The hotel bar had been designed by the same unseen hand that had shaped the lobby: someone who understood that true wealth never needed to announce itself. It occupied one corner of the Grand Empress’ ground floor, tucked behind a wall of dark walnut and looking out into the city through broad panes of smoky glass. There were no brass railings polished to mirrors, no towering displays of imported bottles, no piano player trying too hard to create atmosphere. Just low conversation, amber pools of light hanging over polished stone, and the soft clink of crystal against crystal. Modernized over the years, but still speaking of generational wealth. More and more every year: female wealth.
It was also the sort of place where people came after long days of negotiations and acquisitions. Where powerful executives convinced themselves that one more drink was part of the job. Once men of industry, now mostly women.
Outside, Charlotte glittered in the North Carolina night. The towers of Uptown stood like islands of light against the darkness, their windows reflecting back on more glass, so that for a moment it almost looked as though the city extended forever.
A tall woman of a certain age and striking proportions sat with her daughter at a low table in the center of the bar. Somewhere upstairs, her maps and reports still covered the conference table of her suite, waiting patiently for tomorrow’s work. Down here, she had shed just enough of the evening’s armor to seem approachable.
Her charcoal overcoat had been left upstairs. The black turtleneck dress remained, elegant and simple, its clean lines softened by both the green stone pendant that rested on her chest and the chest itself: an unmistakable, bosomy testament to her powerful femininity. Her silver watch caught the light now and then as she lifted a hand to her glass. She’d reapplied lipstick, let down her hair.
She looked perhaps forty-five.
A striking forty-five, certainly, a woman whose confidence and beauty made strangers straighten unconsciously when she entered a room. Time had touched her, though, leaving suggestions of experience around the eyes. And the truth, though, was that she had watched several entire generations grow old.
Olivia Henders sat with the effortless stillness of someone entirely comfortable waiting. People often mistook that quality for standing still, but it was something else. A hunter did not become impatient because the forest was quiet.
Across the room, the bartender - a striking woman herself - caught her eye for the briefest moment and offered the slightest nod, which Olivia returned almost imperceptibly.
Then she looked to the young woman in the seat beside her. Perhaps an hour ago Ashleigh had met her in the lobby as a young daughter looking to ingratiate herself to her mother with the proposal of a plan. Now she sat with her mother, if not as an equals at least not as a child. Not as a disappointment, not even as Melissa’s twin - but as something rarer.
An heir.
She still, perhaps, carried herself like a college student, in posture, demeanor and appearance. The backpack, though, had been abandoned upstairs, as had the notebooks and broom.
Her wild red curls, meanwhile, had resisted every attempt at taming them during the elevator ride down, and one stubborn lock had already escaped to fall across the corner of her glasses. A pencil was still tucked behind one ear.
“Get rid of that…” her mother told her, eyeing her once up and down and considering their plans for the evening. Olivia’s gaze, quickly, went to the gentleman they’d seen earlier that evening: mid-forties maybe, conference badge still hanging crookedly from his jacket pocket, and likely with his fourth bourbon by now. Still the wedding ring. He had been watching them since they entered the bar, and again lifted his glass in a tiny salute.
If you want to attract flies, Olivia thought, don’t hide the honey. “…and take off the sweatshirt as well.”
To that, Ashleigh Monroe Henders gave a sly smile, dimples crooking her cheeks conspiratorially. She pulled the pencil from behind her ear, set it down on the table next to the water glass the waitress had just left her, and then - casually - peeled off her oversized Westhall University sweatshirt.
Her breasts were almost cartoonishly big.
Underneath was a simple black tank top, close-fitting and - on anyone else - practical, the sort of thing any college student might have thrown on without much thought. It traded the oversized, academic awkwardness of the sweatshirt for something cleaner, more confident…and certainly more revealing. Her bone structure was slight, and she was skinny, but her shoulders seemed perhaps a little broader than they had even a semester ago. It was her chest, though, that struck to silence to the group standing at the bar, and surreptitiously drew the eyes of the room. Ashleigh Henders’s bosom was now something that would put most porn stars to shame, the result of - yes, looking at her mother and sister - good genetics but more recently long nights, little sleep, and the strange new experiments. Proof-of-concept, indeed: a bosom that marshmallowed up over the overwrought neckline of her tank, twin pillowy bulges on her thin frame, pale, enormous, and with a cleavage that had a gravity all its own. It had drawn in the room.
