Patrick Bateman x Fem!OC (Rebecca Grace Rice) / AO3
Childhood friends to lovers to something far more dangerous.
Becca Rice grew up alongside Patrick Bateman—through the golden Newport summers, the cruel nicknames, the stolen panties, the violence, the mutilations, and the long years of silence.
Tags: NSFW, toxic relationship, biracial character, Russian culture, POV first person, mental health issues. childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, denial of feelings, POV Patrick Bateman, love/hate.
Tags: POV Patrick Bateman, childhood flashback, first meeting, injury, blood, crying, hurt / comfort, internal conflict, emotional numbness, childhood friends to lovers, pre-canon, mental health issues (early signs).
A/N: In this chapter, we will explore Patrick's thoughts and feelings from his childhood. I hope you enjoy it! Also, a quick reminder that English is not my first language! Many thanks to my friend who made this banner for me!
Summer 1970
I knew they were coming because Mother said so three times.
That meant they mattered.
When people mattered, I had to come downstairs and be polite and not embarrass anyone, which usually meant standing still and pretending to listen. I stayed at the top of the stairs instead. It was easier to see from there.
The boy was loud immediately. Kicking things. Talking too much. Not interesting.
The girl stayed close to her mother. She kept looking around like she thought she might get lost.
Then she looked up at me.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “My name is Becca.”
She hiccupped.
I leaned over the railing a little. She went smaller when I looked at her. Her hands disappeared behind her back.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
She already knew. They always did. Adults repeat names like it makes things better.
I didn’t answer.
She asked again.
I clicked my tongue.
“You already know it,” I grumbled. “Don't waste it.”
She blinked like I’d said something complicated.
“Waste what?”
“My time.”
That wasn’t complicated.
I started down the stairs. Slowly. The marble made a good sound when you stepped on it right.
She watched the whole way down.
When I got close, I stopped in front of her and looked at her properly.
"You're small," I remarked, smirking with feigned mockery.
Her face went red right away.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She looked away.
She smelled like soap and something sweet. Her tights looked uncomfortable. She kept shifting her feet like she didn’t know where to stand.
“I’m Becca,” she said again, quieter.
“I heard you.”
She didn’t leave.
That was strange.
Most people leave if you don’t give them anything. She didn’t.
“What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.
“I don’t care.”
“Play?”
“No.”
Her brother was yelling somewhere and running. I could hear something fall over.
“Your brother is so loud,” I complained, shaking my head.
Then I turned and left.
If she wanted to follow, she would.
I went down the long hallway with all the doors. People always got turned around there.
Her footsteps came after a second.
“Patrick! Wait!”
I didn’t.
I turned the corner and stood behind the big plant and waited.
“Patrick?” she called out.
Her voice was smaller now.
I stepped out.
“Are you following me now?” I almost laughed at her expression. "Like a lost kitty."
She started to talk, then stopped.
I took a step closer.
“This is my house,” I said, my voice full of authority. “You don't get to follow me.”
Her face changed.
Not scared.
Mad.
That was better.
She picked up the ball and threw it at me before I could say anything.
It hit my chest hard.
I didn't expect that.
For a second, I just stood there.
Then it started to hurt.
“You little—"
“Patrick Bateman!"
Mother!
Of course.
She came in like she always does, already annoyed.
I pointed at the girl.
“She threw a ball at me.”
“He started it,” the girl said. Fast. “He called me a lost kitty and ran away on purpose.”
My mother sighed as if we were both an inconvenience.
“Patrick, be nice to our guest. Her name is Rebecca Rice. Rebecca Rice.”
Rebecca.
She said it like I was supposed to remember it.
She put her hands on both of us and pushed us closer together.
“Why don't the two of you go outside and play properly? The gardens are lovely. Patrick, show Rebecca the boathouse. Make her feel welcome.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She didn’t look away.
Still.
“Yes, Mother,” I said.
An hour later we were at the boathouse.
Mother had made us go. “Fresh air,” she said, like that solved anything.
It was hot on the dock. The wood burned through the soles of my shoes if I stood still too long. The water smelled like salt and something rotting underneath it.
She kept talking at first. Questions. Suggestions. Trying to decide what we were supposed to do. I showed her the boats so she would stop asking.
She sat on one of the coiled ropes and watched everything like it mattered.
That was still strange.
Most people got bored.
She didn’t.
She found the old wooden box near the wall and started pulling at the lid. It stuck. She pulled harder.
Then she made a noise.
“Ouch!”
I looked over.
There was blood immediately. Bright. Too bright. It welled up along her finger and then spilled over, dripping onto the floorboards.
She started crying right away.
Loud.
Her shoulders shook. Her face went red. It was messy and sudden and completely uncontrolled.
I didn’t move for a second.
It didn’t look like much. Just a cut. But there was more blood than there should have been.
“It hurts… it really hurts…”
I stepped closer.
“Stop crying,” I urged, quieter than before. “It's just a cut.”
She didn’t stop.
I took the handkerchief out of my pocket.
It was folded exactly the way it was supposed to be. Father had given it to me last year. I wasn’t supposed to ruin it.
I hesitated for a second.
Then I took her hand.
She let me.
Her skin was warm and damp. She didn’t pull away, even though she was still crying.
I pressed the handkerchief against the cut.
The blood soaked into it almost immediately, spreading through the white fabric in a slow, uneven bloom.
That was… interesting.
I wrapped it around her finger twice and tied it the way I’d seen it done before.
“There,” I said. “It’s fine.”
I kept holding her hand.
Her crying slowed. She was watching me now instead of the blood.
That was better.
Her eyes were wet and wide, but focused. On me.
“Thank you, Patty,” she murmured, smiling wearily.
I looked at her.
“It’s Patrick,” I said.
She nodded quickly.
I didn’t let go right away.
The blood was still seeping through the cloth, darker now. The initials were almost covered.
I pressed my thumb lightly against the knot, checking it.
She made a small sound—not pain this time. Something else.
“You’ll live,” I said briefly, keeping my eyes on her.
She sniffed. “It still stings.”
“Then don’t touch things that aren’t yours,” I warned, my voice calm. “Rice.”
I let go of her hand.
The handkerchief stayed where it was.
I didn’t ask for it back.
We sat there for a while without talking.
The water moved against the dock in slow, quiet sounds.
She kept looking at her finger.
Then at me.
Then back at her finger.
She looked different now.
Quieter.
Paying attention.
That was better.
Later, the storm started without warning.
The windows rattled first. Then the sky went dark all at once, like someone had pulled a curtain across it. Thunder followed a few seconds later—loud enough to shake the glass.
Mother said we should stay inside until it passed.
We ended up in the sitting room off the main hall. It was quieter there. The kind of room no one really used unless there were guests.
The lights were on, but they felt dim compared to the flashes outside.
She sat on the edge of one of the sofas, her legs tucked under her, still wearing the handkerchief around her finger.
She kept looking at the windows.
Another crack of thunder.
She flinched.
I noticed that.
