* 𝕧𝕖𝕝𝕧𝕖𝕥 ╱ 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓉

[cleofms]

( anya taylor joy, cis woman, she/her ) SPOTTED: CLEO CALHOUN-DIETRICH in new york city! heard the THIRTY-TWO year old belongs to THE MOB as a MONEY LAUNDERER. word on the streets is that they can be REFINED, but they can also be HEDONISTIC.( olive, 31, they/them, cst )

tldr ; Cleo is the inheritor of her great-grandmother's elite ballet school and her grandfather's real estate company that owns theaters, art galleries, and other arts-related spaces. She uses these to launder for the mob, operating as a cultural front that makes dirty money look like arts and philanthropy. An ex-ballerina raised on a meat farm, Cleo is elegant but not delicate. Old-money and connected, she's confident, educated, and vivacious but pretentious, irreverent, and impulsive.

Quick Facts.

FULL NAME: Clotilde Sabine Calhoun-Dietrich

NICKNAME(S): Cleo ( known solely as this ) , Petal ( by her father ) , Cley/Clay

NAME MEANING: Feminine name of French and Old German origin, meaning "famous in battle" ; Cleo is named after her paternal great-grandmother, a German immigrant

BIRTHDAY: September 16th, Virgo

AGE: Thirty-two

SEXUALITY: Pansexual

HOMETOWN: Millbrook, New York ( Hudson Valley in upstate New York, about 2 hrs from NYC ; known as the "horse country" of the East Coast )

NOTABLE FAMILY HISTORY: Her father, Henry Calhoun, was a New York State Senator for the 41st Senate District for twelve years. Her mother, Marlena Dietrich, is a fine art restorer and historian. On her mother's side, Cleo's grandfather was an acclaimed Broadway composer turned philanthropist and real estate mogul. Her great-grandmother was a renowned ballerina turned prestigious dance school founder.

PETS: A green ball python named Emily Spinach, a mini pig named Jambon, a black oriental shorthair named Brontë & a collection of carnivorous plants

EDUCATION: Graduated from Columbia University with a double major in Classics and Comparative Literature & a minor in Women’s Studies.

CAREER: Technically unemployed but heavily involved in several things: sits on the board of her family’s philanthropic foundation, owns her great-grandmother’s prestigious ballet school founded in 1923, owns her family’s real estate holding company, though her business manager handles a lot of the nitty-gritty.

MOB AFFILIATION: The Mob

MOB ROLE: Launderer ; launders through two main sources: her ballet school L'Académie Maenadum ( launders through scholarships/sponsored students, production budgets, donations/tuition ), and her family’s real estate group, Dietrich Arts Holdings ( theaters, rehearsal buildings, galleries, storage spaces, music venues, performance halls, private event spaces. Free for the mob to do with as they please, including endless "construction projects" to launder, charity events to move money, meeting places for mob members, etc. )

OTHER POTENTIAL USEFULNESS: For more plotting opportunities ! She can offer mob-connected people seats on charity boards, gala committees, arts initiatives, dance foundations, etc. She can provide charitable causes to hide behind. She can be a general hookup for all things arts. You want Broadway tickets? She's your girl. You need new art for your office? She can hook you up with a private gallery showing. You want to make a giant donation for tax write-off purposes? Donate to her school or arts initiative!

PERSONALITY: The Individualist ; ENFP ; + knowledgeable, clever, educated, fanciful, lavish ; - pretentious, impulsive, moody, desensitized, self-indulgent

PARALLELS: Sophie-Anne Leclerq ( True Blood ) , Yasmin Kara-Hanani ( Industry ) , Camilla Macaulay ( The Secret History ) , Laura Palmer ( Twin Peaks ) , Maxine ( Russian Doll ) , Daisy Buchanan ( The Great Gatsby ) , Kate Lockwood ( You )

Plotting Points.

Cleo is from upstate New York. Her paternal family ( Calhoun ) is in politics ( her dad was a senator for twelve years ) and also owns a beef farm and lots of land. Her maternal family ( Dietrich ) is known in academia and the arts.

Cleo's great-grandmother founded a ballet school that has become a very elite ( and expensive ! ) place to train. Then her son, Cleo's grandfather, who started his career as a successful Broadway composer, bought up a bunch of real estate in the arts world: theaters, galleries, etc., and did a lot of philanthropy, establishing grants and arts funds and whatnot. Cleo inherited all of this.