Olivia looked her daughter over once. "You've put on weight."
Ash looked down at herself as though genuinely considering the possibility. “Maybe…” she answered, as her gaze drifted naturally across the bar. The businessman was still there - considering his conference badge, laptop, wedding ring - trying not to get caught staring but looking back at almost exactly the wrong moment. “…but I don’t think Mr. Yummy over there is going to mind.”
Olivia chuckled, a rare show of appreciation for her daughter’s wit. "You've put on presence too," she told Ashleigh.
The corners of Ash's mouth tugged upward. There it was. Not praise, not exactly - but close enough that she would remember it for years.
She leaned back slightly in her chair, stretching her shoulders after the long flight and the seemingly even longer conversation upstairs. The movement was perfectly ordinary, but it carried with it an ease she had not possessed when she'd arrived at the hotel. It also nearly caused several heart attacks as it displayed to the bar just how absolutely enormous her tits had become.
An hour ago she had been a nervous daughter, clutching notebooks and hoping her mother would listen. Now she sat beside Olivia Henders. Again, not quite an equal.
Not yet.
Olivia took another measured sip from her glass, glancing at the businessman who had just ogled her daughter, and made deliberate eye contact. A tiny nod, as if to summon him.
The man looked away for a second, then back again.
Ash caught the glance. Olivia caught the glance. A tin, matching dimple appeared in one cheek of both women.
The businessman had closed the laptop: not all the way, but just enough to signal that his attention had gone elsewhere.
Olivia's posture changed almost imperceptibly. She sat a little straighter, lifted her chin a fraction - nothing theatrical, nothing obvious like the bosomy bombshell her daughter had just dropped on the room. Her display was simply the quiet confidence of a woman who had spent a lifetime understanding exactly how rooms worked, and exactly where men’s eyes naturally settled. Olivia Monroe Henders was a buxom woman, and she knew the power her figure could exert, especially - thanks to the Prion - in today’s day and age.
Across the bar, the bartender noticed the exchange. She polished a glass that was already spotless and gave the smallest nod to the table.
Olivia returned it.
The businessman had hesitated, looked once toward the elevators. Then back toward the two red-haired women sitting together beneath the warm amber lights.
He smiled, sealing his fate.
Ash glanced sideways at her mother, watching a pro in action. A predator on the hunt, a carnivore, and she was hungry.
Olivia gave the businessman the faintest inclination of her head. Go on.
The man stood, straightened his jacket almost unconsciously, and crossed the room. He stopped beside their table. Nondescript; they almost all were, these days.
Ashleigh was the first to speak. “My mom thinks you’re cute,” she said.
“Ah haha, wow,” he laughed, caught off guard, but knowing he had to recover quickly. “Well, the feeling’s mutual.” He looked at Olivia, and then at Ashleigh…eyes dropping down her top. "I hope I'm not interrupting," he said with an easy smile.
Ash looked to her mother. Olivia looked back at him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet murmur of the bar carried on around them, unnoticed.
"Not at all," Olivia finally replied, "Please.” She motioned to an empty chair at their small table. “Have a seat,” she offered, “if you’re done ogling my daughter.”
The businessman laughed again, a little more comfortably this time, the poor thing, and took the empty chair. “Fair enough,” he said, “I suppose I earned that.”
“You absolutely did,” Ash replied.
Olivia hid the hint of a smile behind her water glass, from which she was taking a deliberate sip.
The man settled in, loosening his tie slightly. Up close, he looked exactly like what he was: another traveling professional somewhere between airports, conference rooms, and hotel bars. Intelligent enough. Successful enough, once. Tired, now. The kind of man who had spent years moving from one obligation to the next, each year with less and less in the way of reward.
