Accusations d'amour

A/N: I have shamelessly ripped off Tornado Girl.


Hope & Gold

Betty descended the stairs, feeling self-conscious and slightly ridiculous. Here she was, Betty Suarez from Queens, all decked out in a ball dress that trailed embarrassingly behind her.

Daniel's back was turned to her; he was dressed in a tuxedo, and she thought bitterly for a brief moment how men didn't have to give a thought to what they were going to wear.

His left hand in his pocket, head cocked slightly at that distinctive angle, he gestured slightly in conversation with a Mode aide, who was also tuxedo-clad. "And in the winter," he was saying.

"The women have arrived," Carole declared, arms raised, entering the midst of the Modies with enviable confidence. Betty hung back just beyond the edge of the circle, hesitant.

"Hey," Daniel said. "Carole! Did you get Betty a dress alright?"

"You can see for yourself," she responded, looking past him with a smile of both pride and encouragement.

He turned, following her gaze, and found his assistant.


The other people blurred together in the background like unfocused city-lights at nighttime when Daniel approached her; every detail of him was in sharp clarity, the black of his jacket, the white of his dress shirt, the blue of his eyes. Later she would remember it and wonder at what a strange reaction it had been. Daniel was just her boss and friend. Why should she care so much what he thought?

"Betty," he said, eyes widening, "You look - you look -"

She smiled weakly at him. Maybe it wasn't such a terrible idea, this ball, this dressing up. She was still the same person, just in different clothes.

"You look beautiful," he said, and swallowed. After a pause, "Not that you - didn't. Weren't. I mean, you were. Just. Tonight, you are just -"

Daniel stopped, tongue-tied, and just smiled at her.

With a soft whumpf, Betty launched herself at Daniel and hugged him. He laughed slightly, staggering back a step. "Thanks. Thanks so much."

"You're gonna have fun tonight," he promised, and for the first time she actually believed him.


"Word has it," Fashion TV correspondent Simon Greene said, "that tonight, Daniel Meade will be making an appearance at the annual Fashion Fights charity ball. Mr. Meade has twice before attended the event, the first time with supermodel Ann-Marie, and the second with Chanel's new face, Pilar Rossi. Which has the columnists all gossiping: who will be the hottie - or the nottie - this time?"

Meanwhile, in a car passing through a tunnel due west of the location, a bunch of excited Modies plus Daniel and Betty headed onward.


"I'd forgotten there were so many people," Daniel mused, staring out the window. Betty gave a little squeak.

"Don't worry," he said, reassuringly. "They're only after the supermodels and designers."

"Yeah, they won't notice the editor of Mode magazine at all," she snapped.

He sighed. The car pulled up to the standard drop-off point, in front of the velvet carpet that was lined on either side with cameras and flashlights going off. A smartly dressed man with a neatly perched hat stepped forward and opened their door for them.

"Come on," Daniel urged, and he ducked out, tugging a reluctant Betty with him by hooking his arm through hers.

There was a collective gasp from the media, and the two of them were instantly blinded by a torrent of camera flashes.


"So the rumours are true!" Simon gasped into the microphone before shoving it at Daniel. "When did you really start this relationship with your assistant, Mr. Meade?"

"What?" Daniel stared from the camera to the microphone, to Betty beside him. "I - no! They aren't true. I -"

Simon turned to the lens with a serious face, ignoring Daniel's protestations. "And so it seems the hiring of Ms. Betty Suarez has backfired. Who would have thought that she would be the gold-digging type?"

Daniel heard it in disbelief, and he grabbed the Simon guy by the shoulder in anger. "Hey. Hey, look. None of this is Betty's fault. Not that there is anything to blame on anyone."

But like the perfect gossip, Simon had gone conveniently deaf; he moved off with his crew, still blabbering his sensational nonsense.


Daniel was still fuming by the time they entered the ballroom, which though crowded with socialites and wannabes was mercifully free of press. He turned to Betty, and felt a sharp kick of pain at the expression on her face. She was bordering on tears, and these were tears not just of anger but of embarrassment.

"Betty," he said, softly, reaching for her. She edged from his fingers. He stopped.

"We all know it's not true," Daniel said. "It's just their rubbish. Come on. It'll blow over."

"It won't," Betty said, fiercely. "Not for me. I'm not Daniel Meade; I'm just an assistant. All I had was my reputation, Daniel, and now I don't even have that. I'm a gold-digger." She began to move away; he began to follow, but she turned and cut him short. "Just stay here. Leave me alone." It was said with more despair than anger; she wasn't blaming him, but she wasn't happy either.


"-would have thought that she would be the gold-digging type?"

"What!" Hilda roared at the TV. Ignacio stared, pale-faced, and Justin watched with indignation and just the slightest bit of amusement. (Come on. Somebody had to see the humour in this. Aunt Betty, a gold-digger?)

"I told her it was going to be weird going to Paris with those people," Hilda set in, looking pissed off. "And what do we get? She and Daniel going to a frickin' ball on tv. Dressed like she's going to the frickin' Oscars."

"Aw, come on, Mom," Justin said. "She looked really nice."

"Exactly!" Hilda said. As she spoke, she poked furiously at her phone.

"What're you doing?" Ignacio asked, frowning.

"What do you think I'm doing?"


Author's Note: Any suggestions what to happen next?