QUEEN.

Being left alone was a curse. Everyone was trying to play hero, or not know what to say. What was this, some sickened sense that Whitney—her—it struck Gwyn’s thoughts as she looked up, disgruntled glare settled. Not saying something was just edging the fire to explode within, exposure a reigning thought. That would teach Dad a lesson—but did she even have the talent to be that vindictive? Rising from her seated position, hands pocketed within the designed linings of her dress, jaw tightened. “And what in the hell could you tell me that no one else is? Huh? It’ll get better, Gwyn?” She spoke in a mocking tone. “This will pass and it’ll be just a bad dream—“ Hues searched the icy blonde’s before her. “What could you tell me?”

The outburst was expected. Although, admittedly, Whitney was expect Gwyn to burst out into tears but, hell, Whit wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t to come. One leg crosses over the other, leaning back into her chair and failing to bite back the look of amusement that spreads across her features. Does she give a shit about the Bianchi family? No, not at all. But for some reason, Gwyn is looked as an asset. So, that alone is enough of an insensitive for Whitney to bud in. “No, I’m not here to pity you. There’s plenty of people out there to coddle you and tell you what they think you want to hear. I’m going to tell you what you need to hear.” Letting a moment pass, she stands up as well, stature poised, confidence and graceful like the former beauty queen she is. “I’m going to tell you that everyone who is of importance is in that room, waiting for your next move and to see how you’re handling this. I’m here to tell you that you look weak and pathetic.” Her words were blunt and brash, a sharp contrast to the pristine and proper Whitney most of Atlanta sees. “I won’t stand around and pretend that bad blood doesn’t exist between your family and mine, but you’re fucking my brother, so that means your actions indirectly affect mine. S, it’s your move, Bianchi. Choose wisely because, if you don’t, this won’t be the last funeral you’ll be attending.”

“Really—who didn’t give you a choice—“ Richard spoke to her in a mocking tone, a history of commanding her in their relationship rather than asking her stood against him in the statement—but he didn’t care. “I probably didn’t help anything going to Bianchi and giving my condolences in person—“ He looked down at her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He was in an annoyingly good mood. “But I’m not here to cater to their emotions, I’m here to see who might die next.” It was like Christmas morning for the Dixie President.

“Oh, I’m sure you know him -- tall, the richest in the city and a bonafide asshole. Sound familiar?” Whitney playfully retorted, a slight twinkle in her blue eyes. It’s a rare moment when they aren’t at each other’s throats. Then again, with a Bianchi dead, being happy was the only acceptable mood. Even if they couldn’t outwardly express it. Well, Richard could. Whitney? Not so much. “They’re all here now, would be easy enough to get them all in one single pop.” She casually noted, unphased by the idea of death and murder. In fact, she was straight up callous about it. “How long do we have to stay here with the scum of the city? I’m bored and there’s a million other things I’d rather be doing right now -- including you -- then standing here pretending I give a shit about the Bianchi’s weak family.”

Mila sat in the seat and stared at the coffin. She hated funerals, detested them, but Enzo had said that it would seem like a good idea to make an appearance. But that didn’t stop the pit that was forming in the woman’s stomach. These events fell on the city like a plague now and Mila couldn’t help wonder when would it be time for someone she really loved to be next in the ground. Sighing, she stood up and exited the row heading towards the back of the venue looking for something to drink, wishing she had something stronger. Getting a glass of water, she leaned against the wall and watched as everyone made their rounds and said hi to people they knew. 

Today was all about appearances. Whitney assumed everyone was there for one, if not all, all of the following reasons: be seen, look innocent and pretend like you actually give a fuck about what was going on. Whitney could easily play the part of the sympathetic socialite with a bleeding heart, even she can only fake so many tears and feign remorse for so long before she reached her limit. Retreating to get a drink, she was quick to order a drink -- quickly making it two when she spotted the woman lingering nearby. A newer associate to the Mafia, Whitney hadn’t made a proper introduction yet. “You’re going to need something stronger than that to survive the rest of the day.” Whitney stated, offering up the wine glass to the woman.

