A/N: This chapter is the polar opposite of the first chapter in a lot of ways. I'm still figuring out what I want to do for some of the prompts, but I'm pretty sure this will be the farthest from what I normally publish. That being said, I totally understand if it's not anyone's cup of tea but my own.

Day 2 | Enrique/Queen (King and Oliver make small appearances, too.) | Rated: M (non-explicit suggestive adult themes)

Bubbles

"Well, it can't be all champagne bubbles and parties."

That's what King told her. He sounded bitter. And jealous. Jealous that she'd managed to charm her way into the bed, and soon thereafter the wallet, of someone like Enrique; more money than he knew what to do with and an unmatched lust for pleasurable company.

It didn't hurt that he was nice to look at; Queen had done uglier things for worse money. She considered this moving up in the world.

King's warning didn't mean shit anyway, spoken as he ate his way through an edible arrangement that cost more than their monthly grocery bill when they lived off their own dime. Enrique had sent it to the apartment he owned that she lived in. King stayed there more often than not, too. He was just as bad as she was.

"You're right – it's also lots of sex," she gloated, laughing at the way he rolled his eyes in disgust. Disgust at her brazenness, no doubt.

"As long as you don't care that you're whoring yourself out for money, I'll limit you to one reality check a day," he said, kicking his feet up onto the glossy marble coffee table. His eyes were narrow, sharp and smug. He knew his vitriol would rub her the wrong way even if she didn't actually care.

And why should she care? This was the life she deserved. She was sick of scrounging, staring at luxury cars and clothes with a desperate want in her eyes that couldn't be sated with a year's worth of her own meager paychecks.

When she saw Enrique for the first time, she could practically smell the money on him. She looked at him with the same emblazoned desire she usually reserved for Chanel or Gucci or Prada and he got on his knees for her, willing to give her the world. She would've been a fool not to take it.

King reached for a strawberry and she smacked his hand away.

"You're one past your limit," she warned, "and you'll keep your mouth shut unless you want to be stuck earning a living instead of riding my coattails."

At first, she was one of many to Enrique. A pretty face to parade around on the weekday of his choice. Probably treated her to nice things because he was starved for attention himself. But she wasn't there to psychoanalyze him –she was there to be treated like royalty and relish in the whispers of people on the streets who wished they were her.

It wasn't long until their Thursdays together turned into Friday night prime times. Then Friday nights bled into Saturday mornings and sleepy Sundays after whatever party there was to attend the night before. There were rarely clothes on the Sundays, but when there were they were nicer than anything she'd ever owned. It didn't even matter if they'd belonged to Rosetta or Bianca or whoever-the-fuck first. They were hers now, and so was he.

Pretty soon she was the only woman clinging to his arm in the tabloids. Soon he bought her her own new clothes and jewelry and shoes. When it became inconvenient or uncomfortable for him to fetch her from her crummy one-bedroom apartment, he let her stay in one of his.

"Sorry it's not the nicest." That's what he'd said when he opened the door to a foyer the size of her current living area. This apartment had a maid and a doorman and maybe he was being condescending – he new what kind of a shithole she came from – but she couldn't bring herself to care when he put the key in her hand.

"You're wasting your talent," King said, having barged into her place on a Monday just as she was about to take a nap. He came bearing a cappuccino with his daily dose of reality, so she let it slide. "You realize that, right?"

Queen caught a look at herself in the mirror as she shrugged into a dressing gown. Her hair was messy from Enrique's hands and her neck was bruised from his mouth. Her body ached in all the best ways. She took a long drag from the to-go cup King handed her and ignored his self-righteous expression.

"Maybe I'm using different talents than you're used to," she said with a nonchalant shrug. What did it matter so long as it got her what she wanted? And Enrique wasn't a completely selfish lover, in bed or out. "Just admit it, King – you're jealous."

"Jealous that you're being used?!" He was angry now, which was interesting, but not unbelievable. They'd known each other for a long time, after all. Siblings by blood or not – they never knew for sure, but they'd called the same man 'father' for many years – there was history there. He always tried to be her voice of reason, even when he had no right.

"I don't need you to talk sense into me, King." Suddenly the froth was bitter on her tongue. Bitter as the memory of Enrique leaving not an hour before, swatting her hands away from the collar of his shirt in favor of answering a phone call. "I'm a big girl – I know what I'm doing."

She knew all right. The jump from weekend hookup to high society girlfriend was an astronomical leap, but she was willing to do the dirty work to get there. She'd already eliminated the competition. How long before his prestigious family demanded he settle down and put and end to his well-publicized philandering? And who would be right there, conveniently waiting, having already proven she could keep him satisfied?

"You're deluding yourself if you think he cares for any part of you that doesn't stroke his ego or his dick!" King spat and turned his back to her.

"Leave!" she ordered with a stomp of her foot, but he was already halfway out the door.

Queen wondered if King would see the pictures of her and Enrique, weeks later, at a Gala hosted by family friends of the Giancarlos. Gala with a capital G, because they were rich and the party benefited a charity that garnered the right combination of publicity and tax write-offs. Which charity, she didn't especially care, because Enrique had chosen her as his date.

She'd finally made it.

The night passed in a haze of glitz and luxury. She didn't leave Enrique's side, entirely aware that he upped her value to the other attendees. His French friend sent her icy looks when she followed the men to the cigar lounge to massage Enrique's shoulders, but she was unfazed. No one here would mistake her for a debutante, so she did what she did best and played the part of the devoted lover.

Her reward was the blatant desire in Enrique's eyes as he watched her rub elbows with his high society friends. She had no doubt he was imagining peeling her clothing off, layer by layer, at the soonest opportunity. The key was a neckline low enough to be sexy while still maintaining decorum and a pair of long silk gloves. Every man wanted to know what silk felt like, ghosting feather-light over their skin. The teasing touches to the back of his neck weren't going to be enough to last.

The way he fumbled with her garter belt later that night proved she knew what she was doing. As she forced him down to the mattress, head spinning from the champagne, she hoped someone would notice that he hadn't even lasted until the after party.

It was a couple months later, twice as long since she'd seen her brother, that she got her true reality check. Unfortunately it didn't come in the form of biting words, but in the form of a positive pregnancy test and walking in on Enrique in bed with his best friend. Within the same day.

As he tried untangling himself from the sheets, she could see his lips moving but didn't hear a word he said. Her blood was rushing in her ears from hurrying over in the first place and the general stress of it all. The pregnancy test was in her YSL handbag.

All she could see was that same icy glare from the Gala, Oliver making no moves to explain himself with Enrique's discarded sheets pooled around his waist. And all she could hear was King's voice echoing in her mind: "Well, it can't be all champagne bubbles and parties."

Why the fuck did he always have to be right?

A/N: I just want to put out there that it is not my intention to paint Enrique in a bad light - I think he and Queen both had very different understandings of what their relationship was and where it was headed. Now they're gonna need to figure out a different arrangement lol.

I feel like these two would not be good for one another, but I could see them being attracted to each other for materialistic reasons. It was kind of fun to write about a different type or relationship for a change, but I have plenty of sweeter moments planned for later chapters.

Thanks for reading! :)