“You’re not supposed to jump every time,” I said this with a hint of irritation. “It’s just noise.”
“I know,” she replied quickly. “I just don’t like it.”
Lightning flashed again, brighter this time. It lit the whole room for a second—sharp and white—and then everything dropped back into shadow.
She shifted closer on the sofa.
Not all the way. Just enough that I could see it without looking directly at her.
I didn’t say anything.
The rain got heavier. It hit the windows in uneven bursts, like someone throwing handfuls of pebbles.
She was very still now.
Another flash.
Then thunder, closer.
She reached for my hand.
It was quick, like she thought I might move away.
I didn’t.
Her fingers were warm. Slightly damp. She held on tighter than she needed to.
I looked down at our hands.
The handkerchief I’d tied earlier was pressed between us, the cloth darker where the blood had soaked through.
She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the window, like the storm might come inside if she stopped watching it.
“You’re scared, I can feel it.” I commented, but I didn't mean to jab her.
“I’m not,” she shot back, too fast.
I let that go.
The thunder rolled again, longer this time.
She squeezed my hand.
I didn't pull away. It didn't hurt. It didn't do anything.
Her shoulders settled. Her breathing slowed.
I watched her for a minute. Then I looked back at our hands.
She didn't let go.
I didn't make her.
Another flash of lightning filled the room. She leaned a little closer, her sleeve brushing against mine.
Still holding on.
I stayed where I was.
Then she put her head on my shoulder.
I went completely still.
I should have said something. I had something ready—the right word, the kind that makes people move away quickly. It was right there.
I didn't say it.
I turned my head slightly instead. Her eyelashes were moving. Then they weren't. Her breathing changed—slower, deeper. Her weight settled against me like she'd decided something.
She had fallen asleep.
I didn't understand that. I kept looking at her, waiting for it to make sense.
She sniffled once, quietly, against my shoulder.
Something happened in my chest that I didn't have a name for. I started counting to try to get rid of it. I got to ten, then kept going. The number got very high.
I don't know when I stopped counting.
I don't know when the room went dark.
The storm was still outside when I stopped being there. She wasn't there either. We were somewhere else—nowhere I recognized, nowhere anyone else was. The voices that were usually there were quieter.
"I trust you too much. So much that I've started to worry about you."
A quiet afternoon, a record he didn't know she'd find, and a man realizing exactly how much power he's handed someone.
Tags: NSFW, smut, one-shot (3k words), established relationship, domestic fluff, possessive Patrick Bateman, praise kink, pet names, oral sex (both receiving), p in v sex, anxiety & emotional vulnerability, POV Patrick Bateman.
Dedicated to my dear @urlocalyachtrockr
That day felt different from the very beginning. I had never done anything like this before—never trusted anyone enough, never allowed another person in my life to carry such power over me. Even Sean would never get access to my apartment the way she did. And yet that morning I had pressed my keys into her hand without a word, like it was nothing, like I handed out pieces of myself every day.
I couldn't stop thinking about it. Even sitting in my office with the Walkman blaring the Talking Heads' newest tape on repeat, I kept coming back to her—what was she doing right now? Maybe she'd already dug through my things and found something that would make her run. Literally run the fuck out of my apartment and probably this city.
That thought didn't scare me. But it didn't leave me indifferent either.
I knew she'd taken the day off. She'd tried to persuade me to do the same, but I told her I couldn't—there was an important meeting with the CEO today and I had to be there. No chance of canceling.
Usually that kind of thing didn't bother me. Today it did. I caught myself not wanting to be here at all—I wanted to be back at my apartment, finding her on my white couch, lying on her stomach with her legs kicking in the air. Her curly hair spilling over the cushions, her hips sprawling against the soft material and—
I let out a strangled breath, already half-hard. The air felt thicker and I swallowed, which was not something I was accustomed to doing in the middle of a work day in my own office. I turned the volume up and leaned back in my leather armchair, closing my eyes.
Since Abby and I had started seeing each other I'd been jerking off more whenever we were apart. I couldn't help it—my brain kept pulling up the memory of how her curves felt under my fingers. How sweet and unsteady her moans got when I took my time with her, mapping her slowly, thoroughly. My fingers still carried the echo of her clenching around them like she wanted to keep them there.
I didn't mind.
On top of that, I wanted to bottle up that feeling and keep it with me no matter where I went—a dirty little secret only she and I knew. I nearly spilled the glass of mineral water Jean had brought me a moment ago when I got too deep into thinking about everything I actually wanted—needed—to do with Abby the second I was finally back at my place.
I fought the urge to call her. Twice. Maybe three times before I actually picked up the receiver and dialed my own number. When there was no answer my jaw clenched and an ugly pang of worry hit me somewhere I didn't like. Why did I care this much already, just because she hadn't picked up the phone?
She didn't pick up the phone.
The thought spun inside my head like a broken record.
I stood up from my leather chair and grabbed my Walkman, tucking it into my briefcase which sat on the white couch on the other side of my office. Then I put on my favorite pair of sunglasses and, once I was satisfied I looked perfect, left the room and told Jean I had urgent business to take care of. She didn't ask any questions, but she looked worried.
The taxi ride back took longer than usual—I knew I'd hit traffic at this hour but I didn't have another option. I had to know she was safe. Maybe the electricity had gone out again—it had already happened once this month, and I'd already filed a complaint with the building management that such things were unacceptable for a residence of this caliber.
My headphones sat perfectly over my ears, the sound so clean it felt like Madonna was singing directly inside my skull. Outside, New York moved in the way I hated most—tourists cutting across foot traffic, faceless panhandlers working the corners, vendors trying to push newspapers on anyone who slowed down. It irritated me every time I looked out the window, so I closed my eyes and let the music carry me somewhere else.
After two more tracks the cab finally pulled up at the American Gardens Building. I handed the driver a twenty and accidentally grabbed an extra bill, so I tipped him without thinking about it. I didn't hear what he said when I got out—headphones still on.
The doorman met me with the same expression he'd had that morning. I tipped him too. I wasn't sure why the generosity, and I didn't bother analyzing it. Inside, the marble floor clicked under my polished shoes as I crossed to the elevators. My hand was already reaching for my keys when I stepped into the car and the doors slid shut.
I was sweating.
I was nervous—as if I weren't coming home to my own apartment but to someone else's entirely.
That gave me another wave of nausea—partly from disgust at how pathetic it was, partly from something I couldn't quite name. I wasn't used to having anyone waiting for me at home. And then I remembered that Abby hadn't picked up the phone. Maybe she'd left. Maybe she was long gone and not waiting for me at all, and I was a fool who'd actually let himself believe that someone like her could wait for someone like me.
Someone like me.
I scoffed when the elevator dinged on the eleventh floor.
The doors slid open and I stepped out, pulling my headphones down without taking them off completely. My apartment seemed quiet from the outside—and then I heard it. A faint pulse of music humming through the front door. I pressed my ear against it just to be sure. There was definitely something playing inside. I fumbled with the chain for a moment before I found the right key and unlocked the door.
Phil Collins.
