Mayβs rain paints a sheen on apartments, flowers, and cars in the slick streets as Cleo waltzes into Celestinaβs office, ten minutes late, rain beads on the shoulders of her coat. She hopes the folder she is carrying will make up for her tardiness which, for once, is not intentional. Cleo likes to make people wait, play her little mind games. But never with Celestina. She has a silk twillΒ scarf wrapped around her hair, sunglasses on, looking like a blonde Audrey Hepburn as she drops the manila folder on the desk between the two women. βEver heard of the Artemis Fund?β she asks, lowering herself into a chair. βItβs legal advocacy for women. Emergency housing, education grants, the whole shebang.β Cleo knows itβs not really about generosity in their world. Itβs about optics. Philanthropy is social currency. βA little birdie told me their founder is about to be nominated for the Berggruen Prize.β Considered the Nobel Prize for philanthropy, Cleo knows someone on the inside who has confirmed this. βAnd theyβre getting a story in Time. Which meansβ¦β She taps a lacquered nail against the armrest. βA lot of attention incoming. Theyβll be the hottest charity to support once the news breaks. Which is why you get in early. If you do something public to show support now, youβll look like you believed in them before the applause arrived, instead of jumping on the bandwagon after the fact. What do you think?β
She leans back, satisfied with herself. The right cause is just another accessory. Then, she crosses her legs, pivots. βIβm having people over Saturday. Small crew. Some NYU art PhD students. A few people from one of the galleries. You should swing by.β She doesnβt expect a yes. Celestina doesnβt party with her anymore. But Cleo asks anyway.
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Location: The Mercer Art Gallery
For: @nicocaravelli
The gallery, usually a murmuring hive, is closed when Nico arrives. Cleo has sent the assistants and curators home, locked the front doors, told security to make themselves invisible unless the building catches fire. She knows Nico prefers it that way; the knowledge of who is in a room, who is listening, who has a reason to remember what they heard. Sunlight filters through the building's high windows, casting golden rectangles across the polished concrete floor where Cleo stands. The exhibit laid out in front of them is an ugly saccharine nightmare called Honey for the Wound. The artist (some outsider art wunderkind) has worked almost entirely with caramelized sugar, sculpted, twisted, and contorted to look like rotting things, a statement on sweetness and death being intertwined, like how flies swarm honey the same way they do a dead body. Nico is not here to talk art, and Cleo knows this. The Caravelli Financial Group handles her finances. Cleo launders for The Mob. This is a business check-in. Still, she canβt resist the urge to ask. βThoughts?β On the exhibit, she means, eyes catching on a small marzipan-looking statue of a lamb, split open along the belly. A critic from Frieze had called it grotesquely thought-provoking.
he nodded his head at her words , the other person obviously not thinking she knew what she was talking about. however , as much as santiago hated to admit it yale really did make well rounded individuals --- that and they were both fairly influential and knew better than not not catch up on their wordly endeavors. lips curled into a small grin at the woman's compliment , cleo did always have a way with words. at the mention of his campaign the other looked shocked --- almost shocked he didn't recognize him. he could have just asked but he knew the moment had left and so had their little friend. " i think that's your fault for being too inviting , " he nodded , lips curled against his cigarette , quickly lighting it and blowing the smoke away from the two. " and to think every single harvard graduate i've met is like that and don't get me started on princeton. i like to think we have a little something to offer rather than regurgitating whatever professors say during lecture. " though he had to wonder how many times cleo had actually attended lectures , but it didn't matter they seemed to be doing fairly well for themselves. " for me ? " he pointed to himself with his free hand before shrugging. " can i play coy and say --- no cleo , you don't have to do that ? or will it be too obvious that you can do whatever you want ? "
Cleo half-scoffs at his suggestion. βToo inviting? A vile accusation. He needs to learn to read cues. I mean, I was standing here barefoot and visibly losing the will to live.β She pauses, as if only just remembering something. βSpeaking ofβ¦β Cleo rises onto the balls of her feet, movement unconscious from years of training. ββ¦where are my shoes?β she asks, though mostly to herself. The concern lasts all of three seconds before she lowers herself again and takes another pull from her cigarette. βThe most annoying thing about Harvard alumni is that they never miss an opportunity to tell you they went to Harvard. Have you ever noticed that?β When he points to himself, Cleo looks him over. βYes, Santiago. For you.β Her brows lift. βUnless youβd rather I do it for your opponent,β she says, her lips curling involuntarily before dismissing the idea entirely. βNo, Iβd never. Thatβd be treason of the highest degree. I should surely be put to death.β Cleo draws a clean line across her neck with one hand, miming a guillotine as if she still lives in the time of kings and queens, when disloyalty meant prompt beheading. βAs much as I would love to watch you play coy, it will be painfully obvious that I intend to do whatever I want. We just acquired a space in Chelsea. Art deco building, gorgeous natural light. Just begging to be shown off. Itβd be the perfect space to guarantee another zero added to your campaign funds, with the right crowd.β
