A/N: Again, I'm very sorry for how patchy the updates are with this story! It's the first to fall to the wayside whenever life is chaotic and I end up having to prioritise my Harry Potter and Pirates of the Caribbean fics. I haven't abandoned it, though! The Pavi thirst is strong, the taste in men is…questionable.

Dinner with any Largo was a sticky situation. That was just a plain fact. Dinner with Pavi Largo was, well, a notoriously sticky situation for most women. Some men, if the rumours were to be believed - which they usually were. And for Zena? For Zena it was a goddamn fucking minefield that had the potential to blow her up and leave her in pieces so small that not even GeneCo could profit from them. Probably not for lack of trying. While she was growing steadily used to his presence as the time went on, a dinner like this presented more problems. What to wear, for one. And that wasn't even some pathetic vain choice - she wasn't pottering around her bedroom wondering what dress would best set off her eyes so that the charismatic murderer might find her bangable. He found most things bangable, it wasn't much of a task to be so in his eyes.

Like everything else lately, it had to be done carefully. To make no effort at all would be a bad idea, for it could be taken as an insult (or maybe it would even intrigue him further so far as she was concerned), so she batted back any burgeoning desire to rock up dressed in sweatpants and the ragged old band tee she often slept in. He was infuriatingly good at being a pain in the ass. Knowing him he'd declare it a new fashion trend and begin wearing the same, soon to be followed by the whole of the island. Maybe that would be worth it just to see him in sweats, because she really couldn't picture it. Alas, she had the feeling that anything with an elastic waistband was strictly forbidden in the world of Pavi Largo - except maybe for underwear, but she'd be stunned if he bothered with that at all.

The day hadn't gotten off to a great start. Determined to make sure that this dinner was very much a business dinner, she'd dragged her ass down to the fabric store just in time for it opening so that she might drop hours into dithering over potential swatches. It had not gone well. While she hadn't really expected it to go well, those expectations had lain within the mundane - that there wouldn't be anything that was the exact right shade or material, that she'd need to dip even further into her savings than she already suspected, that they would have exactly what she needed at a price that was somewhere near the realms of affordable but it would conveniently be entirely out of stock.

None of that happened, though, because she'd barely even begun to browse the fabrics before a finger was jabbing sharply into her shoulder forcefully enough to have her wincing and whirling around.

"Can I help you, miss?"

The worker who approached was a lanky man with gravity-defying hair and electric blue lipstick.

"Uh, not yet, no, I'm just browsing for now," she said, resisting the urge to lift a hand and rub at where he'd prodded at her.

"If you're here to browse, might I suggest you go to Cheap Cuts on the other side of the island. Emote only caters to the designers who work for the top clients."

"Well I'm designing something for Pavi Largo right now - does he count?"

If she'd been hoping that her revelation would be met with dropped jaws and immediate apologies, she would have been sorely disappointed. Instead, it garnered little more than an eye-roll and a slow, pointed once over that would've had others trembling. Others didn't work in a building that frequently hosted all four Largos at once.

"Uh-huh," he said, beckoning for her to follow him with a single bony finger "Follow me."

Zena did so. Mainly because she had the feeling that if she didn't, she'd be kicked out entirely. Trailing behind him, and very aware of how scuffed and discoloured her sneakers were as she did so, she was led back through the countless aisles of fabric to the glass counter at the front of the store. Another worker waited there - a woman, who looked like she could be the twin of the man she already dealt with. It was difficult to say whether they really were related, or whether surgery to attain such a look was a requirement to work here. She'd heard of employers demanding stranger things.

"What's this?" The woman asked somewhat boredly, barely sparing Zena a glance.

"She says she's a designer for Pavi Largo."

The snort that garnered in response even sounded bored, too - and another, marginally more interested look. It lasted maybe half a second longer than the last one had, and whatever the woman saw must've had her as utterly confident as her colleague that Zena was a filthy liar, here to fleece them out of their fancy bolts of velvet and silk, like any stereotypical super-villain. Grimacing, she forced herself to keep her chin up and her shoulders squared despite the discomfort that began to gnaw at her - not only because of their blatant and undisguised judgement, but also because she knew the sort of conversation she'd soon need to have with Pavi himself if she failed to get the sort of materials she'd need.