She used to be a ballerina and went to college mainly for the spirit of academic pursuit, which is why she got a degree in an unemployable field. She figured she would dance as a career, but then she got hit by a car. Yes, a car. And she considers herself lucky she lived because there is a long-standing "Calhoun curse" ( think Kennedy curse ) in her family. Anyway, she got hit by a car and then took over the family ballet studio and real estate business.

She grew up wealthy and NYC-adjacent. Though she was raised in upstate New York, her family spent a lot of time in NYC at galas, dinners, fundraisers, and whatnot. She also spent her summers in New York attending her family's ballet school, and she attended Columbia for four years. So she probably has friends in the city, some of them spanning back as far as childhood, potentially.

Her family is not famous or necessarily well-known outside of the niche scenes that they're in. Like, unless you're interested in Broadway composers from the 50s, you probably wouldn't know her grandfather, for example. But he is a legendary name in the theater space. Therefore, Cleo's influence is subtle but powerful. She's not a celebrity, and unless you're in the politics, arts, or old money scene, you may not know her at all. Her family's businesses don't do commercials or advertising. But they have millions behind them.

Growing up, Cleo also traveled a lot internationally due to her mother being a fine art restorer who took jobs at many museums like The Louvre, The Guggenheim, etc.

Around NYC she can be found at a lot of arts-related events ; gallery openings, broadway shows, galas, fundraisers & arts showcases. She is probably regularly at Maison Noir. She enjoys reading, and is a frequent of the NYC public library because hot girls have library cards. She mainly uses it to socialize, since her own collection of books at home is plentiful and full of first editions. She frequents The Archives, buying books there. She also enjoys going to the Crimson Velvet Lounge to watch the girls dance. Sometimes she jokes about poaching talented girls.

Headcanons.

Cleo speaks five languages fluently - English, German, Greek, French, and Italian.

She is an equestrian. Lowkey gives horse-girl vibes at times. 

Collects antiques and is a frequent eBay bidder.

Plays chess.

Her personal choice of cigarettes are Sobranies. She buys them in bulk and keeps them in her freezer.

Gets frequent nosebleeds, especially in the winter. Doing coke also does not help with this.

A bit of a pyro. In college, she lit a fire in her dorm room at Columbia during her sophomore year and had to live off campus junior and senior years.

Throws a lot of elaborate theme parties.

Was accepted into Juilliard but did not attend. Cleo, in her hubris and thinking she had all the time in the world to pursue dance, went to Columbia instead. She figured that after fucking around and getting a few degrees, she would use her talent ( and connections ) to jump back into the dance world, only she was hit by a car first. "Wasting" that time is still one of her biggest regrets.

Owns two NYC residences - a Manhattan apartment and a brownstone in Brooklyn.

Has two metal rods in the leg that took the brunt of the impact when she was hit by a car. One in her femur and one in her tibia. She also has a plate in her foot. As such, she has some scarring.

More tba.

Wanted Connections.

[henri-brooks]

"She's gonna ask if you want more food even though she's given us like five plates already." Henri let out a content sigh as he sat back in his chair, his plate empty as he sat next to Cleo in his parents backyard. He had made good on his promise to take her to one of his family's barbecue. It was a stark change from the hamptons party but exactly what he needed. Henri enjoyed his life, loved a good con and the glitz and glamor but there was really nothing he loved more than his family. His siblings had talked Cleo's ears off and his nieces and nephews had fawned over her before eventually she had been swept up by his grandmother, telling tales and sharing advice. "But you are gonna want to save space for dessert. My Aunt Dana does not fuck around when it comes to her peach cobbler." @cleofms

[cleofms]

Cleo has shown up looking earnest as can be, blonde locks raked into two long fishtail braids down her back, usual couture traded for a diaphanous white prairie-girl dress à la Laura Ingalls. Maybe. Cleo has never actually seen Little House on the Prairie. Over the course of the afternoon, she has laughed along through his siblings’ overlapping stories, allowed herself to be grabbed by the finger and pulled away by a child to inspect something in the grass - a beetle, or a rock - and she has met the family’s wise matriarch. Cleo’s a little struck by the simplicity of the whole thing. “I’m beginning to suspect feeding people is your family’s primary love language,” she says through a grin, sucking barbeque sauce off her fingers. Henri’s prediction has already proven accurate several times over. Whenever Cleo clears even a modest patch of plate, another relative appears as if by magic, concerned she has somehow been underfed. “If Aunt Dana serves it with ice cream, I fear I may never leave. How do you keep your abs like that with all this temptation?” She adjusts the bandana holding her hair. “If this were my family, I’d be home for dinner nightly.”

