to the hotel sounded good, though. She wanted him to enjoy himself, but she planned to leave soon enough because the fete would likely last all night. He would understand. The red velvet curtain partially encircling the seating booth offered enough people-watching space to keep her interested, so she decided to stay a bit longer to gather her thoughts.

"Is it your habit to hide in corner seats each year to observe this orgiastic foolishness, Ms. Brief, or are you someone who prefers drinking peacefully into a coma all alone?"

Damn. He's mister anonymous. I knew it. Bulma sipped slowly from her glass. She pondered whether the prince's behavior now qualified as business as usual or full-blown stalking. In the past, she too had assertively pursued work with high-profile clients, sometimes for months, skillfully using their self-interest to close lucrative deals in her favor. Anything less made the difference between having rent money and sleeping on a park bench.

But Vegeta had little to lose beyond his fragile pride, she thought, which apparently drove his persistence. She considered that a weakness. She didn't need anything from him – not money, even though he had tons of it, and definitely not prestige - and her continued rejection irked him. It was tempting to chop his arrogance and entitlement into tiny pieces, because he had no clue what she was capable of. Sexual attraction factored into his behavior, obviously, which she also found annoying. Too many women had likely surrendered to his expectation that they would fall on his massive dick – which swelled just enough under his clothing to make their interaction interesting, at least. However, she wondered if he had ever experienced being treated like a throwaway receptacle for another's desires.

Exploring one's deepest desires and sexual appetites with another wasn't inherently bad - however strange they might seem to others - but the terms had to be agreed upon by both parties to make the experiences fulfilling. That required trust, not selfish exploitation. Bulma had been on both sides, which were wild and thrilling, but sometimes the latter left the other person's emotions destroyed. She had shunned romantic relationships in recent years, as well as unsentimental bondage activities, because the power of destruction seduced her: the unfortunate aftereffect of being hurt emotionally herself. Furthermore, as her tastes matured, it became harder to meet someone who could fully explore them with her in mind. That she would not accept. Not anymore.

The prince had no idea, and yet he was conceited enough to think he could conquer someone like her without being conquered himself.

She decided then to help style him. That would be a piece of cake.

He would also be taught a lesson.

Her eyes traveled from his shoes to the top of his suit lapels. "I see you chose Zalman to dress you for the gala, your highness. He did a nice job. The new designs are very good."

"But?"

Bulma gave him the side eye. "There is no 'but,' Vegeta."

"Oh, come now." He picked up the champagne bottle. "Sure there is. He was one of your protégés, yes?"

"Exactly," she replied, handing him her half-empty glass, "and I do not share criticisms of my former apprentices' work with anyone but them."

"Impressive." He tipped the glass in her direction and sipped. "I see why your clients are loyal. I haven't met anyone here who speaks negatively about you, really, but some wonder why you're reclusive these days."

Preparing to leave, Bulma adjusted her hat, partially pulling the veil above her eyes. "Thanks for the champagne. Is this your first sponsorship? And I don't really care what some unnamed people wonder about, so let's dispense with that conversation."

"Yes, it is," he said playfully. "Shall we also discuss how I am pompous ass?"

"Men like you are most of the time."

Vegeta frowned and interlaced his fingers. "Maybe I'm an asshole because I just happen to be one, rather than because I'm male."

"Your royal sense of entitlement helps," Bulma replied, smirking at him. Now she was having real fun. She saw a reddish hue crawling around the base of his neck and moving fast toward his chin. If she pissed him off more, his head would explode – figuratively, of course.

"Hn." He swallowed, curling his lips inward. "I take it the flowers were not appreciated then."

Bulma poured another glass of champagne, raising it in a congratulatory toast. "Tiger lilies have slightly sweet-tasting petals that must be cut away from a bitter base to be edible. That was a creative way to capture my interest. You did your homework. How you found that decade-old article about my floral preferences in that defunct little magazine impressed me. I have… decided to take you as a client."

At first the prince looked somewhat surprised. His expression quickly reverted to a nonchalant stare, as if he knew Bulma would give in all along.

"Splendid, Ms. Brief. Will you return to New York after the festival?"