I do not own Fifty Shades

All rights go to E.L. James

(Author's Note: I'd really like to hear what you readers think of the story so far and if you're enjoying the style! This is my first FanFic and I'd love feedback. Thank you to all who have followed, reviewed, and favorited the story so far. You're all wonderful and I'm very grateful for you)

~ Chapter 3: The lioness, the rich, and the wardrobe ~

Sawyer arrived with my new car the day after, which just goes to show that there's really no arguing with my father. I went along with it all, cunningly parking the red Audi TT-RS (of course, the most obnoxious of colours) in the students' underground parking and vowing to only use it when really and truly necessary; I didn't want to be the freakishly-rich kid again. Besides, it was for my own good too—I didn't want to get attached.

Jen didn't end up being all that bad. A little crazy, yes, but bad, not really. Actually, after our first day together, we didn't get many chances to see each other at all. Jen was always out the door before I was even up, eagerly attending every frosh week event while I, well, to be frank, avoided them at all costs; I'm not too big on organized social activities. I spent most of the week nestled between blankets, a book in hand, frequently going for walks about campus, consciously inhaling the fresh Washington air.

It wasn't until the Saturday before classes began that Jen and I hung out again.

"What are you doing?" Jen stood at the door of our dorm, her small hands on her hips showing disapproval of my current activity: aka. Reading: often known as 'avoiding crowds and loud noises'.

"You're back early," I noted, looking down at my one-of-a-kind Daniel Wellington watch—a graduation present from my mother. 10:11. Jen was usually out past midnight.

I frowned, sitting up on the bottom bunk, and, of course, whacking my head on the bristle bottom of the top bunk. Goddamn it. I was definitely going to leave college with a permanently bruised forehead.

Jen stifled a giggle and rolled her eyes, "Phoebe, it's club night."

She said it like that too. As if it was supposed to mean something to me. I stayed silent, waiting for further explanation.

She sighed in exasperation and walked over to her dresser. She began rummaging through her clothes, throwing aside all kinds of sequined and sparkly pieces. I watched in curiosity, quietly trying to guess how each piece was supposed to be worn while it flew past me onto my bed.

"You're coming out tonight," Jen said confidently, turning to me and throwing a fiery strand of hair out of her eyes, "I mean it, Phoebe. I'm not going to let you waste away here all week!"

I laughed. Did she think that she was doing me a favour?

"Jen," I said, a little more seriously, nervousness evident in my tone, "I really don't think this is a good idea. I've never been to a club before."

Jen grinned, "Me neither! More reason to go!" She turned back around to her dresser and continued rummaging, finally stopping when pulling out a black, backless, long-sleeve bodycon dress.

"This," She said pronouncing every phoneme with fervour, while holding up the cotton-spandex dress, "This is for you."

She threw the dress at me and it hit my face before falling into a limp pile in my hands. I stood up and held it to my small frame. It looked too small, but then again, it was a spandex material and Jen was a good half foot taller than me.

I sighed and pulled my baby-blue oxford button-down over my head, slipped out of my regular wash skinny jeans and proceeded to squeeze into the dress. It gave my usual pencil-like figure a curvaceous look. For once, I looked like a woman.

"I knew it," Jen said proudly, turning back to her dresser to find something for herself, "If you're going hard, just please don't puke on it."

Going hard. I nearly choked on my own spit.

I let Jen curl my hair so that it fell in long, loose, waves, and patiently allowed her to apply make-up on me- she opted for something a little more natural looking than what she had originally intended due to my voiced discontent with heavy make-up. I slipped into the only heels that I had brought to college with me, a pair of classic, black, pointed-toe Manolo Blahniks—my go-to shoes for all of the dull events and galas my parents drag me to. I desperately tried my best to hide the expensive label from Jen.

I gasped, looking at myself in the mirror. As a final product, I looked nothing like my usual self. Maybe that was a good thing.

Jen wore a strapless, red bodycon dress, which, surprisingly, didn't clash with her vibrant locks as much as I thought it would. Her green eyes bordered smoky grey eye-shadow which I had watched her apply artfully. Once ready, we began scrounging our small dorm for belongings to take with us.