[nanxschaefer]

Every muscle that could be tense in Nan's body was relaxed and at ease after the amazing day she'd had. All of the different services reminded her of how one tended to flowers. She was scrubbed and cleansed and kneaded and she felt rejuvenated as she felt like she was in a warm bath in the heated pool, floating on her back. She hummed in confirmation that she heard Cleo's words. "I can't believe we're in Downtown right now, this feels like we're across the world." Her tone soft feeling like she shouldn't talk above a whisper in the space. She shifted slowly to look over at the other woman who seemed to be enjoying the serenity just as much. "The rest of the party was good, nothing too out of the norm except getting that text from Pantheon." Nan dipped her head back to wet her hair again before coming out of the pool, wrapping a fresh towel around her body to dry herself off before unwrapping herself to dry her hair. "I didn't go home with anyone, which was a shame because I looked great. I was hoping the chef was a hot Michelin star chef, but no dice. He wasn't like Carmy from The Bear." She laughed softly as she moved to grab the robe she'd placed on the daybed and put it back on. "What about you? I bet you had at least four people waiting for you to say the word."

[cleofms]

“Exactly the point. You get to feel like you’re somewhere far off without having to go through the indignity of customs.” Head lolling back against the pillow, her eyes flutter open toward old wooden beams overhead. “I’m embarrassed to say the last international trip I took was Ibiza,” she starts, nose wrinkling in distaste. Cleo considers Ibiza to be the one percent’s equivalent of the Floribama Shore - trashy. “Bachelorette party. And I asked the customs agent if he wanted to strip-search me.” She reflects before the mention of Pantheon breaks the spell, and Cleo pulls herself into a seated position one vertebra at a time. “They can’t even let there be one party without them reminding us of their presence.” She watches as Nan steps out of the pool, water sheeting off her. Nan has always been exceedingly beautiful, in Cleo’s mind; a proverbial girl next door. “It is a shame. You looked ravishing.” Unable to resist, she wets her palate with gossip, leaning in, “Oh, well, I’ve heard the chef, De Leon, is an absolute jackass. Celebrity chefs, you know? Probably couldn’t be bothered to eat a woman out.” Ironic, for a chef. “Have you even had time to go out and get laid recently? Between the flower shop and your brother dropping whirlwind proposal news on you?” When Nan turns the question back on her, a small scoff tumbles from her lips. “It was dry for me too. Had one potential, but he never texted. Anticipation is usually more interesting than delivery, anyway. The only guy I ended up giving my room key to was someone I’ve barely even seen since my twenties.”

[theredpelican]

listen i might be drunk but im right. art & literature & nature & music make life worth living. people who look like they were ripped out of a caravaggio painting make life worth living. go organize a bacchanal in the woods. take pics of your lover in your hotel room in venice. who cares if there’s a void in your soul. who cares if you can’t get attached to anyone. neither can michelangelo’s david.

[selinagha]

who: @cleofms where: some club idk go wild

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 one week to indulge in a full-blown pity party. after all, the entirety of new york city now knew what she had done. she couldn’t stop wondering whether the news had made its way to türkiye yet. she had turned her phone off all week, a ‘when-pigs-fly’ level rarity for selin, but she was too anxious to face the wave of texts that had probably accumulated. sympathy would make her cry. judgment would make her spiral. a call from the police would make her throw her phone into the hudson. so instead, she went to a club. the plan was simple: drown her sorrows, dance, maybe go home with some anonymous man. she was already several drinks into accomplishing this when, from her spot at the bar, she caught sight of a familiar flame of blonde moving through the crowd. there was no mistaking her. cleo. of course. “if you’re here to make some shitty comment,” she called over the bass before cleo could fully reach her, “forget it and fuck off. you’d only be beating a dead horse.” she paused, silently congratulating herself for remembering the expression even in her current state. “seems beneath even you. so go do the whole regina george thing with someone else, okay?”