His voice filled the space of my perfect, sterile apartment.
I closed the door behind me and set down my briefcase without a sound.
I didn't take off my coat. I walked straight to the living room—and found her on the couch, sitting in the robe I'd told her she could take. Her hair was wrapped in a white towel and she was holding one of my large brushes, using it as a microphone. She was singing—loudly, completely oblivious to my presence—the chorus of In the Air Tonight. She looked incredible like that. So free of any shame or self-doubt, so completely lost in it that I almost wished I could make myself invisible and watch her like that forever.
Her eyes were closed, her shoulders swaying with the rhythm of the drums. It went on for a little while longer, and then she opened her eyes and saw me. Her face froze. Her cheeks bloomed red instantly.
"Patrick?!"
She nearly jumped off the couch like a startled cat, all claws and indignation. I didn't move—I let her launch herself at me and caught her easily, lifting her off the floor. Her legs wrapped around my waist without any effort on either of our parts. Her fresh scent hit me immediately.
"You scared the shit out of me! I didn't expect you this early—what happened?!"
She grabbed my tie and nearly shook me with it, but I only chuckled and held her against me with practiced ease. She was perfect—made for exactly my hands and no one else's.
"I called you," I said. "You didn't answer—"
"So you ran out of work in the middle of the day because I didn't pick up the phone? I was in the bathroom, I didn't hear it, okay?"
Her slightly agitated voice stirred something possessive in me. "I wasn't panicking—"
"I'm not a child, you know. You came back early because you don't trust me? You thought I'd destroy the whole place? That I threw a party and invited every homeless person in the district and—"
"I trust you too much," I cut her off. "So much that I've started to worry about you."
Abby went silent—totally confused. "Oh…"
She didn't see it coming, obviously.
I took advantage of her confusion and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. She giggled and tried to hide her face in the crook of my neck, but I followed her and kissed the spot beneath her ear. Abby shivered. I swayed her gently in my arms, moving my hands to her hips, my fingers brushing accidentally along her ass. Her face was flushed now, lashes thick and still a little damp from the shower. I wanted her so much it hurt. I had wanted her since that morning when I left for work.
"You picked the right robe—good girl," I murmured.
Abby looked up at me, smirking. "Don't call me that."
"Why not?"
"I'm gonna bite you," she shot back playfully, her fingers sliding up my chest and fumbling with my tie. "And you'll have to use half your concealer to cover my marks before going out."
I hummed. "Are you threatening me now?"
"What if I am?"
I wanted to drop her right onto her pretty ass but that would cut off my chances of getting what I wanted—and I wanted her—so I just spun her around instead, making her squeal, then walked her over to the back of the couch and sat her on it, her legs still looped around my waist.
"You went through my collection," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended, shrugging off my coat. "You like Phil Collins?"
She didn't want to let go of me but I stepped back just enough to remove my coat completely and drape it over the couch, then took off my suit jacket. Abby watched me in silence for a moment before her hands drifted to her collarbone. The robe was already half undone and I could see the curve of her breast—something I wanted in my mouth right now.
"Well, yeah—" she stuttered, not exactly embarrassed but not quite confident either. "I wanted to know more about your music taste. Since we went to that record shop."
I stopped working on my tie and moved back toward her, remembering she liked doing it herself. Her hands found their way there almost instantly, like they belonged—they did. Abby loosened it with practiced ease and before I could say anything her lips were on mine. Soft, warm, moving against my much thinner ones in perfect rhythm until my head started to swim and I was already too hard to ignore. Her palm found my groin faster than I could think.
"Let me handle this," she murmured against my lips. "Please?"
I let out a strangled breath, eyes already half-closed. "Go on."
We swapped places—now I was the one pressed against the back of the couch while Abby busied herself with unbuttoning my shirt, her mouth tracing every inch of skin as she uncovered it. I shivered—actually shivered—and reached up to pull the towel from her head, releasing her curly damp hair. It fell around her shoulders in messy, beautiful waves. She teased one of my nipples once the shirt was halfway open and I groaned and let her work her way down my chest. Her teeth grazed my skin and then her tongue circled my nipple before she moved lower. Slowly. Deliberately. Nothing like the way women did it in porn.
Abby savored every moment. Every second. Every touch. Every chance she got to taste me.
"Fuck," I breathed as her mouth hovered over my navel. "Baby—"
I tangled my fingers into her damp hair and looked down at her pressing her lips to my abs, going lower, her cheek brushing against the bulge in my pants. I gasped—almost desperately. Abby nuzzled against my palm and drew my thumb into her warm mouth.
Holy shit.
I almost came at the sight alone.
"Little naughty vixen," I murmured, tilting my head. "So eager to please me."
She didn't argue or confirm it. She just looked up at me, bright eyes doing all the teasing without a single word. I slipped my thumb free and rested my palm on top of her head while her small, graceful hands worked on my belt buckle. It didn't take long—it never did. I kept my composure as best I could, fighting the urge to take over completely. I'd given her the reins—handed her the weapon to use against me.
And she knew exactly what to do with it.
"You're so hard," she murmured, palming me through my pants, eyes still on mine. "So hot."
I nodded and swallowed.
She hooked her fingers and pulled my briefs and pants down until I sprang free—already leaking, twitching, flushed dark. I watched her lick her lips before she gave my tip one small, kitten-like lick. My legs jolted. She made a small satisfied sound—almost like a purr—and wrapped her lips around me. I swore I saw stars and my hips pushed forward instinctively, not quite thrusting but asking, and she took the cue and began to move, bobbing her head slowly at first, using her hand to help.
"Fucking Christ," I grabbed a fistful of her soft hair. "You're going to suck the life out of me."
Abby half-laughed, half-choked around me as I pushed deeper, coaxing her throat open while still keeping myself in check—I didn't want to hurt her.
"Deeper," I said, closer to begging than I'd like to admit. "Take me deeper."
She wrapped her hand in a tight ring around the base and forced a breathless exhale out of me. My legs went soft. I leaned harder against the back of the couch, spreading wider to give her more room. She looked unreal like this—breathing hard through her nose, cheeks hollowed, eyes wet from the stretch. So fucking perfect.
"Keep going," I rasped, my breathing ragged. "You're doing so fucking well—"
I didn't really have to guide her—she found her own rhythm, her throat relaxing around me until it felt like something I wanted to stay inside forever. The wet, obscene sounds filling my living room only made it better. I was close—painfully so. She knew it too, cupping me carefully, working slowly but deliberately. I had to bite down on my bottom lip to keep myself together. My vision sharpened like I'd done a line, but I needed more. Her mouth was more than enough and yet something dark and possessive inside me needed to claim her. Mark her. Fill her until she couldn't take any more.
"Hold on," I reached out and stopped her.
Confused, she pushed her messy hair back and looked up at me. "What's wrong?"
"Couch," was all I said. "Get on the couch."
The sudden shift made her hesitate but she obeyed, and I corrected her when she tried to lie on her back—I wanted her on her stomach, flat, the hem of the robe bunched around her waist. I kissed her lower back, the arch of her ass, took a moment to press my lips to each cheek before I buried my face deeper and caught her through the thin cotton of her underwear.