Before she could spend too long imagining it, though, a tablet as thin as any sheet of paper was all but slapped down onto the counter in front of her. On it was a list of names - plenty she recognised, a few she did not.

"What's this?"

"The list of all approved designers for the Largo family. Tell me, Miss, which one of these designers is you?"

Lifting up the tablet, she peered at the list and idly hoped that maybe Pavi had taken a break from all of his well-loved debauchery to see that her name would be added to this list - that it would be sitting there, freshly added at the end, and she'd get to throw it in the stupid face of this asshole and his smug little sidekick. It wasn't. Of course it wasn't.

"It's not here - yet," she sighed, smoothing a hand over her hair where it was scraped back into a ponytail "But I've only just started working with him, it's an oversight. Look, I work at the tower, I have an employee ID card here, and I could call him right now to-"

Another eye-roll came then, even more infuriating than the last. It made her feel like an idiot, too, as she dug in her bag for her GeneCo tower ID card and her phone, neither of which seemed to have even a shred of the impact she hoped they might. The worker cast a glance towards the card she brandished with all of the condescending amusement of a bouncer being handed a fake ID by a fourteen year old, looking back to his co-worker with a look that screamed "can you believe this idiot?" before raised his eyebrows and began speaking especially slowly, like she was either hard of hearing or just especially dense.

"Be that as it may…you aren't on the list, and we don't provide for hobbyists."

It was said with an air of finality which left the overall order that it masked entirely unspoken - please leave. For a second, Zena faltered. Under different circumstances, literally any other circumstances, she'd have scoffed and told them exactly where they could ram their overpriced bolts of fabric. But admitting defeat meant disappointing one of the Largos, and while she seemed to have somehow managed to amuse Pavi so far, she knew his image was one thing he would never fail to take painstakingly seriously.

"Mr Largo has commissioned me to make clothes for him - call him and ask him yourself," she tried again "If I don't get this fabric, he'll-"

"If we called Mr Largo about every head-case that claimed to know him personally, he'd make it his personal mission to put us out of business," it was the woman who interrupted her this time "Now I suggest you leave, Miss, before we have to call the authorities."

"For trying to buy some fabric?" She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"For trespassing. We're a private business, we have the right to refuse service, which is what we're doing now. Please. Leave."

It took until she was on the bus home for the tears of mortified frustration to stop blurring her vision, and longer still for the furious blush to leave her cheeks. It still returned, in fact, whenever her brain took great pleasure in throwing the memory back up to the forefront of her mind in vivid detail, forcing her to relive it all. Sometimes she'd come up with something else she should have said - some clever phrase that would've absolutely convinced them to throw up their hands, admit defeat, and help her. It was delusion, though, and she knew deep down that nothing short of dragging Pavi in there with her would've convinced them that she was anything more than a crackpot.

That provided little comfort, though, in the face of dinner with him that night. Her deliberations over what to wear that night were actually helped somewhat by her failure during the day - mostly because she was hoping that if she at least looked somewhat nice, he might be more inclined to forgive the hurdle they'd encountered. Although she did worry what else she might have to do in order to hurry along that forgiveness.

Donning a sinfully figure-hugging red satin dress that she'd made herself - doubling as a testament to what she could do with the more pedestrian fabrics available to her at Cheap Cuts - she applied a coat of lipstick that was almost a perfect match, and coated her hair in a product that cost a fortune, but made her curls frizz-free, and then she took one final look in the mirror and prayed that she'd still be the one wearing her face by the end of the night.

The restaurant was just like Pavi - over the top, ridiculous, and hopelessly stylish. Never one to be content with simply having a good table in the crowd, his regular table was on a platform that reminded her of a stage, even if it was a mini one, little more than a foot high. Taking the hand he offered, she teetered up onto it in her stupidly high heels (shoes she could neither run nor fight in, which likely wasn't very smart, but she supposed she could always kick them off if it came down to it) and did what she could to keep her face schooled into a mask of serene nothingness under the many, many eyes she felt following them through the room.

Well versed in the art of at least pretending to be a gentleman, he took a step which could only be described as theatrical towards her chair and pulled it out for her, grinning when she blinked in surprise. She'd sort of assumed he had servants to do everything for him, right down to the wooing. As he rounded the table to take his own seat, she took her time casting her gaze about the room. Everything in the room was either purple, red, or black, and Pavi must have been aware that dressing to match would only make him look like a waiter, for he dressed surprisingly simply in a crisp, perfectly fitting white shirt and sinfully tight black skinny jeans. It was timeless, and it suited him well. When she looked back to him, she found him openly observing her much in the same way she'd just done to the rest of the room.

