Beca's first thought was Stacie pranked her. Stacie had somehow managed to skip work, orchestrated this whole meet-cute, and got Luke to play along –

"I'd like you to meet Aubrey," Luke said eagerly as Aubrey stood. "She's a solicitor – human rights, yeah? Aubrey, this is the best friend I was telling you about. You probably know her as STOKR…"

Aubrey extended her hand.

"Pleasure," she said, her stance conveying anything but. Beca recognized the stiffness. She ran into Fat Amy in Melbourne last year, and the Australian hesitated from approaching her until she called out Is that a lovely mermaid dancer I see? Only then did Amy run up to hug her. You remembered me.

She took Aubrey's hand, hoping her palms weren't wet or something. "A decade and all I get is a handshake?" she said, attempting a smirk.

"It can't have been a decade, Beca."

"You're right. Feels longer to me."

Aubrey only huffed in response, but by the time Beca loosened her grip the blonde's smile was a tad warmer. Behind them, Luke coughed.

"You know each other?" His eyebrows were furrowed, not computing the casual exchange.

"We went to Barden together." To define Aubrey as such was woefully inadequate, but they really weren't much else. "She was the Bella captain in my year."

"Co-captain," Aubrey corrected.

"Right." Beca glared at Luke as pointedly as she could.

"Seriously? We all went to the same college? What a coincidence!"

Sometimes it was hard to believe this guy ran her publicity campaigns. "We called her El Capitan."

The words finally jogged Luke's memory. "Oh!" His eyes went wide as he looked back and forth at them. The next moment, he deflated visibly. "…oh."


They all moved to sit, Luke practically elbowing Beca out of the way so he could sit next to Aubrey. Beca threw him a dirty look.

"Can I get you another drink?" Luke asked Aubrey solicitously.

"No, thank you."

"How's the lychee tarragon sangria?"

"Lovely." Aubrey's eyes flicked to Beca, including her in the conversation. "Thanks for the recommendation."

"Yeah, Luke really knows his way around pink drinks," Beca smirked.

Luke glared at her. "Excuse me. I'll settle the tab," he said in an agreeable tone, before clamping a hand on Beca's shoulder. "Becky, a word?"


"Dude, what?"

Luke pushed her into a barstool. "Dibs," he said simply.

"Okay. How much is Stacie paying you?"

"Paying me to what?"

"To set up this – thing , with Aubrey, whatever this is." Luke stared at her in irritated silence for the longest time until it sank in. "Wow, Stacie's not in this?"

"No, asshole, it's not always about you."

"…well, what was I supposed to think? Of all the places in Manhattan, Aubrey just happened into your favorite bar?"

"Dibs."

"Oh, please. She's engaged."

"Nice try. She's not wearing a ring."

"…huh."

"Dibs!" Luke whisper-shouted, not buying her casual tone at all. "I saw her first!"

"Real mature, dude."

"She's multi-faceted, she reads Immanuel Kant, her favorite wine is Travaligni Gattinara – my point is, she's not for you. What do you want me to say, mate? Stop flirting with her."

"What flirting?"

"Your little jab on pink drinks, you bastard."

"How is that even – that's called a joke, Luke. In America, that's how we fuel conversations."

"So you're not into Aubrey?"

"Nope."

"But you used to have a crush on her or something."

"Nope."

"So it won't gut you to watch us snogging for the rest of the night?"

"Just snogging? Aw, dude." Luke suddenly became very interested in waving down Eddie. "Wait, you invited her? "

"Why not?

Beca fixed him with a death glare. "We're going to a Marc Jacobs show, genius."

"So?"

"On Fashion Week."

"She's not underdressed – a little square, yes, but is her outfit not straight-up Vivian Rutledge from The Big Sleep?"

His continued obliviousness was grating on her. "That's a relief. I'm sure the paps will fucking love it!"

"There won't be any paps."

"Sure. It's just gonna be me, you, Aubrey, and a bunch of other people worth five million upwards. There will be paps. "

"There won't be paps," Luke repeated smugly, "if you leave us alone."