[cleofms]

Cleo has her own humiliation to outrun tonight. Even now, the memory of the Pantheon situation resurfaces without warning, making her jaw tighten as disgrace prickles under her skin. Freshly off of meeting with Nico, Cleo intends to get so fucked up she forgets she possesses a body. The nightclub throbs like some living thing as the blonde drifts through the crowd, drunken limbs moving without much thought. And then she spots Selin. Since the Hamptons, Cleo has been thinking about Selin with a predatory focus. “Me-ow. The claws are out tonight, huh?” Her hostility is almost refreshing. “And a mean girls reference? Wow,” she continues, though her tone lacks any of the surprise the word normally conveys. “Sick burn.” Tongue clicks, head tilts. Cleo unabashedly studies Selin from head to toe. Then, she turns toward the bartender - a young, easily frazzled guy who has been keeping her glass full all night. “Can I get a tequila and…I don’t know, whatever. Surprise me. I trust you.” Canines are flashed in a wolfish grin. “And another of whatever she’s having. Put her drinks on my tab for the rest of the night.”

[dxncingonmyown]

"No one bats a thousand." Maddox answers with ease, making his way to the espresso maker with casual familiarity. Working the machine just so, while eyeing the levels of her rotation of drinks. True to form, Cleo's worked her way past necessity (Americano) to rehydration (kefir). But the absence of any hair of the dog is proof she's kept her wits about her long enough. "I saw." It was fucked up, and with his own history with Selin, Maddox frowns. "We dated for a minute. I never thought she was capable of that..." Never thought she could do such a thing. But the Pantheon is proof that anyone can do anything to stay afloat. "Why are we talking about Selin?" He doesn't need to ask the question, but he lets it hang in the air anyway. Because it's clear as day - Cleo received her own text, and decided to do something about it.

[cleofms]

Eyes narrow like a cat’s as she stretches her neck. “When did you date Selin?” Cleo is momentarily distracted by the revelation. Her thumb runs absently through the condensation on the glass of fresh juice as she watches dust swirl in the sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. “Because I could’ve been like her,” she starts, deep eyes blinking back at him. “except I gave them 50 thousand dollars so...” Cleo trails off with a shrug, stare suddenly averted as she busies herself with raking her wet hair into a neat braid. “Coward’s way out. But he who fights and runs away, may live to fight another day. Oliver Goldsmith,” she quotes, though the exact work it belongs to is lost among an ocean of Post-it notes in her brain. “I’m okay, really. It’s sorted. I just wanted to tell you.” For a moment, the spectre of a smile haunts her lips. Though at the realization that he may ask the pivotal question of what they have on her, Cleo’s amusement swiftly arrests, pronounced dead on the table at 9:14 AM. She does not want to tell Maddox about her father. She does not want him to know any of it.

[clark-sanders]

When Clark had invited Cleo over, he wasn't sure she'd even take him up on it. But there he was, doing one more sweep of his place to make sure he had cleaned to his liking. He had spent the weekend doing laundry, finally fixing the broken step on his front porch and the broken chair in his little backyard. He had deep cleaned the bathrooms and the kitchen and spent several hours looking at recipes and cooking tik toks. After a morning grocery run, he was pretty sure he was ready for lunch, and Dolores had eagerly agreed to host them for coffee afterward. He had just set everything up for the grill when he heard a knock on the door. He stopped in the hallway to check himself over. He had opted for a pair of jean shorts, his least beat up pair of running shoes, a jimi hendrix band t-shirt and he had almost worn a hat but decided to give his head a break and show her that he wasn't actually at risk of balding. Not that he was worried about it.

"We could've been." He reached out for the pack of sodas, leaning down to kiss her cheek gently before opening up the door so she could walk in. "I've got the grill ready for some chicken, shrimp and veggies. Been obsessed with this skewer recipe. Made us some rice and a few other things." Clark loved cooking, it was one of the few things that brought him peace and since he was mostly cooking for himself it was nice to experiment here and there. "You want something to drink? I have sangria, sparkling water, some seltzers. I think you should try the sangria though. It's a Barefoot Contessa recipe. Perfect for summer days. This Italian soda would probably be perfect to top it off." He rolled his eyes at himself before he followed her inside. His place wasn't cluttered but it wasn't bare. He had band posters on the wall, a record player and some vinyls set up with an old CD player and shelves filled with books and albums. He even had some old trophies, very few but they were there, along with other memories of his family and friends throughout the living room. Now that she was standing there he realized how personal it was for him to be in his space. "What do you think? Is it what you expected?"