Ordinarily, had she come bearing news of success, she'd have used this as an opportunity to establish right away that this was a business meeting - she'd have pulled out her swatches and forced the topic onto one of fabric before he could decide what it was he'd rather talk about. As it was, though, she was too nervous to do that. Not when the swatches tucked in her clutch were less than up to his exacting standards. So instead she returned the wide grin he gave her with a tight-lipped smile of her own and took up the menu.

"What's good here?" She asked, mostly out of a desire to break the silence.

The way his grin turned to a smirk suggested the answer on his mind didn't much pertain to food. But, thankfully, he didn't voice it and instead leaned back lazily in his chair, smoothing a hand over his flawlessly styled black hair.

"Everything, bella. Only the best for the Pavi and his…friends, no?"

The very best, if the fact that there weren't even any prices on the menu was anything to go by.

"What would you recommend, then?"

In response, he rattled something off in Italian which she barely caught even one syllable of - and her face showed it, for he gave one of those high unsettling laughs of his and leaned forward to point at her menu.

"A decadent cheddar béchamel sauce with expertly diced prosciutto, wrapped in a delicate filo pastry," she read aloud and then looked up at him.

He returned her gaze as though waiting for her to continue, and she couldn't believe she was going to have to say it.

"Pavi, this…this is a Hot Pocket," she pointed out.

"A what?"

"A Hot Pocket. You know, you get them like a dozen to a box, you microwave 'em…"

He looked none the wiser for her explanation, but it shouldn't have come as a surprise to her. Had he ever even used a microwave? Or eaten food prepared in one? It was doubtful. Part of her would be amazed if he'd ever even washed his own hair.

"It might-a be worth the try then, no? Compare the ones here to the ones you're used to."

His tone said exactly how he thought they'd contrast, but she didn't care enough to argue. He wasn't wrong, and she'd found something on the menu that wasn't strange and unusual. That was a win. They ordered and the server swept off with the menus, leaving Zena to accept the grim reality that she'd need to either flirt with him, or show him the fabrics she could get her hands on. Both seemed equally dangerous, but one was much more within the realms of her comfort zone.

"I have some swatches to show you," she admitted at what was almost a grumble, opening her clutch and producing the fabrics.

Even in the dim candlelight, the quality looked poor to her eye - which likely meant that they'd look utterly dire to his. The thread count was too low, and the weave was as uneven as the dye job.

"I can dye the fabric again myself at home to make it a bit more, uh, vibrant," she said, handing the swatches to him "It's not what I'd hoped, I'm happy to admit that to you…"

Although she only did because it seemed more dangerous to sit back and pretend she was stupid enough to believe what she was handing to him was anything resembling good quality.

"…But I'm good at working with what I've got. That purple there is the same fabric that I made this dress out of - the result is all about how you work with it when the materials aren't up to scratch. I did a pretty good job with this."

She realised a little too late that it was practically an invitation to him to look her up and down, but when he did so it was with a calculating eye and not a lecherous one. It was perhaps the first time he'd looked at her in a way that didn't have her fight or flight instincts itching to come into play. Still, his body language became subdued, and he looked over each swatch silently, rubbing his thumb across each one and holding it to the candlelight before discarding them down onto the black tablecloth one by one.

"This…is not good enough," he said bluntly.

What concerned her more than the feedback was the lack of any compliment it came with. In fact, he looked rather bored.

"I…It was the best I could do," she replied - quietly, and somewhat weakly.

Any slight hint of an appetite she'd done her best to muster was quickly fleeing.

"Where did you go? Emote?"

How long had she spent wishing they could have even just one conversation that might be solely business? And now he was indeed becoming all business, and it was disconcerting. Sod's law.

"I tried. It…it didn't go well, so then I had to go to Cheap Cuts. I suppose I could…I could order some different fabrics from suppliers outside of the island, but that would take time, it all depends on how long you're willing to wait for it all, it's your call."

"It didn't go well?" He echoed, something other than bored annoyance flickering on his face now as he tilted his head "Why?"