No shit. Sure, there was a minuscule ounce of joy – excitement, even – the moment she laid eyes on Aubrey, but that didn't mean Beca was raring to have her mobbed on a night out with A-listers thirty minutes into meeting her.

"More old-fashioned," Beca growled at Eddie. They watched the bartender stir whiskey and bitters together; when he set the glass down, Luke handed him his credit card.

"Come on, mate. Don't be a twat."

There was another way she could play this. "Like I care," she said, glancing at her watch. "I got a supermodel waiting for me, so…have fun circling my nerd schoolmate. Who obviously peaked at college."

"That's being a twat."

"Wait until she shadows Marc Jacobs just to be in the event photos, then come back to me."

"That's the point. What better for a first date than the high life?"

This was almost too easy. "Huh. Well, take her backstage. Models, BTS footage, reporters – doesn't get any higher than that."

"Duh."

"And make sure you introduce her to Gigi. Everyone loves Gigi."

"Eh, maybe not. She never remembers me."

"I can go ahead and make sure she does."

"…you'll do that?"

"I don't know. Would a twat do that?"

Luke shook his head sheepishly. "I take it back. Will you talk to Gigi? Aubrey would be thrilled."

Beca raised her glass. "Done."


She did not spare Aubrey one glance as she exited the bar.

Her Audi was parked illegally in front. Ray beckoned her in. "I thought we were picking up Mister Luke?" he asked as she slid into the backseat.

"He's not coming."

Ray shut the door. He liked dishing gossip he gleaned from fellow handlers – he told Beca Hiddleswift was happening weeks before everyone caught on – but tonight he sensed her irritation and wisely decided to shut up. There was no way Luke was making a pass at Aubrey. He was the kind of douche who put butter in his coffee and avoided dating Capricorns…but then again, they might have that in common. Christ. She couldn't even tell if Aubrey was engaged or unengaged, let alone what she was really like.

Fuck Luke. Fuck him, fuck not getting to Clandestino before him, fuck Perez Hilton and ill-timed coincidences and goddamnit, is Aubrey even gay ? She dug out her phone, hoping to zone out on Instagram or anything, and there's a text from Stella: Sooooo exciteeeeeeeeeed! Yeah, that makes one of us.

"Shit," Ray cursed, a little after hitting Midtown. The line to the Jacobs show started two blocks away from the venue. Upon arrival, the front entrance of Manhattan Center was aglow with incessant camera flashes. "Shit!" He braked hard, narrowly missing one of the photographers spilling out into the sidewalk. The guy flipped them the bird before rejoining the throng.

"Hardy bastards," Beca muttered.

"I've seen worse." Ray drove around the building, but even the back door was teeming with paparazzi. "Sorry, boss. You gotta walk."

That meant she had no other way in but through the red carpet – a deliberate, if not diabolical move from the event organizers. "Oh, come on."

"Smile," Ray chuckled, watching her patting down her hair in the rearview mirror.


"STOKR!"

"ARE YOU DATING CARA DELEVINGNE?"

"WHO ARE YOU WEARING?"

"HOW'S IT FEEL WHEN YOU DIDN'T WIN ALBUM OF THE YEAR?"

"SMILE!"

Beca ignored the zoo of reporters and gawkers, letting Ray push through the mile-long press alley so she could get in as fast as possible. The PR girl who received her invitation didn't glance at it. "First row! Lovely!" she cooed, sinking red-painted talons on Beca's arm to drag her into the veiled ballroom.

Marc Jacobs' venue this season was some sort of nightclub: the entire Hammerstein Ballroom was decorated with hanging light bulbs, adding to the rave-blue and purple glow of the walls. And because fashion shows can never be not outrageous, there were puddles of water on the actual runway. Beca shook her head and headed backstage.

She found Stella in the middle of estheticians, all simultaneously adding touches on her dreadlock updo. "BECA!" she exclaimed, pulling her for an air-kiss. She was already dressed in her first runway outfit: a shimmering baby-doll dress and what seemed to be eight-inch neon orange boots. "OMG, I am so stoked you're here! Not that you'd wanna miss Marc's show – it's TD. OMG, you're wearing Alexander Wang? Shut up! Snapchat!" she sang to one of the stylists, who pushed a diamond-encrusted iPhone into their faces.