"P-MILK," Jen said, matter-of-factly.

I frowned in confusion, "What?"

"P-MILK," She repeated, rolling her eyes, "phone, money, ID, lip-gloss, keys."

"Oh," I mouthed, grabbing my phone and putting it in my bag. I paused. On second thought…I took my cell out of my clutch and tossed it on my bed. The last thing I needed was my father tracing my location to a club.

"Jen, we're under-age, what if we don't get in?" Or worse, get into trouble.

Jen rolled her smoky eyes, "Phoebe, we're hot. They have to let us in."

Is this how the world worked?

After the two of us had grabbed all of our necessary belongings, we headed out the door. Jen walked a few feet ahead of me, of course, her long legs looking like those of a gazelle in her 6-inch heels. She sort of reminded me of Bambi in the sense that I thought she would fall over with every step, her heels swaying and shaking with her lack of stability.

"I'll call the cab," She said as we stood just inside of the residence front doors, She rummaged through her bag for her blackberry, her red hair wild.

"Actually," I began in hesitance, twiddling my fingers nervously, "I could just drive us there."

Jen paused and turned around to face me, "You have a car?" Her tone was that of disbelief.

"Umm…yeah," I could feel myself sweating.

She raised one of her perfectly filled-in eyebrows, "Are you sure you want to drive? You won't be able to drink."

In my head, I high-fived myself: what a perfect excuse.

I shrugged, "That's alright, I'm not a big drinker anyway."

Jen nodded and zipped up her shoulder bag.

We walked over to the underground parking lot, about two minutes walking distance from our residence-five minutes in heels. Jen's eyes widened at the sight of my car. The two-door Audi was sleek with a luxurious leather interior—not your ordinary student's car.

"This is your car?" Jen's eyes bulged as she caressed the front hood. The red paint sparkled. I sighed. It really was a beautiful car, what a shame that I had to hide it.

"Uh. Yeah," I said a little too quickly, unlocking the doors and stepping inside, conscious of the length of my dress.

Jen climbed into the seat beside me, still in awe, her eyes took in the interior, "Seriously, what do your parents do?"

Well, if you want the truth, they legally stalk me—or pay people to do it for them, send me obnoxious gifts that I never asked for, and disallow me to get anywhere within twenty feet of a boy my own age. And that's just the start…

"My dad's in business," I started up the car.

"Is your father Donald Trump?" Jen asked rhetorically, huffing and crossing her arms.

"Uh, not quite," I veered out of the parking lot, the Audi purred, "He owns a coffee shop." Worst lie ever. I mentally slapped myself.

Jen raised an eyebrow at me.

"Okay," I tried again, my eyes on the road before me, "He owns a very successful coffee shop chain." I stifled a laugh as I imagined the all-mighty Christian Grey as the owner of Dunkin' Donuts.

That seemed to have worked; Jen sat back in her seat, a look of content on her face, and began directing my driving to the club.

I pulled into the nearest parking lot, and somehow managed to find a decent parking space with ease. The two of us hopped out of the car and swiftly trotted to the front door of the club, where a long line of eager college students waited for admission.

"This is going to take forever," Jen huffed in frustration, peering over the heads of the group of girls in front of us, to the front of the line.

She sighed and turned to me, "Wait here." And before I could stop her, she was walking past the many groups of students in front of us and straight to the two bouncers.

I caught the eyes of a few guys walking by the line-up and quickly averted my gaze, crossing my arms over my chest in unease and obvious discomfort. They hooted and whistled at me anyway. Was going out supposed to be fun?

Jen returned within a couple of minutes, a new bounce to her walk, "It's cool," She said, flipping her mane, "Gerard said we can skip the line."

"Gerard?" I questioned.

"I hooked up with one of the bouncers third day of frosh week," She explained with a shrug, grabbing my wrist and pulling me along to the front of the line.

The two bouncers motioned for us to step inside.