There were various reasons for one to throw a party. To flaunt your wealth. To make the level of your influence crystal clear to all attendees. To make connections.
In Isa’s case, it was all of the above. But she’d also done it for the fashion.
Ever since she was a girl, she’d taken any excuse she could get to drape herself in expensive fabrics and beautiful jewelry. And Halloween? It was a theatre kid’s dream. Who better to throw the party of the century than a girl who had always gone entirely too hard for the holiday?
She had made sure that her outfit for the evening would be pitch perfect, the gold standard for the theme. She’d hired one of her favorite designers to craft a unique dress, arranged for equally as unique accessories that conveyed the story of Persephone, and brought in a makeup artist from out of town. New York out of town - not some rinky-dink little West Virginia spot just a smidge larger than Gravewood.
And she looked fucking spectacular.
The same, sadly, could not be said for Samuel Dyer.
She’d just emerged from the dance floor when she spotted a tall man with skeleton makeup on nearby, and it hadn’t been difficult to make an identification from there.
Two-dollar carnival face painting and jeans? Several people had put in a valiant effort to be up to par for an Isadora Morgan™ soiree, but he was not one of them. It barely helped that the jeans were black.
God, did an embossed invitation mean nothing?
“And the specific god or monster that you are is...?” she questioned, grateful that she’d stepped far enough away from the music to be heard. She’d maybe had a glass of champagne or two by that point (stashed away specifically for her), but inebriated or not, she knew she’d want to be heard.
@samueladamsdyer