“I thought–” Richard’s tone was laced with pure amusement related to the wake, as he approached his soon to be wife. One arm slipping around her waist, pulling her to his side. Surrounded by their own, only in the presence of company almost worthy of their time. “You weren’t going to make an appearance. Didn’t want to miss out on the fun, huh?”

@whitcarlisle​

Relief washed over Whitney when she felt his touch, pulled closer to her worst half. While they were still in the public eye at least the facade she’s so used to wearing could drop a little now that she was in the comfort of her own. “You know I can’t turn down a good party -- especially if it’s a celebration.” Whitney replied with a small smirk tugging up in the corner of her mouth. “Plus, it wasn’t like I had much of a choice.”

It’d been a few days, mingled with the news. Asking Gwyn how she felt was teetering on dangerous mixed with honesty. She was livid, even if that emotion wasn’t expelled right away. Shying away from a lot of people, those within her gang and outside, it made it easier. Sitting on the steps leading up to the hall, the cold chill sinking into bare forearms as she sat before the building, black head to toe. Her brother was dead. She didn’t care about much else now. Hearing footsteps approach, she huffed. “I’m really not interested in the company.” She half-snapped at the person approaching, without looking.

There were a million other places she’d rather be -- Paris, Greece, the Bahamas, to name a few -- than at a wake for Giovanni fuckin’ Bianchi. But she knew how important appearances were, even though one last Bianchi in the world should be something to celebrate, not mourn. Still, she put on her best sympathetic face and put up the facade that she actually gave shit about the terrible news that hit Atlanta. Stepping into the hall, the click-clack of her heels announced her arrival before she could. Not expecting anyone, the sharp tone from the usually pitiful blonde caught Whitney’s attention. “And I wasn’t really asking.” Whitney retorted, figuring she spin this impromptu encounter to her advantage. “Plus, you should be glad it’s me here and not someone else -- I’m not gonna bullshit you with some sob story and shove a casserole in your face. I’m going to tell you what you need to hear, what everyone in this place won’t.”

The escape from the hotel had been dire, sleepless and exhausted. Emergency personnel delivered them to safer grounds, and while the thought of running home, changing—her cellphone already ringing for her to go in and work—she stopped, turning her brisk pace up a side street and heading for the Diner nearest her. Food, sustenance, and then she would change, Gwyn decided. Opening the door, the innards of the restaurant a ghost town as she approached the counter, gripping the menu as it was handed to her. Sipping her coffee, as the soft chime of the door bell sounded, signaling someone else entering the shop, while she read the papers, now bustling with news of the blackout. She checked her phone–picking it up to try calling her brother once more.

This was not her scene but being out in public, seen by people, would be good considering the mess she made earlier that night. If she had a heart or a soul, she’d be baffled how she felt absolutely nothing about the events that transpired that evening. Remorse and guilt were a sign of weakness, and she didn’t work this fucking hard to let it all fall to pieces that easily. Walking into the diner, the intent was to buy a lofty amount of food to be delivered to the nearby shelter. Even though she had every intent to get the fuck out of this city until the worst of the aftermath was over, she still wanted to trinkle a few good deeds behind in her name. Mid-order, she spots the blonde out of the corner of her eye, not sure if it was annoyance or curiosity that had her quickly wrapping up before heading to the booth. Not asking or making an announcement of her arrival, she slides into the empty seat across from her. “You look more downtrodden than usual, Bianchi.” Whitney quipped, her tone condescending as she shared a mutual disgust of their so-called enemy as her fiance. “It’s not the under the best of circumstances, but I figured it was time you and I met.”

At some point in Richard’s life, he might not get what he wanted. The evening’s storm was a setback, but it only made the trap easier. It only made all of this easier. Hues moved around the room slowly, searching for his fiancee. She wanted a resolution to the dark cloud hanging over them both–and he wanted to go into this marriage headache-free.