[cleofms]

“Chicken, shrimp, and veggies? And sides? Clark, you’re spoiling me,” Cleo says in faux warning, face askew in a grin. She steps past him into the house, the kiss to her cheek still faintly warm against her skin. At the mention of homemade sangria, one brow quirks up her forehead. “Here I was, making a concerted effort not to get day-tipsy.” Smile edges sly. “I’ll try your sangria. Look who’s the bad influence now.” In reality, after the spectacular disaster of her last few weeks, Cleo would welcome a buzz in nearly any form. A few glasses of sangria flushing her cheeks, the smell of skewers and charcoal, an afternoon with nowhere to be - this is what she needs. She wants to shed her own skin, light and airy, just be a guest in Clark’s home for a bit. It is a role reversal, certainly, since once upon a time it had been Clark who needed the distraction, and Cleo who provided it. “Ugh, Ina,” she says with real feeling. “I wish she’d adopt me. Imagine how wholesome I’d be if I were Ina and Jeffrey’s daughter. Cleo Garten from Suffolk County. She wears cashmere, and the hardest drug she’s ever done is weed at a party once.” She laughs at the absurdity of it, this person she’s created. “You should’ve told me it’s a Barefoot Contessa party. She’s got an amazing tomato feta salad recipe I could’ve brought. Guess I’ll just have to invite you over for dinner next. Then we’ll be even.”

Her gaze aimlessly wanders around the room. Cleo’s present memory overlaps with her past memories of Clark. This is not the home of a man who lives from one chaotic night to the next anymore. She takes in the printed and framed memories that unwind around her, sinks to her knees to inspect the things on his shelves. Cleo knows his laugh and she knows his grief and she knows the version of him that needed somewhere to be at two in the morning, but she does not know the story behind that trophy, or who took that photograph, or when exactly he started making sangria from scratch. Pulled from her thoughts, she glances at him over her shoulder. “No,” Cleo admits. “It’s honestly better. I didn’t think it would be a frat house or anything, but…” Fingers continue to tiptoe over spines as she teases. “Which one is your favorite?” The books, she means. Cleo always wants to know what books move people. “How did you end your night in the Hamptons, by the way? Hope you actually got to use the room.” An apologetic crease briefly appears between her brows. “Sorry I didn’t stay. A friend and I took a boat home.” Took, in the most literal sense of the word, though he does not need to know that.

[dylanxjacobs]

Dylan had been fortunate to know Cleo's mom since her early days in New York. It felt a little like home away from home although Cleo's family was a lot more well off than her family ever was. Hanging up at the front desk today she immediately smiled at the presence of the woman although she had questions as to why she had so many drinks and who were they for. "Can't say I have, I don't feel like a coffee shop should have lab in their title. What are they doin' science for with my coffee?" She shared as she saved her work to make sure if they stepped away she would remember what she was working on. She grinned at Cleo's assessment of Ralph's. "Well, it's Ralph Lauren, it's classic. Not fussy. Just like his clothes. But I could see why you'd find it borin'." Dylan teased as the other woman finally explained what the coffees were and who all the coffees were for. "Now why in the hell would anyone make a beet latte? Beets are good, coffee is good. But coffee and beets? I wanna take the dulce de leche latte, but I also don't wanna give any of my employees a beet latte, they'd complain to HR." She was indeed HR, so they would be complaining to her, but that wasn't the point. She still plucked the dulce de leche latte from the cup holder. Hearing she needed a favor, her interest piqued even more. Taking a sip of the drink as she waited for Cleo to share. "Perfect, do you want me to show you what we have here or are you wantin' my scoutin' skills? Which Hockney do you have again?"

[cleofms]

“I rather like the idea of them experimenting on my coffee in the back,” Cleo says, lips tweaking in delectation. “Dr. Victor Frankenstein in the back, yelling, It’s aliiiive! as he makes my drink.” She claims the beet latte for herself, takes a sip of its pallid pink sweetness. “I enjoy beets. They’re heart-healthy.” And cocaine and red meat, notably, are not. Cleo believes in balance. “At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, given the fact that I studied Classics, sometimes classic isn’t always better.” She points the straw toward Dylan. “One of his sketches, Swimming Pool Ladder.” It has hung in her sitting room for years: clean pencil lines, azure graphite water, an aluminum ladder descending into a pool that disappears like the edge of a mirage. Cleo has been thinking about water lately. She needs her assets to behave more like it, liquid. She has always thought of art as safer than cash. But paintings cannot be transferred at midnight when someone sends a threatening text. “I doubt it’ll go for higher than two-twenty, but I have Sotheby’s coming for it next week.” She will hide the 220k away somewhere - a savings account opened at a credit union or a cashier’s check folded into the back of a book she will shelve. “Can I see what you guys have here first? When is your next show, by the way?”