Location: Cleo's house, before a night out
For: @softstcps (RΓΌya)
Cleo is still getting ready when RΓΌya arrives, long hair wavy and wet on her silk robe. Going out tonight was Cleoβs idea, though neither of them have figured out yet where theyβre actually going. She pads back into the bedroom after letting the other in, a call of, βHelp yourself to the champagne on the counter,β thrown over her shoulder. She pulls on a vintage black dress, a shimmer of blue on eyelids, red lipstick, and reemerges, her cat, BrontΓ«, trailing behind her like a shadow. Pausing in the archway leading to the kitchen, she properly greets RΓΌya. βWelcome, schΓ€tze.β Itβs German for darling. German, which means Cleoβs had a few glasses of wine already. She only slips into foreign languages when sheβs buzzed. βSo, I still have no idea where we should go tonight. Do you have any leads?β The city feels different with everything going on, though Cleo is determined to forge ahead. βAre you feeling something lowkey? I know about a loft party in Tribeca, but it wonβt really be worth hitting up until after midnight.β She scoops up BrontΓ«, leans against the kitchen island, and points her chin toward the champagne. βReally, help yourself to that. Itβs an expensive gift and I canβt think of a better way to enjoy it. Itβs been too long. How is fortune favoring you these days?β
santiago was beginning to despise networking , his whole life just felt like one big fucked up networking evening with alumni up his ass asking him for opportunities if they were straight out of yale or the class of '76 asking him what his thoughts were on the rising toll of artificial intelligence and if they should implement and cost everyone their jobs. the whiskey in his hand had gotten awfully warm as he smiled his way through discourse he could pretty much care less about. at some point he excused himself to get some fresh air where some hedge fund investor patted his back and told him good job and offered him his card. he gladly took the card and rushed out before they asked him how the president was. he took the final sip from his glass and placed it on some random table while he reached in his blazer pocket for a cigarette. head whipped around at the sound of a familiar voice , he almost sighed in relief at the familiar face that accompanied it. he made his way over , removing a cigarette from the pack -- the man she was with recognized him but tried to make it seem like he was being a nuisance for joining in. " i think if you're a political idealist you best keep your idealism during election time , politics unfortunately makes you compromise on certain ideals which to the public makes you seem like a traitor but there is no such thing as disillusionment if you truly think you can convince people. shit , lenin thought he was doing well for his people and he had support. i'm not disillusioned , " he said with a small smile as he put the cigarette in his mouth , " we can all eat --- i just rather have my pie and eat it too. "
She drags on her cigarette and says nothing, watching Santiago with something that is starting to look like amusement. βAh, Lenin. βThere are no morals in politics; there is only expedienceβ,β she quotes back to him, because Cleo knows that Santiago knows Lenin. Santiago went to Yale. Unlike the M-named guy standing across from her, who used his fatherβs connections to attend some sunny party school in California. At his comment about having his pie and eating it too, Cleo plucks her champagne glass from where it balances precariously on the balcony ledge. βSpoken like a true politician.β This is a compliment, coming from her. She raises her drink in a toast before continuing on. βAnd speaking of,β Cleo turns slightly, angling her body in such a precise way that it quietly ices β Mark? Matt? β out of the conversation. βHow goes the campaign?β she inquires. Michael(?) lingers for one brave, unfortunate second before slinking into the crowd, pretending to recognize someone. Only once he is gone does Cleo drop pretenses and let out an exhale. βMy God, do you know him?β She questions, incredulous. βThe guy would not leave me alone. I donβt think heβs had a single original thought in his life, itβs a bit sad. Heβs like an amalgamation of anything heβs ever heard in an intro college course and thought sounded pseudo-intellectual. I donβt mind arrogance, obviously, but it should at least come with a little flavor, donβt you you think? Anyway,β She waves smoke away with two fingers, lips whispering a vague smile. βWhen are you going to let me throw one of these for you?β A fundraising event, she means.