At times, some asked him how he could marry. But how did he tell them the thought of Whitney touched by another man would have driven him insane. How did he suggest that if he could mark her as his, for the world to know, he would. Porcelain skin decorated in his name. If it meant putting a ring on her finger, fucking her on the first instance to knock her up just to force her to stay.

The Prenup alone would’ve said if she left, she was ruined. Image was important. The ticks to keep her at his side were there. He’d check them all off to make it so that she didn’t run. Including this. 

Weaving through the crowd now huddling for cover while the storm passed, he approached his woman at the bar, pushing between members of their own gang, as a hand snaking around her waist. Pulling her up against him, he bent down, lips ghosting the curve of her neck. “I have a present for you, baby.” He whispered, moving to turn her in his arms. “Come with me so I can show you.”

@whitcarlisle

On the inside, she was reeling. Too many people -- too many poor people -- crammed into what’s supposed to be a luxe spot. Sure, the hotel was usually filled with commoners but at least the price of a night’s stay at the Johnson hotel would clear out some of the riff raff. Tonight, that isn’t the case.

Tonight, Whitney is putting on a bright smile and being the welcoming socialite everyone in Atlanta knows her as. The King and Queen gracious enough to open their palace doors to the commoners in order to find refuge to weather the storm. As much as she hated it -- it looked good and was another example of all the good the Johnson’s were doing for the community. 

The initial rush had died down and Whitney was now finding her own solace in a glass of champagne. The alcohol needed to quell the dull headache forming at her temple. Her back turned, she knew his touch long before she could see his face. As much as he drove her fucking insane, being at his side brought along a comfort. A soft sigh emanates from the blonde, Whitney setting down the glass as she’s turned in his arms, an excited glint in her eyes. “Oooh, you know I love presents.” She giggled, a grin spreading across her lips. “Is it diamonds? It is, isn’t it? You finally tracked down the blue moon diamond for me?!”

Addicts held onto their addictions until it killed them: Whitney, for Richard, was no different.

He was compulsive with her, obsessive to a fault. Wanted to own and possess her wholly. Scare her into obedience and allow fear to sweep over her at the thought of him leaving her. That hardened glare sunk into his expression. He could kill her—would if she pulled a stunt like leaving him and following through with it. Richard had made it clear: if he couldn’t have her, no one else would.

Starring at his fiancée now, he considered how far she’d come. Richard had to take sole responsibility. She was not the innocent teen he’d spotted at eighteen, plucked from the crowd and called her his. Maybe her innocence was what struck him, imputed from the world, wrecked by his touch, his mind. Surely, the outcome was worth it. The woman she was back then was not the woman he could’ve considered marrying. The woman now was.

His release on his fiancée was quick. Though the NDA all staff signed to work in home was one thing, another was openly allowing them to really rip into one another. Waving one of the maids off with a darkened stare, his silence was questioning. “You wanna stab me, huh?” He whispered. Hadn’t this intentional phase in her mind been what he wanted all along? He picked up the shard from the china, gripping it hard enough in his palm as the sharp glass ripped into the flesh of his hand. He flipped the now blood stained shard, approaching her slowly, gripping her wrist as he reached out, placing it in her hand. “Do it.” Stance close, jaw clenched. He’d been waiting for this.

A woman crazier than he? Check.

He wanted to break her. Push her beyond the limitations she set, create boundless ones. Heavy breath fell through flared nostrils, as he lowered his height to hers. “Isn’t this poetic, Whitney?” His grip lightened, now injured hand staining her blouse as he pulled her into him gently. Clean hand moved the tresses of blonde from her face. “What do you want, baby, you want the truth? You wanna kill the only man who will love you the way you want? Who else could take care of you the way you need, fuck you the way you want? You gonna find another man willing to die for you? I don’t think so. Do you?”

Hadn’t it been what she was seeking for a decade from him?