[userdrama]

ANYA TAYLOR-JOY for VOGUE Australia

[nicocaravelli]

The instant mention of Cleo receiving a text had reached the conclusion of who by the exact moment she had spoken the pantheon's name. All while not a single expression shifted across his features. Not when he was waiting for the outcome to be spoken of as he accepted her phone. His gaze dropped toward her cell as he read the message on the screen, his attention immediately caught the date, a connection forming in the back of his mind. One that had him turn his attention toward his desktop as he pulled up the most recent articles published at channel 212. The first article holding the same date as the text he had now read for a second time. His focus lifted up, holding her gaze with no give, it wasn't intentional intimidation, it was simply Nico.

Still, the second she revealed she did in fact, succumb to demands on her phone, he blinked. A re-register happening inside of his mind simultaneously, the one of the woman across from him being easily manipulated slotting over any prior analysation he may have done before. The possibility forming in the back of his mind - the one where he assumed she gave into every single fucking fraudulent demand that pinged onto her phone - was justified and yet, somehow, fucking embarrassing. "This was weeks ago, why are you only telling me now?"

[cleofms]

Her breath has found its old pre-performance rhythm, 4-7-8, timed in her head. Like before her Juilliard audition. Before her showcase at the Academy. Cleo breathes in and breathes out with each gentle rise and fall of her chest, steadying her erratic heartbeats. It pumps akin to some small, perishable creature - a butterfly or moth, fluttering against a mason jar. “Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what to do. What Pantheon is holding over my head, it has to do with my father.” She starts after a significant delay, hesitance clear in the way she bites her tongue before meeting his eyes again. “I had him killed.” Saying the words out loud gives her a dizzying sensation, though her posture never changes.

“But, it’s not just that. Camilla, your sister…she helped me a bit. Nothing major, but she was my middleman, so to speak. She set me up with the person who…” Her throat tightens around the repetition. Cleo almost doesn’t want to say it again. “I didn’t want you to think that I’m a liability to your sister. Or to you. I was…” scared. The word dances precariously on her tongue. Scared that the Caravellis might look at Cleo, with everything she knows, with Camilla now tethered (even in a small way) to her secret, and decide she is not worth the risk of keeping around. Keeping alive. Then Pantheon had gone and played their game with someone else in the Hamptons, and Cleo understood, with a clarity that surprised her, that being their writhing puppet forever is worse than being killed. “Stupid,” she says instead. “To pay them and believe it would end there. To keep it from you for this long. I guess the angel on my shoulder won out in the end. I realized I needed to show you.”

[dadivosos]

it was almost inevitable that cleo would keep her word and make an event for him , though usually summer tended to be his quietest period suddenly he was insanely popular and that bothered him when all he wanted to do was nap. the concept of naps never made sense to him , but now that he could actually sleep they were amazing. he had no problem meeting cleo what he did have a problem with was the location. he hadn't stepped foot in carbonne since january and he planned to keep it that way but it was easier to just go in than explain to cleo why he refused to go. even the host was surprised to see him there and all he could do was shrug. he was painfully aware the meeting could be an email , he knew this , she knew this and yet she wanted to meet which --- he did miss the pasta , doordash just wasn't the same. " every fucking billionaire ever , " he said with a tight smile , ironic given his family's net worth. eyes narrowed as she mentioned the word , a word he knew she had been dying to mention , " this is really what you wanted to talk about , isn't it ? is it because lottie hides me ? i know she does , " teasing but obviously he would tell cleo whatever she wanted to know.