"No photos," Beca said automatically.

"For real?"

"For real."

"Come on, it's not like the extras would regram this and go, 'they're totally doing it on the DL'."

Beca bristled, but let Stella put an arm around her for the photo op. I heard you, Keegan . "Now was that so hard?" Stella cooed, giving her a little kiss to the cheek that the stylist thankfully missed. "Will you pass me the hummus? I could so use some carrot sticks." A harangued-looking man with a headset and clipboard, possibly a model wrangler, cleared his throat pointedly behind them. "Oh, fuck. I can't eat or drink anything until nine. Can you believe that? Not even Evian. "

"Criminal," Beca intoned as she scanned the rest of the models in the room, all in various stages of hair and makeup.

"But you know what? My juice cleanse is totally working! I skipped yoga this morning and I'm still two pounds less from yesterday –"

"I'll see you at the afterparty."


"Strike, strike, strike a pose," RuPaul sang as he took a video on his phone. The flamboyant drag queen and TV host was dressed in a polka-dotted shirt and shiny silver suit, which was how Beca spotted him in the first place. "Gigi, RuPaul, J. Lo, Jean; picture of a beauty queen!" In front of him, Gigi Hadid – sandwiched between three stylists primping her outfit – giggled in the makeup seat.

"You are doing the Lord's work, Ru," Beca greeted.

"You lesbo harlot," RuPaul practically shouted back, air-kissing her on both cheeks. "Gigi, dear, see what happens when you desecrate the lyrics to Vogue? You bring forth the devil!" He turned the phone to Beca as she went to air-kiss Gigi.

"Who are you with?" Gigi teased, looking behind her.

"Cara."

"Nuh-uh. She's super into Hailey."

"…don't even know why I tried that."

"I saw your pics and died . Seriously? Cara? She makes out with everyone!"

"Was it really that obvious?"

"Like, making out with a ham would have been more real."

"Shut up. And stop looking around, I'm alone."

"Aww, STOKR is flying solo! Ru, fairy dragmother, can you find her a date?"

RuPaul looked Beca over. "I can hook you up with Michelle Visage."

"She'll eat her up!" Gigi laughed.

"With both hands," Beca snorted. "How was your birthday, G?"

"Fun! We had a dinner party at home and my room was just bursting with flowers – thanks for the peonies! Mum's changing her florist to Venus et Fleur because of you. Anyway, I rode a helicopter at sunset with Mum and Zee and he got me an LV makeup box. Oh, and I wore pink all day!"

"What more could a girl ask for?"

"I know, right? Bella was all, 'Let's go clubbing!' and I'm like, 'Bitch, you desperate'." I mean, we did slay at WeHo the night after, but I wanted low-key too, you know?"

"Tell Luke that. We're planning Stacie's birthday party and he wants to book the entire freaking Boom Boom Room." Beca shook her head. "You know my publicist, right? Luke?"

"The cute Brit."

"…sure. He's somewhere here. Will you endorse the virtues of dinner parties when you spot him?"

"Mmkay!"

"You too, Ru."

"Depends. How cute is this guy?" RuPaul asked. "Also, can I point out you are preaching about dinner parties? You, who broke my Waterford Lismore decanter the last time you were in my house?"

"While trying to bang that Italian bimbo from Geordie Shore," Gigi added derisively.

"I don't watch TV, how was I supposed to know?"

"Please. You're famous, of course you watch TV."


"Please find your seats," a tinny female voice called out over the venue speakers. "The show starts in five minutes. Please find your seats."

Beca emerged backstage exhausted. Some smiling girl in a gold dress, faux fur coat and some sort of headdress immediately approached her: Gaia Matisse, Henri Matisse's bony great-great-granddaughter and Insta-famous member of the Snap Pack. Beca scanned the crowd. Ray stood ten steps off her twelve, waiting for her to make eye contact. She discreetly gestured towards Gaia with all five fingers, their hand signal for subdue. Ray nodded and went to distract her.

