Page 4 of Fallen Angel

And now Mallory and Poppy are something like friends. That’s showbiz!

The stage lights suddenly turn on. Alec takes the mic.

“Ladies, gents, lovers, dreamers, voyeurs … welcome to the glitter-drenched, sequin-studded, tassel-twirling heart of downtown debauchery—the Blue Angel. Now, tonight isn’t just any night. Lo, tonight we gather in the spirit of celebration and seduction … because one of our very own is turning one year hotter! Yes, our birthday girl can shatter hearts with a wink, melt morals with a shimmy, and fill this room night after night—our very own Moxie.”

The room erupts in applause.

“And to kick off the festivities, we have a very special guest performer, formerly of the Blue Angel—now of the world stage—the stunning, the scandalous, the often elusive and always lascivious … Bette Noire! Let the birthday debauchery begin!”

Bette? In a room full of raucous applause, Mallory claps the loudest of all.

The night Mallory first visited the Blue Angel, Bette stole the show. Mallory will never forget the sight of her on that stage. Tonight, as always, even among all the extravagant decorations, she’s the most compelling sight in the room: luminous pale skin, trademark black bob, and pillowy, heart-shaped lips painted a deep, matte burgundy. She’s dressed in a floor-length red suede trench coat that must have cost a fortune. Mallory wonders if she gets free clothes from designers now that she’s photographed everywhere she goes.

The stage is bathed in soft pink and gold light. A vintage microphone stands alone under a single spotlight. The air buzzes with anticipation. The music begins: Marilyn Monroe’s classic, sultry rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

Bette Noire appears in a replica of Marilyn’s infamous sheer gown—skin-tone mesh embroidered with thousands of rhinestones that catch the light like champagne bubbles. Bette’s signature dark bob is covered with a platinum-blonde wig styled in perfect 1962-era curls, and she sways her hips like she’s moving through honey.

The sight of Bette thrills Mallory—friend, mentor, and spirit guide during a time of confusion and much-needed metamorphosis. She’s missed her these past few months and wonders how Alec managed to steal her away from her globe-trotting, celebrity girlfriend.

When Bette reaches the mic, she pauses, lifts a gloved finger to her lips, and gives the audience a wink. She lip-syncs to Marilyn’s breathy singing—but halfway through the first verse, the music takes a sharp turn into a burlesque beat. A deep bass line kicks in. The retro birthday tune transforms into a contemporary banger.

First, a glove slides off, finger by finger, flicked into the front row. Then the fur stole drops from her shoulders. She drapes herself over the mic stand like a lover, letting the audience drink her in. She removes the gown slowly, provocatively, as if she’s unveiling a state secret. Beneath: a rhinestone corset, sequined garters, and a thong.

As she sings the final lyrics, “Happy birthday … to our Moxie,” she turns away from the audience and looks back over her shoulder, blowing a kiss.

The room erupts in applause. Mallory weaves her way through the crowd, making her way toward the exit so she can catch Bette backstage. But she gets waylaid by well-wishers, and by the time she reaches the dressing room, it’s dark and empty.

“Leaving so soon?”

It’s Alec, with two glasses of champagne. He hands one to her.

“I was trying to find Bette.” They share a smile, knowing that trying to pin down Bette Noire is like chasing butterflies. “But maybe this is better. Just you and me.”

He raises his glass in a toast. “To you, Mal. I feel lucky I met you when we were just college kids. And even luckier to know you now, to see the incredible woman you’ve become. I love you.”

Mallory feels herself tear up. There were times when she really didn’t know if she and Alec would make it. But tonight, she has a feeling she’ll never doubt it again.

“I wouldn’t be who I am here tonight, in this moment, without you.”

It’s true. And she loves him for it.

Chapter Three

Just before midnight, a highly sought-after dominatrix stands outside of a client’s building on Mercer Street in SoHo. She’s been running around the city for hours and did all the drinking and all the drugs and all the fucking to forget about the one place she can’t go tonight: the private birthday party at the Blue Angel.

She pulls the keys out of her trench coat pocket. Yes, she has keys to this client’s well-appointed loft. His particular, elaborate fantasy includes the feigned element of surprise.

She opens the heavy exterior door and takes a small elevator to the top floor. It’s warm for mid-October, and she’s sweating in her thigh-high black patent boots and constrictive corset. She sets her suitcase down and takes a moment to powder her pale complexion. It’s crucial, as the saying goes, to never let the customers see her sweat. She is superhuman. She is master of the universe.

She is Mistress Violet.

With a quick time check—eleven p.m. on the dot—she unlocks the door and steps inside. As always, the man sits in the middle of the room on an antique wooden chair, dressed in a vintage red ball gown pulled up to reveal his small cock, which he is methodically stroking.

Violet strides deeper into the room, her sharp-heeled boots making a menacing clatter against the marble floor.

“Billy! Are you doing that naughty, naughty thing again?” she says, her voice dripping with disgust.

“Yes, Mistress,” the man says sheepishly.