"Pat—rick," she gasped, fisting my hair and pressing me closer. "Mmhh — fuck—"
I savored every small, obscene sound she made as I worked over her. I teased her like that—no skin to skin contact yet—just my mouth tracing invisible lines, her taste coming through the fabric sweet and musky and making me dizzy. She squirmed against the cushions like she couldn't keep still and I eventually pulled the cotton aside to taste her properly. I took my time, drawing each fold between my lips until I reached her clit and had to hold her tighter as she bucked in my hands, ass lifting, hips twitching.
"Mmm—baby—you need this so fucking much," I murmured, lips slick with her. "Tell me you need me."
Abby gasped, arching her back. "Jesus—Patrick—can you just keep your mouth busy?"
I wanted to say something cutting in return but her taste worked on me like a drug—I couldn't resist and didn't want to. I tore her underwear off and tossed it somewhere behind me, gripped her hips with both hands and pushed my tongue inside her, feeling her flutter around me, her hands clawing at the couch. I worked her like that until I could feel her body winding tight toward the edge—and then I stopped at the last possible second and replaced my tongue with my cock, stretching her hard and fast.
"A-ahhh—fuck—fuck—Patrick—" she sprawled beneath my weight as I settled over her. "Can feel you—so deep—"
I nipped at the back of her neck, rolling my hips against her. My Rolex accidentally grazed her cheek and she flinched from the cold metal—I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She was so tight, pulling me in and holding me there like a vice.
"Right," I groaned. "Right where I belong."
A loud broken moan tore out of her as I began to move, the couch creaking under us. I didn't care if the floor took damage—all I could think about was the woman beneath me and every small reaction she gave me. I was obsessed, driven by something primitive that had no logic to it, my hips moving on their own while I slipped a hand beneath her so she ground against my palm with every thrust. She nearly wept at the friction.
"Pat—Pat—ah—mmm—so close—I—"
She choked on a whimper, her walls clenching around me, and I kept moving, kept her clit pressed against my palm and worked her through it. Her whole body shook, legs kicking until I pressed her down and made her take every stroke against the spot I knew would undo her.
"That's it—take me like the good girl you are," I hissed against her ear, catching the lobe between my teeth. "Like my good girl."
Her walls tightened harder at that single word and it pushed me over—I came in tight pulses, vision blurring, hips still rolling against hers until the tension inside me finally, completely unwound.
We lay like that until she started squirming beneath me, half-panicked, saying something about my weight crushing her—but I couldn't fully register the words. I was still drowning in the satisfaction of having her exactly the way I'd wanted.
Childhood friends to lovers to something far more dangerous.
Becca Rice grew up alongside Patrick Bateman—through the golden Newport summers, the cruel nicknames, the stolen panties, the violence, the mutilations, and the long years of silence.
Chapter 2: A gala, a speech, and a name she wasn’t expecting to hear again. Some people change. Some people only get better at hiding what they are.
Tags: Slow Burn, Dark Romance, Toxic Relationship, Biracial Character, Russian Culture, POV First Person, Mental Health Issues, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Obsession, AO3.
A/N: Hey, guys! Thank you so much for your comments and support of this story! I am very grateful—it means a lot!
Spring, 1986
The two weeks after that night at Pastels flew by in a blur of gallery meetings, late nights cataloguing new acquisitions, and the familiar ache in my shoulders from hunching over provenance files. I told myself I hadn’t thought about Bateman much.
Not really.
The name slipped into my head sometimes—sharp and unwelcome—but I pushed it away like a half-finished sketch I didn’t want to look at. I had work. I had routines. I had the quiet comfort of my Russian icons watching over me from the shelf. Two weeks was enough time to convince myself the man I’d seen at the Met had only been a trick of the light, or a stranger with a similar jawline.
People changed. Masks improved.
I almost believed it.
Until Friday evening, when Mama called.
“Rebecca, darling, you’re coming with us tomorrow night,” she said without preamble, her voice warm but laced with that steel she reserved for family obligations. “The renovation opening at the business school. Your father has been working on this for months. It’s important.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, phone cradled between my ear and shoulder while I tried to finish labelling a set of early Repin prints. “Mama, I have plans—”
“You always have plans,” she interrupted gently. “This time you’re making time. Your father needs the family there. Mark will be coming too.”
Mark. Of course. My little brother had been working at Pierce & Pierce for almost two years now—some junior analyst or associate role he never talked about in detail. He was proud of it in that quiet, ambitious way of his, but he still lived in the same modest apartment in Murray Hill and complained about the hours like any normal person.
“And I’ve already prepared a few words for you to say,” Mama continued, as if that settled everything. “Nothing long. Just a short thank-you on behalf of the family. You’re good at these things, solnyshko (sunshine).”
I closed my eyes. The Russian endearment usually softened me, but tonight it felt like a gentle trap closing. “Mama, I really don’t—”
“Rebecca Grace Rice.” Her tone shifted—soft but final. “Your father has done a great deal for that institution. The least we can do is show support. Besides…” She paused, and I could almost see her tilting her head the way she did when she was reading me too well. “You’ve been a little off lately. Quiet. Distracted. Is everything all right?”
The question landed like a small stone in still water. I hated how easily she noticed. Mama had always been like that—part Russian intuition, part motherly radar. She could spot a crack in my armor from three boroughs away.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically. “Just tired. Work has been busy.”
A thoughtful hum travelled down the line. “If you say so. But you will come tomorrow. Wear the white Gucci suit—the one with the subtle pinstripes. It makes you look professional and elegant. And please, try to smile. For your father.”
I exhaled through my nose, already knowing I’d lost. “Yes, Mama.”
“Good girl. We’ll pick you up at six-thirty. Don’t be late.”
She hung up before I could offer any more excuses.
I stared at the phone for a long moment, then looked over at the nightstand. Patrick’s photograph still sat there, face up, his wrong smile staring at the ceiling. I hadn’t been able to put it away. Every night I told myself I would, and every night I left it exactly where it was.
Two weeks. I had almost convinced myself it was nothing.
Now I was being dragged to some business school gala where I’d have to make polite conversation and deliver a speech I hadn’t even written. Perfect.
I dressed on autopilot the next evening.
The white Gucci suit came out of its garment bag like a verdict: sharp shoulders, clean lines, the kind of armor that reassured donors and trustees you were serious, tasteful, and utterly harmless. I buttoned the jacket, studied myself in the mirror, and tried on a few different versions of my face—polite, engaged, mildly impressed. Nothing too sincere.
The photograph on the nightstand stayed exactly where it was. I avoided looking at it while I did my makeup, but the awareness of it lingered at the edge of my vision like something dead in the road you decide not to examine too closely.
By six-twenty I was perched on the arm of my sofa, clutch in my lap, listening for the elevator. The apartment felt smaller on evenings like this, my books and sketches and Russian icons suddenly juvenile next to the life my parents preferred to present to the world.