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"Oh our honeymoon? You know, recently you've been really liking pretending to be married to me. A guy might start to get a certain impression." he smiled at her as he took the drink. "To Jeff and Mindy. We are eternally grateful for your generosity. I mean, it's kind of romantic. Believing in true love." He clinked his drink against hers before taking a hefty sip. "I mean you love to read. Probably have read a lot of love stories, do you think true love exists? Or have we not had enough drinks to have that conversation?" Granted Henri had already had a few drinks before this outing but that was because he had taken the train here from another bar. He was quick to take Cleo's invitation though. They always had fun together, and she indulged him in his little role-playing. She was a master of theatrics and an admirable liar. He deeply appreciated her company.
"PhD? In this economy?" He smirked, knowing the economy affected her very little. "What would you even get it in? I mean all of that studying and papers and exams," he shivered, thinking about his time at Harvard and how much work it all had been. He had enjoyed it but he was so far from it now he didn't see how he could go back. "Me? I've just been busy playing my hot boy summer. That and trying to find an older and distinguished gentleman or heiress to sponsor my summer fun. I'm thinking owns a yacht or owns their own island all together. I've been working on my abs just for that," he told her and lifted up his shirt to show her before going back to his drink. "I have a few leads but one of them is in medicine and I don't know that I can pretend to care about anatomy in that way."
βHenri, we could never be married. Iβd cheat on you, youβd cheat on me. Itβd be an endless cycle. And anyway, I donβt believe in that sort of thing,β she tells him, saying βthat sort of thingβ the way a Christian mom might refer to recreational witchcraft. Cleo doesnβt believe in marriage, nor monogamy. Or rather, sheβs never met anyone who has given her reason to believe in those things. βIβve read a lot of tragedies,β she corrects, bringing her lips to the edge of her drink. βBut I do think itβs real. I just donβt think itβs automatically virtuous. Love can blind you. Humiliate you.β Her eyes drift, briefly, toward Jeff and Mindy at the bar. βEven true love can be ugly, donβt you think? Or,β she points a finger in his direction, βdonβt tell me youβre a secret romantic at heart.β She holds no judgment regarding his answer.
βComparative literature. I got wasted on red wine and came up with a dissertation idea on female hysteria,β Cleo explains, drawing a sip. βThatβs the point of it all,β she continues. βThe exams, the papers, being the smartest person in the room. Whereβs your competitive spirit?β Academia is titillating to her, and she has the privilege of treating higher education like a hobby. Her eyes follow when he lifts his shirt. She does not pretend not to look. βMm, a modern-day Hercules,β biting back a lecture on Disney incorrectly naming its film after the Roman Hercules rather than the Greek Heracles, Cleo presses on. βYou didnβt become one of those gym nuts, did you? Life is too short to eat plain chicken and white rice every day.β She thinks of a few people, specifically, who deserve exactly what Henri is describing. βWhat are your standards? I mean, octogenarian with a humiliation fetishβ¦yay or nay? Because I know a guy.β A smirk cuts across her features. βBut really, whatβs the worst youβd put up with for a private island? Like, where would you draw the absolute line?β
It wasn't that Clark hadn't been to Crimson Velvet before but this really hadn't been a part of his plans tonight. A girl he knew who worked there was going through a divorce and needed some extra security getting to work so he had been giving her rides. Tonight though, she had asked him to come into the club, at least have a few drinks on her as a thank you and he hadn't felt right turning her down. Even if two of his drinks so far had been sodas. Still, he was trying his best to actually relax when he turned and saw her. "Oh fuck me," he said more to himself, knowing that as soon as she saw him she wouldn't just let him slip away. Every time he saw Cleo he felt like he was pulled back into another version of himself. A version of him so lost in his own grief he was only focused on what party was after whatever party he was currently at. Still, it was too late so he ordered and actual drink and moved to sit next to her. "Shouldn't you be at some charity gala right now? Like a benefit for kids with a bad sense of style or something?"
βThe charity benefit for unfashionable youth was last weekend. And Iβll have you know that I donated a very trendy dress. So Vogue.β Sheβs joking. Though with the self-indulgent philanthropy crowd she deals with, itβs not as absurd as it seems. Cleo isnβt unaware of Clarkβs lack of enthusiasm for this conversation. For seeing her in general, really. Clark has evolved, grown. Whereas Cleo has simply continued. Not unchanged, exactly, but committed to many of the same bad instincts. She doesnβt say anything to acknowledge him taking the seat beside her, just points to a brunette doing slow acrobatics on stage, body glitter catching every color in the room. βShe has amazing form. Sheβs not sickling her foot like the other girl, see?β She may as well be speaking another language with her ballet jargon, but Cleo still points it out. βDo you want me to buy you a dance?β She already assumes the answer but still asks anyway, because she finds it amusing. βI see youβre still doing the whole Wyatt Earp cosplay thing, then?β Itβs half question, half assessment. Back when they used to hang out, he didnβt have the whole...cowboy-ish vibe.
