#;wthreads

Who doesn't love an ice-cold, sex-in-stilettos, perfect sway-of-the-hips entrance? Windsor has crafted it, to a tee. Especially when it comes to so-called-'colleagues' who want her, and cannot have her. In her experience, men hate women in power, even more-so when they look like her. Windsor, on the other hand, thrives in their insipid hatred. Their angry flames, escalate her wild fires. Hell, there is a reason why she looks this good in her silk, designer dress and matching heels, and she's not about to let it go to waste. Still, she utilizes both beauty and brains to get ahead and she will be damned if she allows these inebriates to pull her down.

She's not a lawyer, no. Nor a doctor, nope. But, she is the owner, and CEO of a very well known, and powerful record label. She hadn't been there to see Bateman -- not originally, but somehow he'd weaseled his way into her account. There's still the uncertainty of going-public, and she honestly detests this entire scenario. Even so, elegantly, she drapes her leg over the other, sitting in front of his desk with a less than patient demeanor.

Insomnia seems to greet Windsor as an old friend with a kiss on the cheek. It's delicate, and happens all so suddenly. She finds herself lying in bed, hands laced against her stomach, blinking and gawking into the void with an emphasized, creased, brow. After the violent rush of restless leg, Windsor can no longer merely remain in bed, and so she rapidly tosses aside her blankets and marches out her bedroom door -- the lingering concern of her pup chasing after her. Windsor nibbles on her lip before grabbing her keys, snatching her coat and Z's leash and summoning him towards the exit. Yup. She doesn't even bother to get dressed, this is as good as it's going to get.

At first she's stunted by the unusual presence. To the world, they may be peering at a 'normal' girl - but to Windsor there's a complexity about her -- it's not necessarily off-putting, as say, a demonic figure, but certainly different. Windsor remains silent, however, soaking in this woman. There's a quiet recognition...a bitterness she can somehow taste, present before them. Shared amongst them. A darkness within her - this stranger. The medium already has a somewhat nasty reputation, soured by the woes of social media and the cruelness of disbelief. Windsor's become forlorn, isolated, bitter... and who could blame her considering the lack of whimsy present in her life?

Gloved fingertips curl into fists as she swallows, surveying, studying. For anyone else this might seem unsettling, yet, Windsor is quite cognizant that somehow this one will understand the unspoken connection.

Windy hadn't come here for the girl -- she'd been drawn to the building behind her, by an outside source that had witnessed something they considered sinister. She'd been called to investigate, of course, not without a pretty penny. Here she is, on her way, pulled to a halt by something inside this...peculiar one. Windsor is not psychic. Nor would she ever boast such a ridiculous sentiment. But -- she is clairvoyant. Not that she'd ever provide herself that title, either. Now, a discerning woman? Absolutely.

     The ‘new’ girl -- ew. So not a title she desired to ever acquire and yet, here she is.  The good thing is, Windsor isn’t an outcast, but she’s no ‘it’ girl either and she prides herself on it. Walking down the hallway, she feel the prickly tingling against the back of her neck of all the eyes peering her way, wondering just what her story is. Honestly, she’s exhausted from the move and doesn’t want to deal with the migraine brewing -- so, not even half-way through the school day she finds herself hiding within the music room, strumming at piano keys aimlessly, whilst humming along.