They arrived at six-thirty-two, which meant Mama would be in a good mood and Papa would complain about traffic. Both expectations were met. He kissed my cheek briskly, already halfway into a conversation about endowments and capital campaigns. Mama stepped back to inspect me, tugged a stray hair into place, and gave a satisfied nod.
“Beautiful,” she said. “They will eat you up.”
“I’m not on the menu,” I muttered. She caught it, of course, and rolled her eyes in that practiced, glamorous way she’d perfected somewhere between Moscow and Midtown.
The car ride uptown blurred into a stream of my father’s monologue about trustees and my mother’s low reminders about names I should remember. Buildings slid past the window with that glossy, damp sheen Manhattan gets after a late-afternoon drizzle. I watched my own reflection instead. The suit looked expensive. The woman in it looked like she belonged.
Inside, something small and feral paced.
The gala sprawled across the renovated lobby of the business school: glass and steel, aggressively modern lighting. Champagne flutes sailed past on silver trays. Men in dark suits clustered in neat, identical knots. Women in jewel tones laughed a little too brightly. A jazz quartet in the corner produced tasteful, unobtrusive noise.
I stepped into the room and felt the familiar shift—my spine straightening, my expression smoothing into something magazine-ready. This was performance art. Everyone knew their role.
“Rebecca.”
My father’s hand settled against the small of my back, steering me toward a group near a donor plaque. Names were etched into the metal in smug serif fonts. A dean, two law firm partners, someone from a bank. I smiled, shook hands, said the right things about how inspiring the renovation looked. They praised the Met in return as if it were my personal achievement.
At some point I became aware that I was scanning the crowd.
It started as a habit—looking for Mark’s face, his familiar freckles, the slightly too-soft tie he usually wore. But the longer my eyes drifted, the more single-minded the search became. Shoulders. Profiles. A head of medium-brown hair at the bar that made my heart slam once, stupidly hard, before the man turned and the jawline was wrong.
I told myself I was simply checking the room the way I always did: lighting, art, potential donors. My pulse didn’t get the memo.
“Have you seen your brother?” Mama asked under her breath, refilling her champagne. “He said he was coming straight from work.”
“Probably buried under spreadsheets,” I said. The joke came out thinner than I meant. She darted a quick, assessing look at me, then released me with a little wave.
“Go find him. And be ready—they want you at the podium after the dean.”
I wove through the crowd, pausing when required to acknowledge acquaintances and nod at someone’s wife I half-remembered from a Christmas party. Conversations washed over me: arbitrage, leveraged buyouts, the Yankees. Everything sounded like white noise tuned to money.
Near the far end of the room, by a high-top table stacked with canapés arranged like jewelry, I finally spotted Mark. He stood with three other men, all roughly his age, all wearing the same Pierce & Pierce uniform: slick hair, dark suits, pale shirts, expressions hovering between boredom and hunger.
He saw me first. His face lit up with that real, unguarded grin that still made him look twelve for a split second. He excused himself and crossed the space in a few quick strides.
We hugged—brief, careful, but enough to make my chest unclench a fraction. Up close he looked tired, a little wired around the eyes.
“You look very official,” I said, adjusting his tie out of habit. “Did they promote you to human, or are you still property of Pierce & Pierce?”
He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, launching into something self-deprecating about eighty-hour weeks. Then his voice dropped conspiratorially.
“You’re going to be surprised who I’m working with.”
A thin, unpleasant thread unspooled along my spine.
“Who?” I asked.
Mark tipped his chin toward the small group he had left behind. “Bateman. Patrick Bateman. Ring any bells?”
The sound in the room warped.
The air seemed to thin by half an inch. The chatter and clinking of glasses continued, but everything slid slightly out of focus at the edges, as if I were watching a badly tuned television.
I followed the direction of Mark’s nod slowly, deliberately, buying myself an extra heartbeat or two.
“Hey, are you zoning out?” Mark asked, sounding concerned. “I know it’s been a while since we used to spend time together—”
“Stop—” I gritted my teeth.
“I haven’t said anything,” he cut in, laughing. “Pierce & Pierce is huge. No one here knows you could’ve built sandcastles with someone you work with now.”
He took a sip of his scotch and licked his lips just as deliberate footsteps clicked behind us.
“So, your father arranged all of this?” a familiar male voice asked.
We both turned at the same time.
Patrick Bateman stood there with a gorgeous, elegant blonde on his arm—the same woman I’d seen him with at the Met weeks ago.
“Not bad,” Patrick said, scanning the room with a smug little smile. “Very chivalrous of him. Everyone has to start somewhere.” His gaze settled on me. “Rice.”
The way he said my surname was mocking, but deeper now. More mature. More masculine than I remembered from high school.
“Oh, I’ve listened to your lectures at the Met!” the blonde exclaimed suddenly, her face lighting up. “They were fantastic! I never thought I’d be so fascinated by Russian art.” She offered me her hand, grinning widely. “I’m Evelyn. Evelyn Williams.”
I stood frozen.
My blood turned to ice. My nails dug into my palms.
“Mark Rice,” my brother chimed in quickly. “And this is my lovely older sister, Rebecca—”
“Rebecca Troublemaker Rice,” Patrick interrupted, his lips curling, eyes bright with something aggressive and pleased.
The word Troublemaker slid between us like a razor.
For a second I watched his mouth rather than heard the rest of the sentence—the way his lips shaped the syllables, how satisfied he looked with himself. There it was: Newport, age twelve, freckles and blood and broken shells, compressed into three neat words in a business school lobby.
I did not offer my hand.
Evelyn’s hand stayed suspended in the air for a moment, pale and manicured, before she recovered and smoothed it over her skirt instead. She laughed, high and tinkling, glancing between Patrick and me as if she’d walked into the middle of a joke she didn’t quite understand but very much wanted to join.
“Oh, so you two go way back,” she said. “Isn’t that charming?”
Charming.
Mark barked an eager little laugh, grateful for the cue. “Yeah, our parents have houses in Newport. Summers, you know. Sean and I—”
Patrick tilted his head slightly, eyes still locked on me. Everyone else might have thought he was listening to Mark. I knew better. There was a weight to that stare I remembered from much closer distances: behind tree trunks, through cracked doors, up from under the dock as my legs dangled in the water.
He had filled out. The boyish sharpness had hardened into something more deliberate. The Valentino suit sat on him as if it had been tailored to his bones. His slicked-back, immaculate hair framed a face that could have been in a cologne ad—if I hadn't known what he was capable of.
“Rebecca Rice from the Met,” Evelyn murmured, beaming again, as though repetition could force me back into motion. “I dragged Patrick to that lecture you did on… what was it? The Itinerants? Those gloomy Russians with the peasants and the mud.”
Her hand rested on his forearm in that practiced, proprietary way. Patrick shifted just enough that her fingers nearly slid off before she readjusted. The tiny rejection sent something unpleasantly warm coiling low in my stomach.