His conference badge swung gently as he sat.
“Chip,” he offered, extending a hand.
OMG for real? “Mom, his name is ‘Chip’.”
“Ashleigh…” Olivia returned.
“Like a potato chip.”
“I know what a chip is.”
“I just think that's funny."
“Because you are twenty years old,” Olivia scolded, returning her green eyes to the male. “Chip? I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive my daughter,” Olivia apologized, shooting Ashleigh a quick, brittle look, “at times she doesn’t know her place.” She took his hand, finally. “Olivia...”
He shook her hand gently.
“..and this is Ashleigh.”
Ashleigh was still trying to keep herself from laughing. “His name is Chip, Mom. That’s hilarious. Don’t you think that’s hilarious?”
“Ashleigh Monroe Henders, mind your manners. It’s his name.” Olivia cast a sympathetic eye to the man who had sat with them, and let her Georgia upbringing sweeten her cadence. “Honey, can I call you Charles?”
“The last person to call me Charles was my mother,” he replied, with good humor, “But anything for such a lovely lady.”
To that, Ashleigh snorted. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
Chip blinked. The girl was an odd bird, but with those tits he could look beyond that. Asheligh, and Olivia. Their names seemed vaguely familiar. Not enough to place. Just enough to tickle the back of his memory. “Ashleigh and Olivia,” he repeated. “Beautiful names.”
“Thank you,” Olivia agreed.
Something in her voice made Ash glance sideways.
The drawl was definitely back. Not much. Just a touch. A softened edge to certain vowels. The sort of accent her mother normally buried beneath decades of laboratories, boardrooms, and international travel. Charlotte had drawn it out of hiding. Or perhaps the hunt had.
Ash found herself smiling.
“You’re not from around here?” Chip asked.
“No, sugar,” Olivia said before seeming to catch herself.
Ash’s eyebrows immediately climbed. “‘Sugar’?”
Olivia ignored her completely. “We’re just passing through.”
The bartender appeared almost magically at the side of the table. Not the waitress, but the woman making drinks. No order had been placed, no signal had been given - at least none Chip had noticed. She carried a polished tray with three glasses resting upon it: crystal, hand-carved, facets catching the light. Each contained a pale pink cocktail that glowed softly beneath the amber lamps.
The bartender set them down carefully. One before Olivia, one before Ashleigh, one before Chip. “Compliments of the house,” she offered.
Chip looked pleasantly surprised. “Now that’s hospitality.” His words, to the experienced ears of Olivia Henders, belied his evening of whiskey. He looked at the new cocktail. “What is it?”
The bartender smiled also. “Off menu,” she said, “house recipe.” Then, her eyes lingered on Olivia for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Respect. Recognition. Something older.
Then she departed.
Chip picked up his glass. “I’m impressed. You must stay here often.”
Olivia looked at the drink in his hand, and the one in hers, appraising it. “Off and on, over the years.”
“Good customer? Frequent flyer?”
The corner of her mouth moved. “My family has been coming here for a long time, Charles.”
“Ah, old money,” Chip laughed.
Olivia casually stirred her cocktail with the glass stirrer. “Something like that,” she drawled.
Ash nearly choked on her water.
“The hotel’s been here a hundred years,” the man offered, “lots of history.”
Olivia remained perfectly composed, despite the - what would the new generations call it? - mansplaining. “Has it, now?”
Ashleigh pulled her cocktail to herself, stared into it. A pale blush-pink - the color was unmistakable. The Fifth Sacrament. Or Pink Panther, depending on how much one wished to annoy the old witch.
She lifted the glass. Across the table, Olivia did the same. For a moment their eyes met. A tiny ritual. Ancient, familiar, but not one they had ever shared together, mother and daughter.
Chip followed a second later, raising his own glass. “Cheers.”
Then he took a drink. Something vanilla? Something sweet? Something almost…smoky, metallic? Whatever it was, it was good, and immediately he had to keep himself from gulping it.