Down the front row, Luke led Aubrey into their seats. Beca accosted a waiter with a tray of champagne. "Feel like making forty bucks?"

"Yeah?"

Beca slipped a few bills into his breast pocket. "That's twenty. All you have to do is add ice cubes to a couple of glasses, and bring them –" she pointed at Luke – "to that guy."

"…blonde? With the girl in the checky suit?"

Beca nodded.

"Where's the other twenty?"

"Yours, if you do it right."


"You heathen! "

"Is there a problem, sir?" the waiter asked innocently.

"I just can't –" Luke stared at the glasses, then back at the waiter. "Is that ice on the champagne?!"

"Really sorry, sir, we ran out of chilled bottles –"

"At a Marc Jacobs show?!"

"I could bring fresh ones, but show starts in –"

"This shouldn't have even made it out of the bar at all."

Beca listened with satisfaction. Typical Luke. Overall he was great, except it was too easy to cockblock him with his own consumerist tendencies. "Hey," she called out, approaching the group. "What's going on?"

"The waiter is giving away champagne with ice ," Luke huffed.

Beca caught Aubrey's eye; she stood next to Luke with her mouth in a thin line. "Sounds like a real issue," Beca commented, slipping the rest of the forty bucks into the waiter's pocket. "Sorry. Can you get us three glasses of champagne, without ice, before curtain or whatever it is fashion shows do?"

The waiter nodded and took off. "Without ice," Luke emphasized after him.

"Jesus, Luke."

"Sorry you had to see that," he said to Aubrey, ushering her to his right. "I'm very particular about champagne. It's underrated because people don't care to serve it properly."

"I see," Aubrey only replied. Beca took the seat to Luke's left. Like she thought, too easy.


The clothes were, for lack of a better word, strange . The women walked by in outfits of pastel and neon, all in varying textures, shapes and sizes not ever practical for the challenges of real life. Animal patterns, camouflage and metallic adornments soon emerged. The multicolored dreadlocks on all the models felt out of place. Who would buy these things? Beca thought. Maybe she just didn't understand fashion.

The worst part of it was Luke's whispered commentary.

"My god, the feeling on this hemline is just inspired. Inspired ."

"Jaden Smith would so pay for that."

And when Stella came out in her teetering boots: "You're nailing that tonight, bruv. Respect."

"Shut up."

The continuous onslaught of colors lasted about ten minutes. At the end of it, Marc Jacobs appeared for a quick bow. "Bravo!" Luke yelled amidst the roaring applause; the fashion designer somehow heard, because he glanced towards them with a renewed grin before turning away. "He looked at me! Did you see that? That is mental!"

"Oh, go blow him," Beca snapped. Somewhere from her right she heard Aubrey laugh.


"Are you riding with me?" Beca asked Luke as they moved to the exit.

To her surprise, Aubrey answered. "It's a nice evening out. Why don't we walk?"

"Um…Beca doesn't walk."

The afterparty was at Posse, a swanky new lounge a few blocks north. But this was also Fashion Week – not to mention the last show of the season – which meant there would be no shortage of street photographers along the way.

"I walk," Beca clarified, not wanting Aubrey to think she was being a prima donna or something. "It's just not a good idea right now."

"Why?"

Luke glanced from Beca to Aubrey incredulously. "Are you…" he began, before both of them were suddenly blinded by an iPhone flash. The culprit was Gaia Matisse, who blew Beca a kiss before taking off. "Rude!" Luke sniffed, watching her run back to her friends and show them the stolen shot. "Well, love, we're not even outside and Becky's already being slammed by twats. That's just the kind of star she is."

Beca was saved from retorting by Ray's appearance. "Miss Maxwell is in the car," he said.

"What?!" Beca hissed, fully aware Aubrey could hear them. "Why?!"

"Miss Germany said you were, ah, traveling together."

Goddamnit. Even Kommissar's anal-retentive scheduling wasn't doing her any favors right now. "After Posse, I'm on my own. Understood?"