He finally broke eye contact and glanced down at her. “They’re not gloomy, Evelyn. They’re socially conscious.” The way he stated it—droll, almost affectionate—told me he’d memorized the phrase, probably from my notes. His gaze flicked back to me. “Isn’t that right, Rice?”
My brother, sweet idiot that he was, looked between the three of us like he was watching a tennis match. “Becca works on that stuff all day.” He nudged my elbow. “Tell them about that painting with the guy and the—”
“A little on-the-nose for a fundraiser, don’t you think?” Patrick cut in smoothly. “Peasant suffering and all that. Exposure to hardship might ruin the canapés.”
Evelyn giggled too loudly, half a beat late. She watched him like he hung the moon. Or the stock prices. Patrick’s attention tracked me through the entire practiced spiel. That focus had always unnerved me, even when we were kids. Other men in this room looked through women. He watched as though cataloguing me, as though I might later be reconstructed from whatever data he collected.
“Your father must be proud,” he crooned—tone smooth as the scotch in Mark’s glass. “The Met, a speech tonight… quite an ascent for the girl who used to fall off the dock every summer.”
A faint line appeared between Evelyn’s brows. “You pushed her, didn’t you?” she teased, looking up at him. “That’s the kind of thing you would do.”
His smile widened, but his eyes stayed flat. “Allegedly.”
The summer flashed before my eyes in a staccato slideshow: water in my lungs, his hand on my ankle, the snap of a porcelain doll's neck in his grip while I screamed. Suddenly, the lobby’s air conditioning felt too aggressive, licking cold down the back of my neck.
“Patty,” Mark said fondly, clapping Patrick on the shoulder, completely oblivious to the way my spine stiffened at the nickname coming from someone else’s mouth. “He probably saved Becca from drowning, honestly. She was always—”
“Careless,” Patrick supplied. That bright, hungry glint flashed in his eyes, there and gone. “Distracted. You still are.”
I forced myself to look directly at him, past the suit, past the carefully curated tan and the watch peeking out from his cuff. Close up, his skin looked almost unreal, poreless. His cologne— expensive, citrusy, sharp—threaded through the sterile chill of the room.
The freckles on my own hands stood out sharply against the bloodless grip I had on my clutch. One of us wore our imperfections openly. The other hid his beneath Valentino and Rolex.
Somewhere behind me, a microphone screeched softly as someone tapped it. The dean’s voice boomed, calling people to gather for the remarks. Conversations around us began to knot and drift toward the podium.
Evelyn brightened. “We should get seats near the front,” she said to Patrick. Then, turning to me with eager politeness: “You’re speaking after the dean, right? I can’t wait to hear you. You’re so… passionate up there.”
Patrick’s eyes skimmed lazily over my face, down the line of the suit, pausing at the open V of the lapel where my skin showed. His gaze snagged for a heartbeat on the tiny beauty mark above my collarbone. I could practically feel it—the weight of his attention touching that spot.
“Don’t be nervous,” he murmured. “You always did enjoy an audience.”
The implication hung there, sharp and private, disguised as a compliment. Mark smiled at it anyway.They began to drift toward the gathering crowd. Evelyn latched onto Patrick’s arm again, already pointing out some dean’s wife’s dress.
Mark fell into step beside them, glancing back at me. “You coming?”
Patrick didn’t wait for my answer. As he pivoted away, his hand brushed the back of my wrist — no accident, too precise. Barely a touch, more of a suggestion, but the contact sparked up my arm like an electric current.
He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted my ear, his words submerged beneath the dean’s amplified welcome, meant only for me.
“Try not to be boring for once, Rice.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the sea of suits and silk, leaving me standing at the edge with my heart hammering and the faint scent of citrus lodged in my throat like a swallowed seed.
I knew my mother would give the most pompous and grotesque speech imaginable—all about how generous and kind my father was, how his mind was always occupied with thoughts of charity. Half of it was even true. But I didn’t have the mental energy to dwell on it.
I had a much bigger problem now. One named Patrick Bateman, who was watching me from his seat as I stood on the small podium with a stupid microphone in my hand.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” I began in the practiced tone I used for art presentations. “First, I want to thank everyone for coming here tonight.”
My brother winked at me when I glanced his way. He sat with my parents, both of them radiating pride. A hush fell over the room in stages, the way a stain spreads through linen. It started near the front with the trustees and their polished wives, then rippled outward to the younger men from Pierce & Pierce, the adjunct faculty, the women in pearls clutching stemware.
By the time I finished the line about greed dressing itself up as civic virtue, you could have heard a diamond earring hit the floor.
For one long second, I heard only my own breathing amplified through the microphone.
Then came the applause.
It started scattered and awkward. One pair of hands, then another. Someone in the back laughed, startled, as though I’d told a dangerous joke at the wrong table. A few students near the side wall clapped harder than everyone else. One older man near the podium looked offended enough to choke. My father kept his smile fixed in place with heroic effort. My mother had gone completely still—which was far worse.
And Patrick… God, Patrick was enjoying himself.
He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, expression calm, almost bored to anyone who didn’t know where to look. I knew better. The corner of his mouth had tipped up in that tiny, private smirk. His eyes held mine with the bright, satisfied gleam I remembered from childhood—every time I broke something in public and he got to watch the pieces fall.
Evelyn leaned toward him and whispered something. He answered without ever breaking his gaze from me.
I finished somehow. I added a few closing words about art’s duty to tell the truth even when money preferred softer lies, then stepped back from the microphone before I said something even worse—something useful, something my father could never forgive.
The dean returned to the podium wearing the waxy expression of a man whose evening had sprung a leak. He thanked me with excessive warmth (which meant he hated me) and launched into a set of closing remarks so polished they practically squeaked. People laughed in all the correct places. The room resumed breathing.
The second I stepped down from the riser, my mother intercepted me.
Her face remained perfectly arranged for company—eyes bright, mouth lifted, shoulders elegant in emerald silk. Only the pressure of her fingers on my forearm betrayed her.
“What,” she said through a smile meant for onlookers, “was that?”
“I spoke honestly.”
“You spoke like a girl trying to humiliate her father in public.”
My father appeared on my other side, slower and heavier, carrying his irritation with legal precision. “Rebecca.”
That was all. My name, flat and clipped—enough to send me straight back to age fourteen.
“I thanked everyone,” I said. “I mentioned the school, the renovation, and philanthropy. I only added a few thoughts of my own.”
“A few thoughts,” he repeated. “At an event funded by the very people you just insulted.”
“They’ll survive.”
My mother gave a tiny laugh for the benefit of a passing couple, then lowered her voice again. “You sounded unstable.”
“How chic.”
“Stop this.”
Her nails bit in for a moment. My father looked past me toward the mingling crowd, already calculating damage. He had the strained composure of a man mentally drafting apology calls.
Mark appeared then, half-grinning, half-appalled. “Jesus, Becca.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t say it was bad.”
“You looked delighted.”
“I was terrified,” he confessed, and that only made his grin wider. “Dad’s going to have an embolism.”
“Mark,” my mother snapped.
He straightened and swallowed whatever else he’d been about to say.
