7 Deadly Sins Sequel - Sisters Night out
The preparation phase for a "Sisters' Night Out" is, frankly, a philanthropic endeavor on my part. It is a charitable act wherein I, the physical manifestation of Perfection, agree to be seen in public with my deeply flawed siblings, thereby raising their social stock by mere proximity.
It took me four hours to get ready. Not because I needed it. I wake up looking like a heavily filtered Vogue cover, but because perfection requires ritual. I had to bathe in imported Himalayan pink salt water dissolved in vintage champagne. I had to select an outfit that said, "I am better than you, and my tax bracket is higher than your country's GDP."
I settled on a little number made entirely of woven platinum thread and the crushed dreams of aspiring models. It was uncomfortable, heavy, and ridiculously expensive. It was perfect.
I descended the grand staircase of our penthouse, pausing on every third step to allow invisible paparazzi to get the right angle.
Down in the foyer, Envy was waiting.
Envy, my darling, miserable sister. She was wearing green. Again. It’s so literal. It was a very expensive emerald Balenciaga gown, but on her, it just looked like she was auditioning for the role of a wealthy reptile.
She looked up at me as I descended. Her eyes narrowed, which is their default state.
"That dress is a bit much for a Tuesday, isn't it?" she sniffed. "And I think I see a loose thread on the hem."
There was no loose thread. I checked with a jeweler's loupe before I left my room.
"Jealousy is such an ugly perfume, darling," I said, breezing past her to check my reflection in a polished suit of armor Wrath had left by the door. "You're wearing too much of it. Besides, this isn't 'too much.' This is the baseline requirement for being me."
"Where is Lust?" Envy muttered, picking at a nonexistent cuticle on her thumb. "If she’s trying to seduce the Uber Eats driver again, I’m leaving."
As if on cue, the elevator doors chimed open. A cloud of pheromones that could knock out a bull elephant rolled out, followed by Lust.
Lust has a rather unique style. Tonight, she was wearing what appeared to be three strategically placed handkerchiefs held together by hope and double-sided tape. She was already glowing, a chaotic energy radiating from her that makes fire alarms nervously twitch.
"Sorry I'm late, girlies!" Lust chirped, checking her phone. It had 4,000 unread messages. "I was just finalizing the guest list for later. I invited the entire starting lineup of the Knicks. And their trainers. And I think the bus driver."
"We are going to a private club, Lust, not hosting a Roman orgy," I sighed, examining my manicure against the light. Flawless. "Try to contain yourself to merely three felonies tonight, please. Greed gets terribly cranky when he has to pay bail before midnight."
We stepped into the private elevator. The mirrored walls were a comfort. I stood in the middle.
"God, I hate this lighting," Envy mumbled, shrinking into the corner. "It makes me look sallow. Why do you always look like you're ring-lit?"
"Because the universe understands hierarchy," I explained patiently.
Our chariot awaited downstairs. A stretch limousine, jet black, longer than most marriages. The driver, a poor mortal named Steve, held the door open, averting his eyes. Wise choice. Direct eye contact with me can cause existential crises in lesser beings.
We climbed in. The interior smelled of rich leather and Lust’s overpowering musk.
"To 'Ethereal'," I commanded. It was the newest, most exclusive club in the city. The kind of place that rejected A-list celebrities just for the headlines. We, naturally, had the owner’s private table.
The ride over was typical. Lust spent the entire time hanging out of the sunroof, waving at terrified pedestrians and blowing kisses to traffic cameras. Envy sat stewing in the dark, scrolling through Instagram on a burner phone (she’s banned from her main account for cyberbullying influencers), muttering about how everyone’s Facetune was obvious.
I spent the ride directing Steve on which streets to take to ensure maximum visibility of my profile to the envious masses on the sidewalk.
We arrived. The line outside Ethereal was three blocks long, a desperate snake of humanity clad in fast fashion, begging for validation.
The bouncer was a slab of muscle named Igor. He had a clipboard and the expression of someone who enjoyed crushing dreams.
Lust was out of the car first. She practically slithered up to Igor, draping herself over the velvet rope like a discarded boa. "Hello, handsome. Is that a crowbar in your pocket, or are you just happy to see the apocalypse arrive?"
Igor blinked, his stoic facade already cracking under her chemical assault.
Envy stepped up beside her, glaring at a girl in the line who had slightly shinier hair than her. "Look at them," Envy hissed. "Desperate and Pathetic. That purse is a knockoff. I can smell the pleather from here."
I emerged last. The sidewalk seemed to quiet down. I didn't walk; I glided. The streetlights seemed to brighten just for me. I stopped in front of Igor. I looked past him to a point on the horizon where someone more important might exist.
"We're here," I stated simply.
Igor looked at his list. He looked at me. He looked at Lust, who was currently tracing his bicep with a manicured claw. He looked at Envy, who was mentally lighting the building on fire.