Ray nodded.

"Now what?"

"We go out the same way we came in."

Beca turned to Luke, trying not to let her dejection show. "See you at Posse."

As Ray fought their way to the car, Beca looked behind her. Luke and Aubrey were laughing about something as they crossed the street. The entire time Aubrey's arm was looped around his.


"Don't ruin my makeup," Stella greeted from the backseat. Her last look from the show had completely been scrubbed away, replaced by kohl-rimmed eyes and a backless silver dress.

Beca collapsed next to her. The more she looked at Stella the more it felt that six years ago her life couldn't be any more different; that this was now what she deserved.

"...you could ruin it a little," Stella said, searching her face concernedly. "Are you okay?"

"My head hurts."

Stella's hand moved to her temple, half-massaging, half-rubbing them. "Aww. Must be the champagne."

"Maybe."

"We'll find you some aspirin before you drink any more, okay?" Beca nodded absentmindedly and, mostly out of habit than anything else, rested her face on the crook of Stella's neck. "I am so over Posse," Stella continued, shifting so she could rub Beca's back. "You look so chic, babe. Very Jessica Jones meets Sunday at Berghain."

"You look good too."

The stereo played some cheesy rock song Beca had never heard of: I changed my crowd, I ditched my tie, I watched the sparks fly off the fire. I found your house, I didn't even try, they'd closed the shutters, they'd pulled the blinds. Stella looked at her phone throughout the entire ride.


A couple of hours at Posse and Beca's just had it up to here.

For some reason she was seated at a different table than Luke and Aubrey; she was stuck with Stella's industry friends instead. By the time she met her fourth Courtney – this one a 'social media guru' who waylaid her on the way to the powder room, gushed over her last album and placed a suggestive hand on her arm – Beca decided fuck it and went to find Ray.

"Beca! Beca, where are you going?" Stella said instantly, latching onto her shoulder. Beca shook her off.

"I know that guy," she replied, pointing at a vague spot at the bar. "I'm gonna go say hi."

"Oh, no you don't." RuPaul appeared out of nowhere, taking one of the empty seats next to Beca. "This ball is so lovely I could choke on it!" he said, beaming at them. "Stellie, dear, go mingle."

Stella immediately left their space. "Love you both!" she called out. RuPaul ignored her, leaning conspiratorially towards Beca.

"Honey, your publicist is not into dinner parties at all. "

"Mm-hmm."

"I did talk him down from Boom Boom Room."

"Mm-hmm," Beca repeated, this time as dismissively as possible. RuPaul raised his eyebrow.

"What is up with this shade, Mitchell? You're seated at a table full of models, and yet you're bitchier than a drag queen in an eight-hour tuck."

She glanced across the room at Aubrey's table. Luke had his face so close to her his nose was almost touching her cheek. Aubrey was gesturing enthusiastically about something; a moment later they were laughing again. Of course she had to be laughing with Luke again.

"Jealousy," RuPaul intoned, "thy name is…"

"Don't you have to go worship Anna Wintour or something?"

"Nonsense. Nowadays I only FedEx her a virgin every now and then." Beca chuckled in spite of herself. "Now tell Mama Ru what's wrong. They don't call me the fairy dragmother for nothing."

Beca had only known RuPaul socially for a year, but he seemed like he was genuinely trying to be nice, so she humored him. "I want to go home."

"…to our true home in Atlanta, capital of the Homosexual South? Or –"

"Tribeca."

"Oh. With Miss Lauren Bacall Lite?"

"With myself."

"If you wanted to be alone, you could have left after the show." RuPaul followed her gaze. "But her , honey ? Are you sure?"

Beca glared. "What's wrong with her?"

"Kitty girl is fierce ."

"I've heard," she muttered.

"Did you know she saved that historic little church at Brooklyn Heights?"

"Huh."

"And she has a membership at Magnises. Godmothered in by Athena Avery Clark, who I'm convinced is a vampire."

"…I don't even know what – who – that is."