Was it just her or had his voice deepened? It had certainly lost a lot of its usual inane whimsy.

"I don't want to make excuses," particularly not when those excuses were embarrassing.

"Excuses disguise a lack of good reason - that-a….is not the case here, is it? No, you're too good a worker for that, bella. Tell me."

It was an order disguised as a reassurance, so she heaved a sigh and directed her gaze somewhere off to the side before she finally answered him.

"They wouldn't serve me."

She could practically hear his responding blink from across the table.

"You told them you were working for me?"

"They wouldn't believe me."

"You asked them to contact me? To verify?"

"I was in the process of suggesting that when they asked me to leave."

Something flashed in his eyes. Something dangerous and gleeful all in one - something which confirmed all of her fears and her reservations where he was concerned. It was, however, also a comfort. In a weird way. All this time she'd worried about how much danger she might be in when it came to him, analysing to death every gesture, every laugh, every reaction that she managed to glean from him over and over, wondering if there might be any hint there that she was in some sort of danger from him. Now she knew that, should that day come, she'd know it when she saw it. Because she was seeing it right now and there was no mistaking it, even despite the mirthless imitation of a smile twisting its way onto his lips.

"It's understandable, they must get weirdos in every day trying to get…I don't know, discounts, free fabric, whatever, by saying they're working with your family. I wasn't on the list, it was all just an oversight - on their part, I mean, not yours. It's…it's probably a policy thing. I'm sure if you go to find the fabric yourself," she realised belatedly that it sounded like she was washing her hands of it and rushed to continue "Or I could come with you, or you could…I don't know…sign a note or something…It can all be straightened out, I just didn't want to come here empty-handed. These can at least give you an idea of what I'm thinking of as far as the design goes, even if they're not really up to scratch."

"Did it bother you?"

"Of course it did, I know these fabrics aren't good enough but I couldn't turn up empty handed so I had to improvi-"

"Ah-ah," he waved a hand, stopping her short "Not the fabric, Zena. The treatment - the disrespect. Did it bother you?"

It seemed to amuse him, that was for damn sure. The lighting in the restaurant was dim and flickery, more suited to a club than anywhere that one might be expected to eat, and with blue lighting just to be even more ridiculous. It was like being in an aquarium, and as he leaned forward and smirked at her the light would catch the green of his eyes every now and then, highlighting the amusement already glimmering there.

"I…" she spluttered and then scoffed, forgetting her meek and mild persona in the fact of the question "It…it made sense. I was dressed like a bum, I didn't have any proof, I wasn't on the list, they probably get weirdos in from the streets every day claiming to be your best friend."

"You're still not answering the Pavi's question," he chided with surprising amounts of good humour.

That good humour was likely spawned from the fact that her avoidance was an answer in and of itself.

"How did you feel when they looked at you and used all of that poor judgement to decide you weren't good enough to be worth their business?" he asked.

The accent threatened to slip again, just a bit. A sign that he wanted the truth now, and wouldn't settle for much less. Pursing her lips, Zena crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, casting her gaze back across the room.

"Bella," Pavi prompted "I am known for many things, my patience is not among them."

"I wanted to ram the tablet down the throat of the one who stood and smirked," she admitted quietly - so quietly that she didn't know if she even wanted him to hear her admit the exact thing she knew he wanted to hear so badly.

"And the other?"

"Him? I wonder if he'd have stayed so condescending after I smashed his face into the corner of that beautiful pristine desk."

It was small game stuff. Pathetic, even to her own ears, and unimaginative compared to whatever horrors he likely dreamt up for fun, entirely based on her own wounded ego, and little more than a fantasy. She felt guilty squishing bugs, she could never really follow the impulse she'd felt when those two smug pricks had sneered down at her like she was worth less than the dirt on their shoes.

Still, though, the admission had Pavi smiling - a wide grin that might've been handsome, even with the face strewn across his, were it not for what they were discussing. Leaning back once again in his chair, he stretched his long lithe legs out before him, not budging them when the denim of his jeans brushed against her bare calves.

"Yes," he hummed, taking up his wind glass "We'll work well together."

"Only if I manage to buy fabric," she retorted drily.

"Go back tomorrow. You won't have a problem."

He smirked as he said that - in a way that sparked her curiosity and her worry all at once.

A/N: You can, during embarrassingly long waits for chapters, find me elsewhere here:

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