The women’s eyes sparkled, glittering with an ancient luminescence which Chip took as a play off the crystal of their fancy rocks glasses. Something, though, in the way that their eyes seemed to capture light was eerily similar among the two; they seemed to be able to take it all in and hold it within themselves.
Both women drank. Then they looked at him with those magic, glimmering gems.
Bingo.
The die was cast. He just didn’t know it.
Conversation, for what it was worth, resumed naturally. Work. Thanksgiving-week travel - ‘planes, trains and automobiles’ - he made some joke about that, lost on Olivia. But both women listened to tales of his conference, heard his confessions on his failing firm.
Olivia, for her part, listened more than she spoke, occasionally steering the discussion with almost invisible precision. Years ago Ash would never have noticed it, but now she saw every adjustment, every nudge, every carefully placed question. Watching Olivia converse with male prey was like watching a grandmaster move pieces across a chessboard. Chip never seemed manipulated. He simply felt understood. The effect was remarkable, and educational.
Eventually the discussion drifted toward Ashleigh. Her classes, her trajectory. Little facts about her life. Some true, some outright lies.
“What are you studying?” Chip asked.
No reason to lie here. “Neuroscience,” she dropped, “and Business. Double major.”
He winced sympathetically. “That sounds difficult.”
“It is.”
“And after that?”
Ash glanced at Olivia, then back to Chip. “I want to change the world.”
Chip laughed. “Ah, the confidence of youth…”
Olivia did not laugh. She merely sipped her drink. She could read it, though, plain on his face: his bemusement at the certainty of college students. And maybe the impossible ambition of today’s women. He obviously found it charming, possibly unsettling…and a bit arousing. Men these days? They loved strong women, though many were loathe to admit it.
Ash noticed his reaction also. “It’s true…with my mother’s help, we’re going to change the world.”
He laughed again, even less confident this time. “So,” he said, leaning back slightly, feeling he had to say the right thing, if this evening was going to go the way he wanted, “how e-exactly do you plan on doing that?”
The familial dimple reappeared in Ash’s cheek. She looked at her mother. Then out at the glittering city beyond the glass. And finally back to him. “Funny you should ask…”
Ash smiled. Showing too many teeth.
“That’s a complicated answer,” said her mother, “Isn’t it, honey?”
Chip laughed, and then - unsettled by the smile - couldn’t resist a glance into Ashleigh’s cleavage. “I, um, have time.”
That made Ashleigh chuckle. “Really now? Do you?”
Chip settled a little deeper into his chair, as Olivia straightened in hers. That drew his eye, now, to her dramatic silhouette. The pink drink sat forgotten in his hand as his imagination had drifted him entirely elsewhere: what a night plastered between these two ladies would be like, family at home be damned.
Olivia’s smile curled, with a dimple to match her daughter’s. This one is going to be so easy, she thought. “So - Charles - Do you consider ambitious women dangerous?” she asked, seeing how he was able to drag his eyes off her chest to at least listen to her question.
Again that trace of Southern warmth had crept into her mother’s voice. Not enough for most people to notice. Ash did. “And, Charles, do you find dangerous women sexy?”
Chip laughed, but the break in his voice belied his growing excitement. “I-I feel like there’s n-no safe answer to that question.”
“Aw, do you actually feel safe tonight, sugar?” Olivia asked.
“Um…sure?”
“That’s adorable,” Ashleigh followed.
Chip smiled, but not as nervously as he should have. “S-so? Ladies?” he asked, still trying to sound casual but fighting the strange arousal that had clenched in his belly, “What’s the plan? For taking over the world?”
“Oh, my daughter never said that,” Olivia chuckled, “She said we’d change the world.”
Ash leaned into the table slightly, bringing Chip’s eyes back to her. “But, if you insist…” Then between her arms, she squeezed together her massive, pillowy breasts, trapping the male’s attention between them. “…that could be arranged.”