The bar is humid in the way a bathhouse is humid. Architecturally, it cannot handle the crowd it draws, which is part of the appeal. Cleo chose it because itβs busy, full of drunk idiots and, under those conditions, who knows what she and Henri might get into. She emerges from the crowd with two drinks, moving with the ballerinaβs grace of someone who has no intention of wearing anything sticky tonight. βSay thank you to Jeff and Mindy,β she says, handing Henri one of the glasses. βAnd if they come over, we just loved our honeymoon.β She lifts her left hand, one of her rings refracting bar lights. Itβs been newly relocated to her fourth finger for the bit. Then she waves toward a couple at the bar. βSo cute. They say βtrue loveβ drinks on their tab all night,β she adds, lowering herself across from him. Cleo can afford the drinks. This is not the point. The point is the sport of it all, the theatrics of it all. Spinning some silly little web and pulling in Jeff and Mindy from Idaho who believe in true love and are willing to sponsor it one round at a time. All because of some harmless, stupid little lie.
She takes a sip, looks at him over the rim of her glass. βIβve been thinking of enrolling in a doctoral program. Which means Iβm clearly either bored as hell or having a mental breakdown. Talk me down, I beg you. Anything remotely interesting going on with you? Please, sir, can I have some diversion?β she asks, cupping her hands out in her best Oliver Twist impersonation, begging for distraction from her own allegedly boring life.
Location: a fundraiser thingy at the Yale Club.
For: @dadivosos (Santiago)
Itβs not entirely clear what they are fundraising for tonight. Something about children. Empowering them, perhaps. Though the specifics of what that actually means, Cleo canβt be sure. She just knows that sheβs drunk at The Yale Club, debating politics with some guy whose name begins with an M and ends, in her mind, almost immediately after that. She is barefoot, in a gray Versace dress on the balcony of the rooftop, smoking a cigarette and engaging in a disappointingly tepid conversation regarding virtue in politics. Somewhere under some table, her heels sit. And somewhere under her skin, the last of her patience circles the drain as she taps two fingers against her chin, feigning deep thought until she canβt possibly twist her mouth into another shape. Frankly, this man is an idiot. Not even an interesting idiot, which is especially cruel. Her eyes drift, briefly scanning the crowd until they settle on a familiar face. βSantiago,β she calls out, beckoning him over with the wave of a hand. βHelp me settle a debate, would you? Is political idealism a foolish endeavor in Washington? I mean, does the political machine inevitably disillusion everyone in the end?β
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( anya taylor joy, cis woman, she/her ) SPOTTED: CLEO CALHOUN-DIETRICH in new york city! heard the THIRTY-TWO year old belongs to THE MOB as a MONEY LAUNDERER. word on the streets is that they can be REFINED, but they can also be HEDONISTIC.( olive, 31, they/them, cst )
tldr ; Cleo is the inheritor of her great-grandmother's elite ballet school and her grandfather's real estate company that owns theaters, art galleries, and other arts-related spaces. She uses these to launder for the mob, operating as a cultural front that makes dirty money look like arts and philanthropy. An ex-ballerina raised on a meat farm, Cleo is elegant but not delicate. Old-money and connected, she's confident, educated, and vivacious but pretentious, irreverent, and impulsive.
Quick Facts.
FULL NAME: Clotilde Sabine Calhoun-Dietrich
NICKNAME(S): Cleo ( known solely as this ) , Petal ( by her father )
NAME MEANING: Feminine name of French and Old German origin, meaning "famous in battle" ; Cleo is named after her paternal great-grandmother, a German immigrant
BIRTHDAY: September 16th, Virgo
AGE: Thirty-two
SEXUALITY: Pansexual
HOMETOWN: Millbrook, New York ( Hudson Valley in upstate New York, about 2 hrs from NYC ; known as the "horse country" of the East Coast )
NOTABLE FAMILY HISTORY: Her father, Henry Calhoun, was a New York State Senator for the 41st Senate District for twelve years. Her mother, Marlena Dietrich, is a fine art restorer and historian. On her mother's side, Cleo's grandfather was an acclaimed Broadway composer turned philanthropist and real estate mogul. Her great-grandmother was a renowned ballerina turned prestigious dance school founder.
PETS: A green ball python named Emily Spinach, a mini pig named Jambon, a black oriental shorthair named BrontΓ« & a collection of carnivorous plants
EDUCATION: Graduated from Columbia University with a double major in Classics and Comparative Literature & a minor in Womenβs Studies.
