Behind Closed Doors

[carrington_atlantic]

Blake couldn't help but chuckle at the video on his phone. Outside of the kind of downtown dance club that was wildly popular for a month and closed a few weeks after, a young woman was climbing into the back seat of a luxury sedan, and clearly seemed to be having a difficult time of it, presumably from a state of inebriation. The headline above the article (although referring anything on a gossip site with a descriptor of journalism was much too generous, in Blake's opinon) had read:

CARRINGTON HEIRESS SPOTTED PARTYING AT ATLANTA'S HOTTEST NEW CLUB
Declares Crossroads club to be "Fire"! (Just don't mention to them that she's only 16! Oops!)

He could count on seeing something like this about every two weeks or so, each report cementing his daughter's reputation as the wildest wild child since Lindsey Lohan. Sometimes, he'd put on his best "exasperated but loving father" face and make a statement condemning something or other, and the press would have something new to post about ten minutes later, until the next time she made another scene or was rumored to be dating some rock star or athlete three times her age, not that there was ever any evidence to support the whispers.

Oh, if they only knew, Blake mused as the car slid smoothly to a stop in front of Carrington Manor. He gave a nod to his chauffeur before meeting his major domo Anders at the front door. "Is my daughter home?"

The severe, gray-haired older man nodded. "She went directly to her rooms to 'study'," Anders replied, the skepticism plain in his tone.

Blake frowned, playing his part. "I'll go have a word with her. Make sure we're not disturbed this evening, Anders. I'll let you know when to have dinner ready."

With a curt bow, Anders spun on his heels and headed off, the picture of efficiency. Blake managed to hide his smirk until the older man was out of sight, then climbed the stairs up to the residential wing of the mansion, where his daughter's bedroom waited at the end of the hall.

Comments

[realwildchild]

The worst part of it was, if you asked Emma anyway, that she didn't even mean to get into half the trouble she did. Make a few reckless choices because you're young, have the crosshairs of the dying art of the paparazzi on you waiting for a chance to prove they're still relevant, and happen to have your two best friends be the kind that egg you on because if you don't have the gossip site headline then they do... well ...

The attention wasn't bad, in that Emma still was in a place in her life where all attention was good attention as far as she was concerned, and they'd yet to pick up on her actual relationship. Her friends knew she had one, but all they had to guess at was older man, probably married, and it would ruin her in not a fun way if it came out. They might be bitches, but they were bitches together, so they pointedly didn't dig no matter how curious they were so they wouldn't be able to spill the beans next time the teenage girls accidentally got caught on the record while on a bender.

Well, she'd been wearing underwear that night so while the photo in question did have a flash of black panties in it thanks to her drunken uncoordination getting out of a car, it was hardly the most scandalous photo of her to end up in a gossip rag. Given her reputation she didn't have any doubts that if someone did manage to catch sight of her going without or with one of her favorite barely-there thongs then her age wouldn't keep it from being across half the internet by the next morning. No, her father had been working late that night so she knew she wouldn't get to spend any time with him once she'd gotten home, so she hadn't bothered to try to pace herself or be ready for when he got home, ergo, drunken party time with the girls.

Not like today. He'd promised to be home at a reasonable hour today. She had shoved her panties into her bag by third period and gone the rest of the school day without them in anticipation, loving the naughty little thrill she got from knowing how easy it would be to accidentally expose herself under the prim facade of the school's uniform. Which, of course, she hadn't changed out of yet. She tossed her tablet to the other side of her own lush bed that she'd thrown herself onto in a fit of drama a few moments before and looked over to her desk where she had actually had her books open with the intent to study - Anders always thought the worst of her, it seemed! - but she hadn't actually gotten around to it, so maybe he wasn't that far off with his assessments.

Daddy has another - another ten minutes. If he's not home by then, then I'll actually study, Emma told herself, ignoring her friends' group chat where they both whined about being caught in the video as well as not being caught in it too.