Chip gulped, and caught himself staring. He met Ashleigh’s gaze. “Th-that sounds ominous,”
“It is ominous,” Ash replied matter-of-factly.
Olivia hid another smile.
Chip laughed again. He was beginning to suspect that half the fun of talking to Ashleigh was never knowing whether she was joking. But she must be joking, right? “S-so you’re taking over the world..?”
Ash considered the question, then glanced at her mother. “Eventually.”
Chip barked out a laugh.
“See? That’s exactly what I mean,” Ashleigh said to her mother, sitting back into her chair with a dramatic, girlish pout, “Nobody ever believes us.”
“Probably because normal people don’t announce their intentions for world domination as eloquently as you do, darling,” Olivia responded.
“Normals lack vision,” Ashleigh huffed.
Chip shook his head. Was this girl for real? Real or not, she and her mom were damn sexy, as was the thought (ridiculous, sure) of them taking over the planet. “Okay, now I have to hear this.”
Ash tapped a finger against her glass. “Okay, Chip. Most people spend their lives looking for somewhere they belong,” she began. Her expression had become strangely thoughtful. “Most people want community. Meaning. Purpose. Someone to tell them they’re important. To feel important. Men, especially.”
Chip found himself nodding. That much, at least, felt true.
“These days have been tough on men, haven’t they?” she continued, a new warmth to her voice, “They’re looking for something, maybe something they used to have. Something, or someone, to tell them they’re safe, that they matter.”
“That would be nice,” Chip found himself agreeing. At work, even at home, things had been different recently.
Ash smiled at him, maybe a bit empathetic, or maybe just amused by his easy complacency. She continued. “And beautiful women help.”
The statement was delivered with such complete seriousness that he nearly laughed again. Nearly, but something in Ashleigh’s eyes - and those of Olivia, when he looked at her - stopped him. “Wh-what does that mean?”
“It means, sugar,” Olivia now said, “that people will cross oceans for ideas. They’ll conquer continents for leaders.”
A pause. Then Ashleigh picked up again:
“But they’ll do anything for their mom.”
Chip glanced between mother and daughter, who had just shared a glance. Two striking redheads. Two obviously brilliant women. Two very confident women.
He swallowed. He was confused. “You’re talking about…?”
“Influence,” Olivia proposed.
“Exactly.” Ash’s smile returned, as she watched the gears turning - as old, rusted and drunken as they were - in the male’s cranium.
“See, sugar? You’re getting it,” Olivia commended.
“You see, my sister - you haven’t met her, and I’m sad to say you probably never will - is a very pretty girl. And she’s going to be a very influential woman, soon. People all over the world are going to know her name. Come to lay offerings at her feet.”
“Wait what? Haha I suddenly feel like I’m being recruited into something,” Chip laughed, “Is this a cult?”
“Not yet.”
That gave him pause. “Haha. Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you’re opposed to progress,” Ashleigh answered.
Chip laughed again, thinking he was playing along. Then Olivia joined in, quietly.
The sound surprised him, her laugh. It transformed her face, made her seem younger. Or perhaps older. He couldn’t quite decide. What he did know, though, was that this woman could have him three ways ‘til Thursday, if she wanted.
Across the table, Ash caught the look that passed over his expression, caught it instantly. Her grin widened. “See, mom?” she said to her mother, “I told you.”
“Told me what?” Olivia asked
“That nobody actually objects to the idea.”
Chip raised an eyebrow. “The idea of what?”
Ash looked out toward the city, towards thousands of lights stretching into the darkness. A whole civilization, ripened to perfection. Then she said: “A world run by competent women.”
Chip snorted into his pink drink. He’d drank about half. More than enough. “There it is.”
“There what is, Charles?” Olivia asked, a twist in her smile.
“The real agenda,” he answered, putting down his glass and trying to laugh again. He laid his hands flat on the table, as if to steady himself. “I knew all you ladies were up to something!”
The women laughed along. Olivia reached out and touched one of his hands. A spark, pink, between them. One he couldn’t see. Or feel.