"My point, dear, is this would be like your hopeless infatuation with that married Mexicana from that murder TV show. Besides," he coughed delicately and lowered his voice, "aren't you supposed to be fake-going-out with Cara DeVagine?"

"You really weren't going to help me, were you?"

"Oh, you lesbos are so impatient, in your mind you've already bought Miss Attorney-at-law a Subaru."

"Yep. Thought so. Thanks, Ru. You've been really helpful."

"And you are a sarcastic elfin bitch, which I like," RuPaul retorted, patting her cheek.


"The girls wanna go get dinner at Sugarfish."

Stella's declaration would have been inoffensive, if she didn't follow it up with plopping down on Beca's lap. Beca pushed her away and looked around. The whole club seemed too engrossed with Maroon 5's set to have noticed. "What is wrong with you?"

Plenty, apparently, because Stella's arms next went around her neck. "It's just me, Bella, Jeremy and Elsa. Maybe Frances Bean. We have to take your car though, 'cause they came here in Gigi's limo, and she already left with Zee –"

Beca pried her off. "You really want Kris to see this on TMZ tomorrow?"

Kristen was Stella's girlfriend. Stella looked appropriately crushed. "I'll round up the girls," she mumbled.

"I'll meet you in the car." Beca willed herself not to look at the model as she left the table; she wouldn't be made to feel bad for Stella's inability to follow simple directions. She spotted Ray and motioned him to come over.

"Drive them wherever they want," she instructed. "I'm going home."


"…so I finally manage to drag her away, and I tell her, 'You ditz, that was the Dalai Lama!'"

Aubrey laughed – the mirthful, carefree, resonant sound from the chest that Beca liked – and as Beca stood behind her she thought, what if I gave her my number? What if I asked for hers, for business purposes? Watching her enthusiasm for Luke's punch line, Beca knew it was no use. It was time to throw in the towel. She approached Luke.

"I'm taking off," she announced, careful not to look at Aubrey.

"Already? Mate, it's ten!"

"I'm headed to Sugarfish with the girls," she lied. If she told Luke the truth she would never hear the end of it.

"Swell." Luke put an arm around her. "Gigi and RuPaul stopped to talk to us," he whispered. "You're the –"

"– hello, hello, hello, ladies! Have you met the host?"

They all looked up. RuPaul had materialized next to them. Flanking him, smiling serenely, was Marc Jacobs.

"I hope you are enjoying the party," he said.

Beca heard Luke's jaw drop. Aubrey seemed too riveted by the designer's presence to say anything either. "We are," she said, holding out her hand. "Beca Mitchell. Congratulations on the amazing collection."

"Thanks! I had Pillow Talk on repeat for three months."

"I'd also like you to meet Aubrey and Luke," RuPaul interjected, pushing Luke onto Marc. "Luke has very strong opinions against dinner parties. He thinks they are – and I quote – 'popular in the 50s, when people didn't have LED lights'."

"Oh, you poor man." Marc shook his head disapprovingly. "In 1993 I had the exact same opinion as you. I was just fired from Perry Ellis – we all know the story – and I was literally cruising Tiergarten day in and day out when the benevolent Karl Lagerfeld invited me to his Berlin home…" Luke, transfixed by his every word, barely noticed the designer steering him towards his own table as he continued. "That dinner party, my dear chav, was an intimate amalgamation of the men and women I revere and hate. Calvin Klein, Mario Sorrenti, Sam Taylor-Wood, Heidi, my very own Kate…" Beca watched them get swallowed up by the crowd until RuPaul put an arm around her waist.

"You two are coming with me," he said, propelling them all forward. "The bartender is ignoring me because I'm not packing a vaj. Now a blonde, a bald and a brunette would certainly make him notice, hm?"

"Certainly," Aubrey agreed. With the dim club lights it was hard to tell how she was reacting to this new development, but she sounded unperturbed.

At the bar, Beca caught the bartender's attention with a hundred-dollar bill. "Old-fashioned, please."

"Virgin peach bellini," RuPaul said. "Aubrey?"

"Nothing for me, thank you."

"Drinks are on me," Beca said quickly.