“You want me to be honest with you? You wanna be the only one to kill me?” He daren’t kiss her, even with close proximity. Even now, as he stared at her, the slip of the demonic stance, that darkened, unreadable expression shifting into something almost-human like. “The truth is maybe I’m punishing you for leaving me. That you broke me when you decided to leave me. Maybe I keep them around to scare you into realizing someone else might get me.”

Jaw clenched. It was the truth, a tormenting game placed upon her for leaving him. She should’ve known better, known she belonged with him. The wall a buffer, a means to keep her between his body and running a long-gone option. “I put that ring on your finger because I want you to be mine. Because no other bitch is gonna get me the way you do, you know that, right?” He was coaxing, his voice like velvet as he stood, pressing her frame into the wall, a small smile appearing. “Whitney,” He whispered her name. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, baby.” He tilted his head to the side, sympathetic for appearance. “I told you years ago to be patient with me. There’s no one else in this world I could ever love except for you. I was always yours.”

Blood stained hand moved to cup her cheek. She always looked good in red. He thought arrogantly, lowering his lips to hers, still refusing to close the space. “I’ll have Bellamy killed–is that what you want?”

How far could he pushed her until she snapped?

That was the million dollar question. The unspoken fate that more than likely lingered in their minds. Surely, he would be the end of her or she would be the end of him. There was no other way this would end -- surely her happy ending would turn into a bloody nightmare.  

They were a toxic pair. The pure definition of chaos -- violently colliding together in a way that would surely make them combust. As infuriating as it was, an intoxicating high also came along with it. As seen in her eyes as a wild look appear in her blue orbs, making them twinkle with a deadly glimmer as the shard of glass was placed into her hand. 

Without hesitating, it’s placed to his throat - thankful for the sky high heels that adorned her feet. It was also made easier when she’s tugged closer, the red staining her couture blouse but that was hardly a cause for her concern. Pressure was added, not enough to kill him -- yet -- but enough to where she found herself mesmerized by the little bit of blood that trickled down his neck. All she has to do is hit the right artery and he’ll be gushing blood all over the place before falling to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

In her manic state, the thought was tempting. "I don’t know, Daddy. Keep pushin’ me and maybe I’ll find out for myself sooner than you think.” It wasn’t a threat, it was a promise. The look in her face was deadly, daring him to try her because her hold had yet to falter. In her own way, or maybe it was only in her hand, she had the upper hand but RIchard her her full attention. 

The close proximity making it damn near impossible to avoid his gaze. Even though her rage she could see his expression soften, the admission making her heart drop as the truth finally revealed itself. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole.” Not a new development but it was the truth nonetheless. Her hand dropped, ready to shove him away but, instead, she was pressed against the wall and trapped against his frame. “You should’ve thought about that before you stuck your dick into another broad.” Whitney spat back, voiced mixed with a deadly combination of venom and bitterness. “What the fuck did you expect me to do, RIchard? Stay?” Of course he did. Of course he expected her to forgive him like she always fucking did but that would only make her look weak -- no, no she had a fucking point to prove. “I didn’t leave you because I wanted to, I left because I had to -- because you wouldn’t appreciate me until I was gone.”

And he still doesn’t -- maybe he never would and maybe that was part of the problem. Or maybe that’s what she signed up for -- if she wanted to be worshipped, she’d marry some random WASP who she could walk over. But Whitney had bigger ambitions, she wanted the fucking world and RIchard was the only man capable of giving it to her. “No, I don’t know that. Not when you’re throwing a bitch in my face every chance you get.” She snapped. “What the fuck else do you want from, huh? I am here. I came back. I’m yours.” The piece of glass unintentionally joins the others when his head lowers down to her level, hating the way her breath gets caught in her throat at the mere action. 

Her head lulled into his cheek, unbothered by the blood as it stained her cheek when she nuzzled against it. “If you’re sorry, prove it. I’m sick of the bullshit, I’m tired of these games. I’ve been doing this for a fucking decade with you.” Her voice was heavy, the exhaustion evident in her voice. Although she could muster up enough strength to confidently utter her next statement. “It’s a start.” She hummed, lips brushing against his. “I want her to fucking suffer for thinking she could have what’s mine. Do you understand me? I don’t need a constant reminder of your fuck up thrown in my face. Get rid of her and I’ll never mention what happened again.”