[cleofms]

“Ah ah ah, not so fast. I thought you didn’t want to be seen taking the flashy bourgeoisie’s money,” she counters wryly. “Remember, The Dietrich Foundation for the Arts is throwing you this thing. Charity. If you wanted a billionaire spectacle, you should’ve said so.” She stabs her fork into dark red prosciutto wrapped around honeydew melon, waves it at him scoldingly. “The vibe of the night will be sad kids with no access to the arts. Which you, of course, support children having access to. Right?” She barely gives him a moment to answer before she does for him. “Right. Hence why we’re honoring and fundraising for you.” Then Cleo’s expression illuminates with the particular satisfaction of someone whose trap has been stepped into, like Kevin McAllister in Home Alone. “No, I’m a serious philanthropist conducting serious business. I didn’t come here to discuss your love life.” Cleo takes a sip of wine. “But since you bring it up,” She flashes a playful smirk. “I just think it’s crazy that I’m apparently going to have to third-wheel every time we all spend time together from now on. What is in the air? Why is everyone coupling off?”

[aylademirci]

Location: Park Lane Hotel cafe & @cleofms

Upon learning that she and her siblings would be relocating from Miami to New York, there was one person whom Ayla immediately wanted to tell. She had formed a funny little friendship with the quirky ex-ballerina whom she had met years ago at the Miami Art Basel, a bond built on a shared love of art in all forms, from paintings to fashion to theatre, that had withstood the test of time and the nearly 1300 mile distance. Whether it was attending a NYFW show in carefully curated outfits or dining at the newest five star restaurant, Ayla had enjoyed every moment of their biannual gatherings over the years and was looking forward to making them much more frequent.

Months later, she was thrilled to wrap Cleo in a big hug the moment the other women walked into the cafe situated on the ground floor of the Park Lane Hotel. "Oh, I am so glad you're here!" she nearly squealed, pulling away to hold her friend at arm's length and study her for a moment. "You are as adorable as ever. Thank you for coming! I know we could go anywhere but there's so much happening here at the moment." Not that Ayla was actually in charge of anything on the premises beyond making sure the marketing team was on their game, but it felt important to stay close to her new home base for a little while, especially with the article announcing the purchase earning click after click on Channel 212's website. "Please, sit. We have so much to catch up on!"

[cleofms]

Cleo has been attending Art Basel in Miami since she got a fake ID at seventeen, a week-long excuse to get obliterated and talk art with niche snobs and celebrities alike. The artists are always just carbon copies of rock stars, engulfed by groupies drinking mediocre wine. Over the years, Cleo has collected acquaintances there like trinkets - people who know her real (or fake) name and her drink order. Maybe even her gallery preferences, which exhibits make her roll her eyes. Trinkets, all of them. Except Ayla. Ayla is not a collected acquaintance. She is a good friend despite the thousand miles that ordinarily sit between them.

She throws her arms around the woman. “Oh I’m sure.” Cleo responds when Ayla tells her a lot is going on at the moment. “I read the 212 articles.” Her mouth curves into a knowing smirk as she studies her friend. “My my, isn’t your family a lightning rod for attention already. Just wait until you start straying from the home base. The journalists are going to love you; they’ll absolutely eat you up. I smell a new NYC It Girl.” After all, they love her during fashion week. She folds herself into the nearest chair, crossing one leg over the other and draping an arm over the back. “You must tell me all about the move. But first - is the food here any good? And don’t give me the PR answer.” Hotel cafes, in Cleo’s experience, can be hit or miss.

[cleofms]

Location: Whitlock & Harren LLP For: @rossijames

Cleo has never liked lawyers much. This is, perhaps, unfair given how often she has needed them, but necessity has never inspired affection in her. Her own family lawyer, Milton, is a slight, shrill man who resembles Fred Astaire, and who, Cleo suspects, her mother has been conducting some sort of emotional affair with for the better part of a decade. But Cleo does not want to go to the family lawyer for this particular issue, which brings her to Whitlock & Harren LLP. To James Rossi. The thing she first notices about him is that he lacks the cold, procedural demeanor lawyers usually possess. Nor does he have the brittle fussiness of her family lawyer. He also, coincidentally, shares a name with Cleo’s own brother, which she knows is an irrational association. James Rossi is a grown man, a managing partner at a formidable law firm, and not a four-year-old boy with grass stains on his knees. Still, she interprets it as a good omen. “Thank you for meeting with me. Of course, I’ll pay you your hourly rate. As long as you don’t mind talking in hypotheticals with me for a bit.”