"Well, aren't you generous." RuPaul arched an eyebrow at her, then at Aubrey. "Are you a teetotaler too, honey?"

"No, but I'm a little lightheaded. I've been drinking too fast on an empty stomach."

"Welcome to New York Fashion Week. See that little mamba with disproportionate D-cups? I bet those are arancini balls stuffed down her décolletage." They tried to muffle their laughter as the girl RuPaul pointed out glided past. "And the cure for your predicament, dear, is dinner with someone who can pay. Do you know Beca Mitchell?"

Aubrey glanced at her. "Only from the Adidas billboard at Times Square," she said coolly.

"Then you know she can get you into Cipriani. Beca, this is Aubrey. Don't be fooled by the svelte figure: she is very smart." RuPaul watched them shake hands, unaware that they were doing this the second time tonight. He waved at someone far off. "Now excuse me. Adam Levine just beckoned me onstage, and I am powerless to resist such a pretty man." He plucked his drink from the counter and air-kissed Aubrey goodbye, then Beca.

"You are the fairest queen of all," Beca told him in an undertone.

"No, child, that's Prince."

When he was gone, Beca turned to Aubrey.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked. Her own heartbeat was inexplicably loud in her ears. Aubrey couldn't possibly hear that, could she?

"No, thank you."

"...how did you find Marc's collection?" As soon as she said it, Beca wanted to punch herself. It was the kind of softball conversation starter Wall Street finance bros probably used on her all the time. As she expected, Aubrey's stiff expression – the one she had when she lied to RuPaul earlier – came back.

"It was nice."

Beca took a sip of her drink, willing herself to come up with something less lame to cover up the awkward silence. Just when she was about to ask Aubrey what she did for work, the event photographer – a whippet-thin boy in a suit and Converse sneakers – sidled next to them.

"Smile!"

Beca's arm gingerly went around Aubrey's waist, an unfortunate reflex from being dragged into strangers' selfies too many times. The blonde, surprised, leaned towards her before quickly correcting herself. Beca caught a whiff of her perfume just as the camera flashed. Aubrey smelled great. She forgot about that.

"Loved you in Orange Is The New Black !" the photographer yelled, shaking Beca's hand. He jerked his head towards Aubrey. "Who's this?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Beca saw Aubrey take a step back. "This is Princess Elisabeth von Thurn und Taxis," she said coldly. "Did you really have to ask?"

He was immediately embarrassed. "Oh, fuck. Well, sorry, Miss –"

"Princess, dude, what is wrong with you?"

"How do you not recognize a Vogue editor at a Marc Jacobs afterparty?" Aubrey muttered haughtily, in an accent that was unmistakably Russian.

"A German royal, nonetheless," Beca mocked.

The guy was visibly squirming by now. "Look, I don't cover many fashion events, okay?"

"Make sure you get her name right," Beca said. "And put me in as 'mystery brunette'."

"Um – how do you spell 'Princess Elisabeth Vandertunt'–?"

"Go away," Aubrey barked. He was out of their sight in a flash. "The real Princess Elisabeth is going to get a very confusing press alert tomorrow," she remarked, as Beca chuckled in satisfaction. "You were in Orange Is The New Black?"

"No. I don't even watch TV."

"I don't know if you've heard, but it has plenty of lesbians."

"Huh. Is that what keeps you interested nowadays?"

To her surprise, Aubrey deflected the joke. "Just so you know, Princess Elisabeth has to be eight years older than me."

"Then I owe you an apology. I don't know a lot of blondes."

"That's not what I hear."

"I meant the sophisticated ones."

Aubrey matched her smirk. "How far does your flattery usually get you?"

"I did meet Michelle Obama. Then I got stuck in a closet at the White House and was never invited back," Beca deadpanned, earning a laugh from the blonde. "Say, I can't get you into Cipriani –"

"I wasn't expecting you to."

"– but will you have dinner with me? Like, now?"

Aubrey paused, and Beca could tell she was just itching to look at her watch. Instead, she picked up her purse from the bar.

"I'd like that."