This will be a good one, Olivia thought, and felt herself already salivating.
“Finally, the hero realizes our master plan,” Ash said, spreading her hands, “I was wondering how long it would take.”
Chip shook his head. He’d better still play along, if he wanted her, the busty mom, or her, the doubly-busty daughter or - holy crap - both of them. “And men just go along with this?”
Ash and Olivia exchanged a glance, a brief one, the look shared by people who understood something the rest of the room did not. Then Ash shrugged, paying little attention to how Chip’s eyes watched her jiggle over the neckline of her tank top. “Most already do.”
Chip opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then laughed despite himself. “Okay. That’s actually funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” Ashleigh’s words were delivered so lightly that he couldn’t tell whether she meant them. That uncertainty was becoming a recurring problem.
“You’re serious,” he said.
“Usually.”
Chip looked to Olivia. His bemused bewilderment was plain. “Is she always like this?” he chuckled.
“More or less.”
“And I thought my daughter was a handful,” he said, “How did you survive raising her, and stay looking so young?”
He has a daughter? Olivia considered, noting a fact that cast a bit of a different light on this male. Well, maybe one day she’ll come to know the sacrifice her father made in bringing forth her New World. She took a slow sip from her drink, having also recognized his compliment for what it was: he wanted to see her without her clothes tonight. “We all have our ways to keep life fresh.”
Thinking she was talking about quick one-night stands during business trips, this earned another laugh from him. Even Ashleigh chuckled, but more from knowing her mother meant something entirely different. For a few moments, though, the conversation stilled. The city glowed beyond the windows. The bar had grown quieter. Several patrons had already left.
Chip glanced around and noticed how late it had become. A bit of perspiration, for some reason, had dampened his brow. He wiped it away, with a white cocktail napkin. Was he getting a fever? And why was his cock getting so hard?
When he looked back, both women were watching him. Simply waiting, as though they had all the time in the world.
Ashleigh, finally, glanced toward Olivia. Olivia slowly swirled her drink. For a beat. Then she spoke.
“We’re staying upstairs. The Executress Suite.”
Chip’s pulse jumped. Mother and daughter shared the tiniest look. They had felt it.
“Give us a few minutes,” said Olivia, “and then why don’t you come up and join us?”
Excitement. Yes! But then, a strange, unbidden thought crossed his mind: the old fairy tales, the traveler, the cottage in the woods. The invitation to step inside. He laughed at himself immediately. Where had that come from? Too many bourbons? Too many late nights? Still…
The thought lingered, and the bosomy young girl, Ashleigh, seemed to notice. “What is it, Chip?”
“N-nothing,” he insisted.
Olivia had already made eye contact with the bartender, a motion with her hand. Maybe paying their tab, and probably his.
“You made a face,” Ashleigh told him, with mischief in her dimpled smile.
“I was just, uh, thinking.”
“Dangerous…” Ashley posited. She took another sip of Pink Panther. “...don’t hurt yourself, now.”
Chip pointed at her, looked at Olivia, and managed another laugh. “See?? That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”
Ash leaned forward slightly. Olivia regarded her own cocktail coolly.
“About what?” the younger redhead asked.
“About…y-you.” His eyes had found themselves down her top again, for the briefest of seconds.
“And? What about me?” Ash replied.
“I dunno…” he laughed, “You sound like a witch.”
The dimples appeared again, on both women.
“Oh no,” Ashleigh lamented, with more drama than she needed.
Chip laughed. “Oh yes. You both do.”
Ashleigh looked to her mother, who raised an eyebrow and then, with a trace of that old Southern drawl and a bit of a warning:
“Careful, Charles.”
Chip grinned, drunkenly. “Why?”
Ash and Olivia exchanged another glance, one that lasted perhaps a second too long for the male’s comfort. Then Olivia lifted her glass. “Because,” she said lightly, “it’s always pretty inviting, but the witch’s cottage is where little boys get eaten.”
Chip lifted his glass. “Cheers to that!”
Then Chip laughed.
Neither of the women did.
========================