CAREER: Technically unemployed but heavily involved in several things: sits on the board of her familyβs philanthropic foundation, owns her great-grandmotherβs prestigious ballet school founded in 1923, owns her familyβs real estate holding company, though her business manager handles a lot of the nitty-gritty.
OTHER POTENTIAL USEFULNESS: For more plotting opportunities ! She can offer mob-connected people seats on charity boards, gala committees, arts initiatives, dance foundations, etc. She can provide charitable causes to hide behind. She can be a general hookup for all things arts. You want Broadway tickets? She's your girl. You need new art for your office? She can hook you up with a private gallery showing. You want to make a giant donation for tax write-off purposes? Donate to her school or arts initiative!
Cleo is from upstate New York. Her paternal family ( Calhoun ) is in politics ( her dad was a senator for twelve years ) and also owns a beef farm and lots of land. Her maternal family ( Dietrich ) is known in academia and the arts.
Cleo's great-grandmother founded a ballet school that has become a very elite ( and expensive ! ) place to train. Then her son, Cleo's grandfather, who started his career as a successful Broadway composer, bought up a bunch of real estate in the arts world: theaters, galleries, etc., and did a lot of philanthropy, establishing grants and arts funds and whatnot. Cleo inherited all of this.
She used to be a ballerina and went to college mainly for the spirit of academic pursuit, which is why she got a degree in an unemployable field. She figured she would dance as a career, but then she got hit by a car. Yes, a car. And she considers herself lucky she lived because there is a long-standing "Calhoun curse" ( think Kennedy curse ) in her family. Anyway, she got hit by a car and then took over the family ballet studio and real estate business.
She grew up wealthy and NYC-adjacent. Though she was raised in upstate New York, her family spent a lot of time in NYC at galas, dinners, fundraisers, and whatnot. She also spent her summers in New York attending her family's ballet school, and she attended Columbia for four years. So she probably has friends in the city, some of them spanning back as far as childhood, potentially.
Her family is not famous or necessarily well-known outside of the niche scenes that they're in. Like, unless you're interested in Broadway composers from the 50s, you probably wouldn't know her grandfather, for example. But he is a legendary name in the theater space. Therefore, Cleo's influence is subtle but powerful. She's not a celebrity, and unless you're in the politics, arts, or old money scene, you may not know her at all. Her family's businesses don't do commercials or advertising. But they have millions behind them.
Growing up, Cleo also traveled a lot internationally due to her mother being a fine art restorer who took jobs at many museums like The Louvre, The Guggenheim, etc.
Around NYC she can be found at a lot of arts-related events ; gallery openings, broadway shows, galas, fundraisers & arts showcases. She is probably regularly at Maison Noir. She enjoys reading, and is a frequent of the NYC public library because hot girls have library cards. She mainly uses it to socialize, since her own collection of books at home is plentiful and full of first editions. She frequents The Archives, buying books there. She also enjoys going to the Crimson Velvet Lounge to watch the girls dance. Sometimes she jokes about poaching talented girls.
Wanted Connections.
First of all, literally anything in this intro can be used for assumed connections. Anything you want to assume, go for it always. It makes me feel justified for this detailed, long-ass intro.
I am also always about chemistry-based plots. More than happy to start at the beginning, throw out a first meeting starter, and see where the vibe takes us.
Ok now for the real stuff! In terms of more specific plots, someone who is involved in Cleo's secret. Someone who'd be able to make a death look like an accident.....can't talk here. Meet me in my DMs.
Her mentor. Basically, Cleo did not go to school for anything related to finances, business, real estate, etc. She's an educated girl, but in Classics and culture, not money crimes or property management. Therefore, realistically, she probably has several mentors. Maybe the person who taught her to launder and someone she goes to for real estate or business-related advice.
A connection in media. Like, a journalist she can call when she wants a show to get a positive review. Or someone she can contact when the ballet school wants a little feature in the paper or on the news.
Friends or acquaintances of her father. Though he was not an NYC senator, he was a senator in New York state, and he did have connections. Her father could be a good jumping-off point for plotting.
Fellow rich kids, especially ones around her age, who would have grown up attending the same social events in the city. Bonus points if they, like her, also enjoyed getting into trouble.
Childhood friends from her summers in New York. She probably sent them snail mail after she'd have to return home in September, like pen pals.
Other various friendships. Party friends. Unlikely friends. People she plays chess with. Fellow theater lovers.
I beg for frenemies or rivals. Is anyone else involved in the theater space?? If so I will find you (threat).
An ex or two from her past.
Hookup or situationship.
Anyone she's met or will meet at any of the locations she frequently visits.
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