It had been a one time thing, really. A picture in the quaint, sustainable coffee shop, something featuring the lovely latte art and a bookshelf in the background. It does not quite pull the numbers that she might receive in the shortest of her skirts, and if she bothered with a poolside picture now and again, preferably in a bikini so revealing movement becomes next to impossible –– But that is neither here nor there. She craves influence, the sort her father has over people, and she must leave some things to the imagination, if she wishes to be taken midway seriously.
There is money in a social media presence, though, especially in the swift-growing, ever changing online landscape of the digital age, and money reigns eternal.
Three years has it been since her brother went to university with her to follow, and the set-up her father had in mind was a simple one. Of course she needed to be educated, but it need not be a thing with true weight behind it. An art history degree would be just as well, after all, she is meant to marry someone – the son of a business parter, for instance, would be perfect. Except no amount of denying the existence of dyslexia makes her twin less affected, nor does no amount of pushing drive out of him a preference for (and excelling in) sports over duller studies.
In the end, it is her who talks her twin into signing the contract, into going pro, and it is her who strikes the ill deal with her father: his financial support, a different path at university, one more geared toward a role in his business, for a girl still beats his second son. And then: that marriage to the Baratheon boy, eventually, when she is finished.
She comes here, then, to study. She has her expensive notebook and her coffees, and the handsome regular who shows his face every Saturday, without fail. More often than not, she finds a reason to join him at his table, and more often than not, she spends plenty of time looking and less time on her note-taking, but what does it matter? There is no harm in looking. And if she has taken a stealthy picture of him before, then that is hardly a crime – she would know.
So, in her mind, it makes perfect sense to walk on over to him as soon as he is settled, because it is him who broke that quiet truce: they would share a table, or she would, at least, sit close by. They trade a polite greeting and a couple of sentences here and there, she asks him what he reads, he asks her if she is alright. It is the closest thing to a friendship she has managed to build in quite some time, not that it matters: she has followers who would die to be her friends, her lovers, her world.
"You could at least have said something." No polite greeting today, and no gentle request on whether the seat across from him is taken. "Someone might have worried."
no subject
There is money in a social media presence, though, especially in the swift-growing, ever changing online landscape of the digital age, and money reigns eternal.
Three years has it been since her brother went to university with her to follow, and the set-up her father had in mind was a simple one. Of course she needed to be educated, but it need not be a thing with true weight behind it. An art history degree would be just as well, after all, she is meant to marry someone – the son of a business parter, for instance, would be perfect. Except no amount of denying the existence of dyslexia makes her twin less affected, nor does no amount of pushing drive out of him a preference for (and excelling in) sports over duller studies.
In the end, it is her who talks her twin into signing the contract, into going pro, and it is her who strikes the ill deal with her father: his financial support, a different path at university, one more geared toward a role in his business, for a girl still beats his second son. And then: that marriage to the Baratheon boy, eventually, when she is finished.
She comes here, then, to study. She has her expensive notebook and her coffees, and the handsome regular who shows his face every Saturday, without fail. More often than not, she finds a reason to join him at his table, and more often than not, she spends plenty of time looking and less time on her note-taking, but what does it matter? There is no harm in looking. And if she has taken a stealthy picture of him before, then that is hardly a crime – she would know.
So, in her mind, it makes perfect sense to walk on over to him as soon as he is settled, because it is him who broke that quiet truce: they would share a table, or she would, at least, sit close by. They trade a polite greeting and a couple of sentences here and there, she asks him what he reads, he asks her if she is alright. It is the closest thing to a friendship she has managed to build in quite some time, not that it matters: she has followers who would die to be her friends, her lovers, her world.
"You could at least have said something." No polite greeting today, and no gentle request on whether the seat across from him is taken. "Someone might have worried."