In the wake of the tragedy a lot of Atlanta’s big wigs were doing what they could to promote themselves and show just how caring and helpful they were to the media, even if everyone knew it was bullshit.  Eva did her part too, of course, showing up in her crown with her perfect pearly white smile talking about how sad it all was and how she wished she could change it. The media ate that shit up even if they didn’t believe her worth a damn. Still, having her role to play in it all, she showed up to an event planned by Whitney Carlisle, one of her predecessors ready to do her bit. In her own way Evangeline actually admired Whitney; she was smart in her own way and society savvy and was with a rich, hot man who gave every power and influence as well as a massive diamond ring. It was everything Eva wanted in life. Still, even though she admired her for getting it, that didn’t mean that Eva wasn't jealous of Whitney for having it.

Girls being catty was nothing new; it was one of the rules in girl world to tear a girl down to make yourself feel better, and Eva was better at it than she would ever admit. Besides, She was younger, prettier (in her opinion), ans since she was the one wearing the crown now, she deemed herself better than Whitney in that area. With that on her mind she puffed out her chest and strutted over, wide, fake smile and equally fake excitement visible as she called out. “ Whitney!” She squealed, arms outstretched to pull the older blond into a hug. “I’m so happy to see you! Look at you, you’re positively glowing! Are you pregnant?”

@whitcarlisle

Of course Whitney capitalized on the tragedy for her own personal gain. Putting together a quick fundraiser in the hopes to pull together funs for the children who lost their father to have a college fund and to help with any funeral costs. The stunt not only solidified Whitney as a saint within the community but, by association, made Richard look generous as well. Little did anyone know, the warehouse hit had direct ties to her future husband and said husband was currently on a murderous rampage. With a bright smile, she was milling around chatting and thanking those who dedicated their time and money to help with the cause. 

As she made her rounds, the loud squeal penetrated the air and Whitney knew who it was before even turning around. The woman was a pain in her ass. Whitney knew in the grand scheme of things, she was the winner. Evangeline was nothing but a sad knock off in comparison to her. After all she had the money, the man and the ring -- but Eva’s youthfulness and the current high she was riding on thanks to being the most recent Miss. America got under skin more than she cared to admit. “Evangeline!” Whitney plastered on the fakest of smiles, one that was even more false than the one she usually sported. “Good to see you as well.” Air kisses are given to each cheek before pulling away, resisting the urge to bristle at the subtle dig. “Not yet but soon my husband -- I mean fiance is eager to get a family started after the wedding.” To emphasize her point, her ring clad hand deliberately raised to push a blonde lock behind her ear. “I’ve been in prep mode for the wedding, which would explain my glow -- so glad you noticed. I’m more than happy to pass along my routine, I can see that Southern heat is making you look a lil’ dried out, hunny.”

The idea of Whitney still remained as some enigma he needed to control. Some personal conquest to claim as his, distinguished and controlled. She’d wear a big fucking neon sign that said ‘I belong to Richard Johnson’ if he had his way. It remained as that now, as she walked down the steps, the tossing of plates and the like headed in his direction, as he dodged one and watched another miss so easily by his head. She screeched and shouted, and he allowed it. Remained silent. Loosening his tie as he pulled it off.

“You done yet?” he interrupted her, as he undid his cufflinks, setting them in his pocket as to not lose them, as he loosened his sleeve. Go on, baby, he thought. Tempt me to be at my worst.

“Fuck you?” he asked, brows raised, that arrogant look to his features, as he finally stepped forward. The only intention to close her in. Silly little thing, he thought to himself. She came to play and forgot her boxing gloves. “Baby right now all I can think about is fucking you so hard you get knocked out and stop fuckin’ bitchin’ for five minutes.” He answered her arrogantly.

