Chapter 7: high society
The black town car smelled of old leather and Judge Whitmore’s perfume, a heavy, spicy scent that clung to the back of Lucy’s throat. The judge’s hand hadn’t left her knee, the broad thumb stroking circles on the bare skin above her stocking. Lucy stared out the window at the blur of streetlights, the champagne and the whispered words in the ballroom leaving a hollow, buzzing feeling in her chest.
“Nervous?” Corrine’s voice was a low rumble.
“No,” Lucy lied, her own voice too bright.
“Good.” The hand slid higher, a firm, inescapable pressure on her inner thigh. “I dislike timid girls. You’re not a timid girl, are you, Lucy? You walked into that room knowing every man and half the women were picturing you naked. That takes a certain audacity.”
Lucy swallowed. The accusation felt like a compliment. It was attention, raw and undiluted. Patsy never looked at her like this, like she was a feast. Patsy was always scrolling, always distracted.
The car slid to a halt before a severe, gray stone townhouse. It wasn’t a home; it was a fortress. Corrine led her inside without a word, the heels of their shoes clicking in a dissonant rhythm on the marble foyer. The interior was cold, all dark wood and portraits of grim-faced ancestors. It smelled of lemon polish and dust.
“Through here,” Corrine said, guiding her not to a living room, but to a study. A wall of legal books, a massive oak desk, a single stiff leather armchair. A brass lamp cast a pool of harsh light. “Come. Stand here.” She positioned Lucy in the center of the Persian rug.
Lucy felt like a specimen. The judge retreated behind the desk, poured two fingers of bourbon from a crystal decanter, and studied her as she drank. Her eyes, small and dark in that broad, plain face, moved over Lucy’s body with a possessiveness that made Lucy’s skin prickle.
“Take off the dress.”
The command hung in the quiet. Lucy’s fingers trembled as she reached for the zipper at her side. The silky fabric whispered as it slid down her body, pooling at her feet. She stood in her lace bra, thong, and stockings, the cool air raising goosebumps on her flesh.
“All of it.”
Lucy obeyed, each article feeling like a surrender. Soon she was naked, her perfect, youthful body glowing in the lamplight. She crossed her arms over her breasts, a useless, reflexive gesture of modesty.
“Don’t.” Corrine’s voice cracked like a whip. “Hands at your sides. Let me look at what I’ve acquired.”
The scrutiny was unbearable. It felt surgical. After a long minute, Corrine set her glass down and approached. She didn’t touch her at first, just circled, her breath a bourbon-scented tide. She stopped behind Lucy, her presence a wall of heat.
“Such a pristine canvas,” she murmured, her voice close to Lucy’s ear. Her hands, dry and strong, closed on Lucy’s bare shoulders. “All that smooth, young skin. Do you know what the worst sin is, you beautiful little idiot?”
Lucy shook her head, a tremor running through her.
“Waste.” Corrine’s hands slid down her arms, then around to cup her breasts roughly. Lucy gasped. “To let a thing like this languish. To be ignored by some useless girl who doesn’t appreciate the power she holds between her legs.” She pinched a nipple, hard, and Lucy cried out. “You crave appreciation. Real appreciation. I felt it at the table. You pressed your thigh into my hand. You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?”
“I—” Lucy’s protest died as Corrine’s hand slid down her flat stomach, fingers pushing rudely through the soft blonde curls.
“Say it,” Corrine growled, her other hand snaking into Lucy’s hair, pulling her head back. “Tell me you’re a greedy little slut who needs to be shown her purpose.”
Tears welled in Lucy’s eyes—from pain, from humiliation, from a shocking, surging bolt of excitement. “I’m greedy,” she whispered.
“Louder.”
“I’m a greedy little slut!” The words tore from her, ugly and thrilling.
Corrine’s fingers plunged into her without warning. Lucy arched against her, a strangled moan escaping her lips. She was wet, embarrassingly, shamefully wet.
“Fucking soaked,” Corrine hissed, working her fingers in a brutal, rhythmic curl. “All that youth, all that beauty, and your cunt weeps for an old woman’s touch. Pathetic. Exquisite.” She added a third finger, stretching her, the burn mixing with the frantic pleasure. “Come for me. Come on my fingers, you blonde whore. Show me how much you prefer this to being ignored.”
The orgasm ripped through Lucy with violent, unexpected force. Her knees buckled and she would have fallen if Corrine hadn’t held her upright, fingers still buried deep, pumping through the convulsions until Lucy whimpered from overstimulation.
Corrine withdrew her hand, and turned Lucy around to face her. She brought her wet fingers to Lucy’s mouth. “Clean them.”
Lucy, mind blank and body humming, opened her mouth and sucked her own taste from the judge’s thick fingers.
“On your knees.”
Lucy sank to the rug, the rough wool abrasive on her skin. Corrine unzipped her own tailored trousers, pushed them and her plain cotton underwear down just enough. What was revealed was coarse, trimmed gray hair.
“You wanted attention,” Corrine said, her voice thick. “So attend.”
Lucy hesitated for only a second before leaning forward. The smell was musky, deeply human, foreign. She used her tongue, tentatively at first, then with a desperate, growing hunger as Corrine’s hands fisted in her hair, guiding her, forcing her.
“That’s it,” Corrine grunted, hips pushing forward. “Use that pretty mouth. Yes. Just like that, you perfect fucking teen dream. Oh, you swallow it like you were born for it.”
Arianne Bloom stood across the street, hidden in the shadow of a bare-limbed tree, her coat pulled tight against the chill. She had followed them. A wild, reckless impulse she couldn’t explain even to herself. She saw the light go on in the first-floor study, saw the silhouette of her daughter, beautiful and unmistakable, step into the center of the room.
Then she saw the silhouette undress.
Arianne’s hand flew to her mouth. She watched, frozen, as the larger, squatter silhouette of the judge approached, circled, touched. The intimacy of the shadows was more violating than seeing it clearly. She knew what was happening. She’d heard the stories in clerks’ rooms for years—whispers about Corrine Whitmore’s “tastes,” about the procession of young, pretty things who were seen entering her chambers and never seen leaving with their careers, or their innocence, intact.
But this was her Lucy. Her little girl. The one she’d been too busy, too distant, too afraid to truly know.
The light in the study shifted. The taller silhouette vanished. The smaller one sank to its knees.
Arianne turned away, bile rising in her throat. The image was seared into her mind. She leaned against the rough bark of the tree, shaking. All her professional deference, her ingrained fear of the judge’s power, crumbled into a raw, maternal terror. She had failed. She had failed utterly.
But the fear was quickly hardening into something else—a cold, clear fury. She had compiled records, she had seen the sealed settlements. She knew the monster’s patterns.
Across the street, in the pool of lamplight, Arianne couldn’t see the details, but she knew. She knew what her daughter was doing. And as a wet, silent sob finally broke from her chest, Arianne Bloom made a promise to the empty street, to the uncaring windows, to herself.
She would not just watch. Not this time. The judge had finally taken something she could not replace. And for that, she would burn.