[cleofms]

Location: Outside of his workplace at Caravelli Strategic Wealth For: @domcaravelli

By 5 PM, Midtown has begun disgorging its workforce onto the sidewalks, men in loosened ties and women in workplace-appropriate heels stirring sluggishly into the July heat. They’re like thirsty lizards in the desert, gravitating toward the cool dark interiors of bars with chalkboard signs promising two-for-one drafts until seven. Cleo is no different, waiting in front of Dominic’s workplace, smoking a cigarette. By this point in her miserable week, she has already confessed her sins to Dom’s siblings, explaining Pantheon, the fifty thousand dollars, the blackmail. Dominic, hopefully, knows none of this. She hopes that, as far as he is concerned, she is still merely Cleo - fun and reckless and consistently entertaining. Not the fucking clown who got played by Pantheon like a fiddle. So she is here for happy hour. And, from there, who knows. When Dominic finally emerges through the doors, Cleo straightens from where she has been leaning against the stone exterior. “It’s really gross that you’re expected to work until five,” she says as a greeting. Though she knows that as CFO, he can do whatever the fuck he pleases. “I would reanimate the corpse of Henry Ford just to fight him for coming up with the concept of the 40-hour work week.”

[cleofms]

Location: His place For: @clark-sanders

It is her third time seeing Clark recently, and Cleo is so eager that she almost can’t stand it. She has taken the 7 train from Midtown to Queens, full of the usual commuter types with their TikTok doomscrolling and trashy fantasy paperbacks and a general air of ambivalence. The summer day hums around her as she walks the remaining blocks to Clark’s home in the early afternoon heat. Tucked under her arm is a glass bottle of Italian soda - blood orange flavored. She had considered wine at the shop but decided against it. It is lunch, after all. And Cleo does not want Clark to think that lunch will descend into debauchery; she is trying to reconnect, not recorrupt. When she reaches his abode, she raps her knuckles sharply against the door three times. “Nice place,” Cleo’s smile beams up when he answers. “You know, a few years ago I tried to buy a house in Queens. Forest Hills. We could’ve been neighbors.” Naturally, the sellers had chosen the nuclear family for their multimillion-dollar Tudor over the twenty-something heiress who turned up at the open house hungover. Their loss, she still thinks. “So what’s on the menu?”

[cleofms]

Location: The Regent Club For: @noxmourners (Elena)

To Cleo, The Regent Club always possesses an odd, almost skin-crawling familiarity. She knows the type of men who pass through its unmarked brass door. In fact, the only reason it is so easy for Cleo herself to get a reservation here is not through Mob affiliations, but rather through her father’s name. Senator Calhoun had served for twelve years and kept a standing table whenever he was in the city. Apparently, some privileges survive people. When Cleo would tag along to this place, an accessory standing by his side, she never quite knew whether to recoil from men like these or entertain them. Usually, she did both. Now the table is hers, and she feels, oddly, both smug and sentimental. Cleo sits, a glass of something aged and imported in her hand, across from her company - Elena, whom Cleo has always admired for many reasons, aesthetic and otherwise. There is something catlike about her. And Cleo has always appreciated her pragmatism. “You look incredible,” she says by way of greeting. Her gaze flicks to another table, where several men have made a poor show of pretending not to stare. “You’ve even got a fan club.” She sips her drink. “Did you go to the Hamptons party? I’m trying to picture you all pure and angelic in white,” she grins at the idea.

[cleofms]

Location: A vintage showroom For: @celestinadelcastillo

On this hot, smoggy day, Cleo has invited Celestina into the cool, temperature-controlled reprieve of a vintage designer showroom. It’s a small, unassuming building that regularly sits on Vogue’s list of exclusive places to shop in New York City. Cleo, naturally, knows the owner - a small, birdlike woman with a severe, asymmetrical haircut and a doctorate in textiles. She had materialized from the back of the shop when they arrived, kissed Cleo on both cheeks, and turned the deadbolt behind them without being asked the moment she recognized Celestina’s face. Now they have full privacy to explore silver racks of archival Mugler, 90s Jean Paul Gaultier, Fendi fresh off the runway and packed away, never worn.

“So I went to reserve a room for Labor Day Weekend, and surprise, surprise, everything is booked up,” Cleo is in the middle of gushing about Villa Aurelia as she holds a black cap-sleeved dress against her slender frame. “I can’t believe you and Camilla managed to keep it all hush-hush for, what, a year? Clearly, hotels are the hot commodity right now. My portfolio manager has been in my ear since news of the Park Lane acquisition. He wants to buy the Night Hotel. You know, that cheap tourist dump on Broadway. But we’ve never been in the hospitality world.”