Heather slumped down, back to the door. Her breath was ragged, recovering its candor from the sprinting. Her mind was another matter.
She'd done it. Her first job painting a naked woman fucking a guy. In a sick way, she was impressed with herself. Desperation was a handy motivator. And it had turned out well.
Some part of her mind longed to have not even gone out, to stay in bed with Lucia who still slept. Heather had scarcely been gone two hours. She could still return.
But she felt…dirty. Like no amount of washing her hands would remove the filth.
Pulling herself up, she slumped in front of her laptop and flipped it open. With a flicker of life, it answered her call. She had a news page open after a few minutes.
Plastered all across. Censored version after censored version of her art. They didn't even show off how good the Queen looked, Heather thought.
"Motherfucker," she whispered. She'd scrolled through a few quick headlines. The damn thing's paint was barely dry and already headlines accused the Queen of bedding half of the men in Crimea.
She shouldn't be surprised. The Fireman clearly wanted to smear the Queen's image.
The comments already praised Heather for saying what the public had been thinking. They championed her, citing her akin to a folk hero.
Melior was turning into a time bomb. Every spray of paint she dealt the walls of the city was another chunk of time gone.
A floorboard creaked. Heather's head whipped around.
Lucia was awake.
Heather ripped the jacket off. The few paint flecks that lingered would be incriminating. Throwing it in a corner, Heather popped on a charming smile as Lucia peeked around the wall.
She squinted for a moment. "Are those my pants?"
Heather laughed, forgetting she had stolen them. "I was cold. And thought I might look good in them."
Lucia gave Heather a look that sent shivers down her spine. Her eyes reached Heather's, then dipped lower for a moment. She hadn't been wearing a shirt beneath her discarded jacket.
"Hot, though I think I prefer you out of them," Lucia smirked and walked back to the bedroom.
Heather scampered after her without a moment's thought, slamming the lid of her laptop.
Heather woke up alone. She'd snared a pillow instead of her lover.
Her eyes shot around, looking for the woman she'd spent the night with. No sign of Lucia, except a few blue hairs left on the pillow.
She slinked up, shooting a glance around the apartment. A note was taped to her door, an apology note.
"Fuck me," Heather groaned. Lucia wrote that she had been called in to help deal with the political mess that Heather had created in the early hours of the morning.
Damn, she was awful at this. Extremely awful.
She checked her phone. A text from Lucia about how nice of a night she had.
Heather tried to not scream in frustration.
She failed.
"Pick up, dammit," Heather groaned.
Sothe was ghosting her. She'd been trying to reach him for hours as she stared at the three bags of gold that had appeared in her apartment as she'd gone to get groceries. An envelope had been left on top.
There was no letter, simply pictures. One of her and Lucia cuddling in the theater. Another of them stumbling into Heather's apartment.
One of Lucia on top of Heather in her bedroom.
She felt like vomiting. Were they always watching? Who even was they? Did the Fireman work alone? Who had hired him?
The last picture was an illustration of the Queen kneeling to the Empress of Begnion. The words 'Begnion's Bitch' were scribbled beneath.
This one was to be put on the wall of the castle.
Heather dialed Sothe again. "Pick up, pick up," she pleaded.
He didn't.