Whitney’s power never remained on the physical side of things. It never lingered in the money or the looks. Truthfully, he refused to live without her, let another have her. Perhaps she’d be better treated, some poor soul sinking his teeth into porcelain flesh—but the thought of it lingered so darkly in his hand, he could choke the life out of someone and not bat a lash. Emotionally, he was intertwined to her like the Frankenstein was to his Monster. The one he created, divulged and unhinged, exposing to the world.

Whitney was his undoing. Dare she try to find another—it’d be the end of them both.

Finally catching a moment, he pushed her into the wall, hands gripping her forearms to stop her throwing shit as he lowered his height to her eye level. Pale hues darkened ceremoniously at the thought. “I keep those bitches on the pay roll because they’re useful—“ And an added lull, as he smiled darkly. “And maybe I really like how fucking jealous you get at the thought of them.” There was the small bout of honesty she so desperately sought, as he leaned down, keeping his hold on her enough that she couldn’t move or slip from his clutches. “I like that you need to fight for my attention like I would want to fuck another crazy bitch.”

Richard pulled back, releasing one arm as a hand moved to cup her cheek, move her head to crane back and look at his as he rose to full height. “Now,” he ushered, pinning her with his body against his. “I was fuckin’ late because I lost track of time.” He was ticking off her points. “I don’t respect you, do you think I’d put a fuckin’ ring on your finger if I didn’t?” He asked, though the truth lingered among other things. “And the others—baby I can fix that, all you have to do is apologize for throwing a shit for nothing—“

He remained, close enough to tease, dropping his other hand. “Now,” He whispered, that darkened glare still unnerved in his eye as he looked at his fiancée. “I will show up at the next one, but no matter how many fuckin’ shit shows you throw, you’re gonna end up at the end of that aisle with me.” He paused. “Or else. Understand?”

After all of these years, you would think she’d know better. Know when to shut the fuck up and when to push. When to take the bait or simply ignore him. Or what battles are worth the fight and which ones are better left alone. But Whitney doesn’t know her limits -- not when Richard finds a way to push her further and further to the edge every fucking day.

Honestly, it’s impressive. If it wasn’t so god damn maddenning, she’d applaud him for the valiant efforts to achieve what no one else has managed to before. 

“And all I can think about is picking up that glass shard and stabbing you in the fucking throat with it.” Whitney countered, unphased at his attempts to be witty, charming, flirtatious, arrogant or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. For once -- or at least for now -- she wasn’t falling for it. It’d take more than a few kisses for her to quiver at the knees and move on about the day as if nothing happened.

No, no, this has been building for years -- ever since their unholy reunion. The massive ring on her finger quelled the long brewing outburst but never quite erased the pain and resentment she’s carried after all of this time. “You don’t need to want to, you already have and that’s part of the fucking problem.” He doesn’t get it -- of fucking course he doesn’t get it. It was Richard Johnson’s word and, according to him, she should be fucking thankful to live in it -- his exact words. “I’m tired of fighting for your attention. I’ve been fucking fighting for it for a decade.”

And boy was she exhausted.

“It’s not an idle threat when they’ve had a taste of what’s supposed to be mine and only mine.” She pointed out, voice still dripping with an unhealthy mixture of bitterness and defiance. “How’d you feel if I brought up the last guy I fucked every other day and threw him in your face? How the fuck would you feel?” Not that there were many before, during or after Richard. He snatched her up at the ripe age of eighteen and has been ruining her life ever since. “The only difference is, you’d probably kill the bastard before he could do much of anything. You don’t even give me the option to off one of those bitches.”

With a scoff and a roll of her eyes, she looks less than comforted or pleased by Richard’s explanation. “If I had something to apologize for, I would, but last I checked you fucked up not me. So, those dishes thrown at your head was not only warranted but deserved.” Whitney counterd, the glare in her eyes not subsiding. “You don’t give a fuck or even care about where I’m coming from. So, don’t worry about it -- since you have so much more important shit that takes up your attention -- there won’t be a next time.”