A red-faced trustee with golf-club shoulders stepped over to praise my “courage” in the oily tone people used when they wanted to signal open-mindedness without actually agreeing. I thanked him. Another woman called me refreshing. A faculty member said art needed more fearless voices. Their approval felt thin, like cocktail chatter. None of them would have invited me to say the same thing in their dining rooms.
Then Patrick arrived at my shoulder as neatly as a blade sliding from a sleeve.
“That was excellent,” he said.
My father turned to Bateman with obvious relief, grateful for a familiar ally from the world of respectable young men in expensive wool. “Patrick. Good to see you.”
Patrick shook his hand firmly. “Richard. Congratulations. Tremendous turnout.”
My mother softened instantly. “Patrick, how kind of you to come,” she then turned to look at Evelyn. “And you are—”
“Evelyn Williams. I’m Patrick’s fiancée,” she chirped, and they exchanged handshakes—my mother’s smile tightened. “Rebecca, that was… so bold.” She laughed, clearly searching for the right category. “I kept thinking—wow. She really means it.”
“I did.”
Her smile flickered. “Right. Yes. Obviously.”
Patrick glanced at me. “That’s why it worked.”
My father gave a short exhale through his nose. “I suppose Pierce & Pierce has a broader appetite for political theater than I imagined.”
Patrick’s expression remained perfectly smooth. “I appreciated the spontaneity.”
He appreciated disruption the way some men appreciated modern sculpture—only when someone else had to clean up the mess.
My mother sensed the tension rising and turned to Evelyn, steering her gently toward safer conversational waters. “Tell me, who is your hairdresser, darling?”
They drifted a few paces away. Mark hovered, clearly trying to decide whether to stay. Patrick settled the matter for him.
“Could I borrow your sister for a moment?” he asked lightly. “I’d like to congratulate her properly, without competing with trustees and deans.”
Mark blinked, glanced at me, then at our father. My father, still attempting to salvage the evening, nodded as if this were perfectly ordinary. “Briefly.”
“Of course,” Patrick said.
He guided me toward a side corridor off the lobby where framed architectural renderings hung under discreet lighting. The noise from the reception dulled here, reduced to a civilized murmur. People still passed occasionally, but far fewer. Public enough to feel proper. Private enough for old poisons.
He stopped in front of a watercolor of the renovated atrium.
“You did that on purpose.”
“I said what I said.”
He smiled. “You always did like setting rooms on fire.”
I folded my arms. “You looked entertained.”
“I was.”
“Your fiancée looked bewildered.”
“Evelyn finds most original thought bewildering.”
The cruelty was so casual I almost laughed. “Charming.”
“I never claimed to be.”
His eyes moved over me, slower now, with the thoroughness of someone inventorying an object he once owned and had unexpectedly found in mint condition. The corridor felt warmer than the ballroom.
“You were shaking when you got up there,” he said. “Then you steadied. Somewhere around the part where you insulted everyone funding the building.”
“I wasn’t shaking.”
“You were.” He stepped closer—his voice no longer needed to travel. “Your left hand gave it away.”
I looked down despite myself. My fingers were still curled tightly around the edge of my clutch, knuckles pale.
He noticed. A small, satisfied tilt of his head.
“There she is,” he murmured. “I was wondering whether you’d become completely housebroken.”
“I work at the Met. I’m surrounded by donors every day. That requires a stronger stomach than Wall Street.”
“It requires better hypocrisy.”
A faculty wife passed the mouth of the corridor and offered us a vague smile. He waited until she was gone.
“You frightened them,” he said.
“Good.”
“You frightened your father.”
That landed harder.
I lifted my chin. “And you enjoyed it.”
“Watching you say what everyone else is too disciplined to say?” His gaze sharpened. “Yes.”
A beat passed. He looked almost pleased with me—which was somehow worse than open mockery. Childhood came back in unpleasant scraps: mud smeared across my sketchbook, him yanking my braid, his hand on my wrist checking my pulse.
“You’ve been to the Met more than once.”
He didn’t blink. “Yes.”
“To hear me.”
“Yes.”
Evelyn’s laughter floated faintly from the lobby, threaded through my mother’s smoother tones. Somewhere beyond them, glass touched glass.
“Why?” I asked.
Patrick’s mouth shifted—almost a smile, stripped of any warmth. “Because I wanted to see what survived.”
It should have sounded melodramatic. On him it sounded clinical. A diagnosis. A field note.
“And?” I asked, steady now.
His gaze dropped briefly to the hollow at my throat, then returned to my face. “More than I expected.”
The vulgarity lay beneath the sentence like a concealed blade. Clean on the surface. Not underneath.
Evelyn appeared before either of us could say more. She rounded the corner carrying two champagne flutes, relief softening her expression—as if she’d finally found the right door in an unfamiliar place.
“Oh, there you are,” she said to Patrick, then offered me one with an earnest little smile. “I thought Rebecca might need this after all the excitement.”
Patrick took the flute before it reached me. “She probably does.”
He held it a moment, looking at me over the rim, then passed it across. His fingers brushed mine—deliberate, light. Too precise to be accidental.
Evelyn slipped her arm through his. “Mrs. Rice was just saying we should all do dinner sometime. Wouldn’t that be fun? Since you all have that Newport history.”
Fun.
The word almost made me choke.
Patrick looked at me, waiting. The polished mask had returned—the one meant for rooms where everyone lied in perfect diction.
“That sounds excellent,” he said. “Provided Rebecca can fit us in between peasant suffering and anti-capitalist speeches.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve been very busy lately—”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find time for an old friend,” he cut in smoothly, “you haven’t seen since high school.”
Evelyn watched us, bright and hopeful. I couldn’t quite reconcile that with him.
“I’ll think about it.”
I pretended someone had called me over. Patrick noticed, but didn’t interfere. I moved quickly toward Mark, who was standing beside a banquet table crowded with appetizers and sweating glasses. He was chewing a toast point when I caught his sleeve.
“Can you help me get out of here?”
He nearly choked. “Sorry—what?”
Crumbs scattered across his tie. He coughed into his fist, swallowed, then stared at me as though I’d asked for a shovel and a fake passport.
“Becca, Papa wants us in the donor line. Mama is already furious. You picked one hell of a night to become a Bolshevik.”
“I picked a perfect night. Look at them.”
His eyes flicked past me. Conversation had resumed, but with that charged hum that follows a car crash no one admits to watching. A few heads still turned. An elderly woman in pearls gave me a long, frosty once-over before leaning toward her husband with obvious relish.
Mark lowered his voice. “You really hit them where it hurts.”
“I know.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“It sounded like praise.”
He almost smiled, then caught my expression and sobered. “What happened? Is this about him?”
The fact that he had to ask almost made me laugh. “Yes, Mark. It’s about the man you introduced me to like we were all about to roast marshmallows in Newport.”
He grimaced. “I didn’t know you’d react like this.”
“You knew enough.”
That landed. He had the decency to look ashamed—for a moment.