"Right this way, Ms. Pride," Igor whispered, unhooking the rope with trembling hands.
We entered. The club was vibrating with bass that rattled the ribcage. It was dark, expensive, and filled with people pretending they were having a better time than they actually were.
We were ushered to the VIP balcony, overlooking the writhing dance floor. It was the best table in the house, naturally. The champagne arrived instantly. Magnums of the stuff that Greed probably owned the vineyard for.
The night began in earnest.
Lust lasted exactly four minutes at the table. "I see fresh meat," she purred, spotting a table of investment bankers who looked far too secure in their masculinity. "Don't wait up." She vaulted over the balcony railing, a twenty-foot drop, and landed gracefully in the middle of their vodka service. The screaming started almost immediately. Happy screaming, mostly.
Envy sat in the corner of the VIP booth, sipping champagne and scanning the room like a terminator searching for joy to terminate.
"See that woman over there?" Envy pointed a sharp nail at a perfectly lovely socialite three tables away. "She thinks she’s wearing vintage Dior. It’s clearly from the 2018 resort collection. Tragic. And her laugh is contrived. I hate her. I hope she spills her drink."
The woman immediately spilled a bright red cranberry vodka all over her white dress.
Envy smiled. It was a terrifying sight. "Oops."
I, meanwhile, was facing a crisis of epic proportions.
I realized that the ambient lighting in the VIP section was slightly warm-toned. Warm tones are fine for lesser beings, but they do not properly accentuate the cool, icy brilliance of my platinum dress. Furthermore, a small, decorative palm tree in the corner was casting a faint, feathery shadow across my left shoulder blade.
This was unacceptable. I was being visually compromised.
"Where are you going?" Envy asked, distracted from mentally inflicting cellulite on a nearby model.
"I have to speak to management," I declared, adjusting my diamond choker. "The lighting grid in here is an insult to my bone structure."
I navigated the club like an icebreaker ship cutting through frozen Arctic sludge. People parted. They sensed the aura of supreme dissatisfaction radiating from me.
I found the DJ booth, which was situated high above the crowd on a hydraulic platform. I climbed the access ladder in six-inch stilettos without breaking a sweat. Gravity, like everyone else, knows better than to mess with me.
The DJ, a man named 'DJ Stryke' who wore sunglasses indoors at 2 AM, looked alarmed as I emerged onto his platform.
"You can't be up here, babe," he shouted over the thumping house music.
I removed his sunglasses and crushed them in one hand. "First of all, do not address me as 'babe'. I am an eternal concept draped in couture. Secondly, your lighting technician is incompetent. Look at me."
I struck a pose. A perfect, practicing-this-since-the-Renaissance pose.
"Do you see the problem?" I demanded.
He stared blankly. "Uh... you look hot?"
"No, you cretin! The key light is three degrees too far to the right, and the magenta gel is washing out my natural luminescence. I need you to re-angle the overhead rig, kill the warm spots, and focus a crisp, cool white spotlight directly on me, wherever I move, for the remainder of the evening."
"I can't just re-rig the lights mid-set!"
I leaned in close. "Do you know who my brother is? If you don't fix this, he will buy this building, evict you, and turn it into a storage facility for his Labubu collection by sunrise."
DJ Stryke suddenly found the motivation.
Ten minutes later, the club plunged into darkness, save for a single, brilliant, icy spotlight that found me on the balcony.
It was glorious. I stood there, basking in my own isolated perfection. The music stopped. Everyone looked up. For a moment, there was silence, save for the sound of Lust giggling somewhere near the fire exit and Envy audibly grinding her teeth in the corner.
I raised a champagne flute. A thousand phones came out to capture the moment. Yes. Worship me. Feed me.
"You're welcome," I whispered to the adoring masses.
It took three bouncers to pry Lust off a chandelier she was swinging from. She had somehow acquired a fireman’s helmet and four phone numbers written on her thigh in sharpie.
Envy was in high spirits because the club had run out of the top-shelf vodka, causing minor distress to several tables of trust-fund kids. "Did you see their faces?" she cackled as we exited the back door. "Devastated. It warmed my heart."
I walked out into the cool morning air, my spotlight having finally been extinguished. I was exhausted. Being this radiant takes an immense toll on the spirit.
Steve was waiting with the limo. We piled in.
"Good night, Ms. Pride?" Steve asked nervously, eyes on the rearview mirror.
I checked my reflection. Despite the humidity, the chaos, and the proximity to my sisters, not a hair was out of place. My pores remained microscopic myths. I looked, as always, like an expensive porcelain doll that had just committed a white-collar crime.
"It was adequate, Steve," I sighed, resting my head against the cool leather. "Take us home. I need to go stare at myself in a quiet room for six hours to recover."
Lust passed out on my shoulder, snoring loudly. Envy started writing a scathing one-star review of the club on Yelp, complaining about the ice cube shapes.
Just another Tuesday night with the girls. Honestly, they’d be lost without me to raise the tone.
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