“All right,” he said. “Migraine?”
“Too vague. Mama will send a doctor.”
“Food poisoning?”
“You ate three olives.”
“Then say I’m about to be sick in the ladies’ room and spare the family a scandal.”
“A little late for that.”
A smooth voice arrived at my shoulder.
“Your brother makes an excellent point.”
I turned too quickly—my heel slid on the carpet.
Bateman stood an arm’s length away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a lowball with two fingers of amber liquid. He wore the expression of a cat beside a tipped birdcage: attentive, pleased, almost lazy. I had no idea how long he’d been there. Long enough.
Mark let out a breath. “Jesus, Bateman. You float now?”
“I walk quietly.”
He looked even more at ease after my little detonation. Something in him had straightened—or maybe I only imagined it, needing a reason for the way my skin tightened whenever he came too close.
Mark glanced between us. “She’s leaving. I’m trying to help.”
Patrick took a sip. “Richard will hate that.”
“I’m aware.”
“He already hates this evening,” I said. “One more disappointment won’t kill him.”
Patrick’s mouth twitched. “Optimistic.”
Mark shoved the napkin into his jacket pocket. “Could you maybe—just for a second—stop enjoying this?”
“No.”
The answer came so promptly that Mark stared at him.
Patrick set his glass down and reached for a canapé he had no intention of eating. “Evelyn thinks your sister is brilliant,” he said, a trace of mockery in his voice. “Your mother thinks she’s unstable. Your father is pretending he supports spirited women in public life. Two trustees are debating whether the Met made her radical.”
“You see why I need to leave,” I said.
“I see why you want to.”
The distinction annoyed me. He had a talent for making basic reactions sound like failures of taste.
Mark dragged a hand down his face. “Fine. Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell them you’re sick. You go get your coat. Ten minutes, tops.”
Patrick glanced toward the crowd, then back to me. “Too slow.”
“Excuse me?”
“Richard’s coming over.”
I followed his gaze. My father had detached himself from a cluster of men and was moving toward us with the deliberate pace of someone about to do damage decorously. My mother floated behind him, every inch arranged, every inch furious. Evelyn trailed farther back, concerned in that decorative way of hers.
Mark muttered a curse.
By the time they reached us, Bateman had already slipped into perfect public mode. He touched two fingers lightly to my elbow—a gesture that read helpful from a distance and proprietorial up close.
“Richard,” he said, calm and courteous. “I was just telling Rebecca she ought to sit down. She looks pale.”
My father’s eyes snapped to me, assessing. I could have kissed Patrick for the lie. I also wanted to smash his glass into his face for delivering it so neatly.
“I’m all right,” I said. It sounded flat even to me.
My mother stepped closer and pressed the back of her fingers to my wrist, as though checking a child for fever. “Your hand is icy.”
Patrick continued smoothly, “She powered through the remarks, though I suspect adrenaline did most of the heavy lifting. Fresh air would help.”
My father studied me, then the room, weighing paternal concern against optics. Optics almost won—until I let my shoulders sag a fraction. The gesture came easily after the real performance.
Mark stepped in. “I can get her a cab.”
“Absolutely,” my mother said. “She should go home at once. Call when you get there.”
The rebuke hid neatly inside the concern. Years of practice.
My father gave a curt nod. “Rest tomorrow. We’ll talk later.”
Which meant tonight in his head, and tomorrow aloud.
Patrick retrieved his drink and stepped back half a pace, every inch the considerate family friend. “I’ll walk her out,” he said.
“That’s unnecessary,” I retorted quickly.
“It’s hardly a burden,” he replied, already smiling at my parents.
Mark looked like he might object but lacked the grounds. Evelyn saved him. “I’ll stay with your mother,” she said brightly. “She looked a little overwhelmed too.”
My mother accepted at once. She adored lovely women who knew how to hover.
So Patrick won. Of course he did.
…
The elevator ride down felt too intimate for public machinery. Brass doors closed, mirrored walls caught us from three angles, and the hum of cables filled the silence. I took one corner. He leaned against the rail opposite me as though we were on our way to dinner.
“You let me lie for you,” he said.
“You volunteered.”
“You looked grateful.”
“I looked trapped.”
“That too.”
The numbers slid downward. My reflection looked composed enough to fool strangers. My pulse gave me away. The white suit suddenly felt ridiculous—someone’s daughter, someone’s speaker, someone’s old doll laid out for inspection.
“You enjoyed that up there,” he murmured.
“I enjoyed upsetting you.”
He smiled, almost kindly. “You failed.”
“Then why are you glowing?”
That made him laugh—a short, low sound that lived in his throat rather than his mouth. “Because you reminded me of yourself.”
The doors opened onto the lobby before I could answer. A doorman fetched my coat. Rain had started while we were inside, a fine silver mist turning the steps slick and the street into smeared light. Cars edged along the curb with patient menace. Manhattan always looked expensive in wet weather.
I reached for my coat. Patrick took it first.
“I can manage.”
“I know.”
He held it open anyway. I slipped my arms into the sleeves. Refusing him here would have caused another scene, and I had already spent my appetite for spectacle. His knuckles grazed the nape of my neck as he settled the collar—a fraction too long.
At the curb, Mark’s plan dissolved. No taxi stood free. The doorman raised a hand toward traffic and received nothing.
Patrick lifted two fingers. A black town car pulled up almost immediately, as though it had been circling with instructions.
“That’s… obscene,” I said.
“It’s called access,” he replied.
“I’m not getting into your car.”
“You’re standing in drizzle wearing ivory wool.”
“I’d rather drown than get into your car.”
He opened the rear door and looked at me. “You always did choose dramatic options.”
The driver stared straight ahead. The doorman hovered. Two couples spilled out behind us, wrapped in chatter and alcohol. My choices narrowed the way they always seemed to around him—incrementally, politely, under good lighting.
“All right. I’ll take the ride. You’ll stay here.”
He considered me for a beat, then gave the driver my address.
I froze. “How do you know where I live?”
His eyes met mine, unreadable and faintly amused. “You’re in the book.”
“Whose book?”
“Mark’s desk calendar. Sloppy system.”
I believed that. I also believed he’d enjoyed looking. Both felt equally true.
He reached into his inner pocket and drew out a fountain pen. For a moment I thought he meant to hand over some polished absurdity. Instead, he took the gala program from my clutch before I could stop him, braced it against the roof of the car, and wrote in a quick, hard scrawl.
“There,” he said, handing it back. “For when you stop pretending.”
I looked down after the car had already started moving. A phone number sat beneath three words in his slanted hand:
Tuesday. Eight-thirty. Arcadia.
And below that, smaller—meaner, intimate enough to make my stomach drop:
Childhood friends to lovers to something far more dangerous.
Becca Rice grew up alongside Patrick Bateman—through the golden Newport summers, the cruel nicknames, the stolen panties, the violence, the mutilations, and the long years of silence.
Chapter 1: Some ghosts never leave.
Tags: Slow Burn, Dark Romance, Toxic Relationship, Biracial Character, Russian Culture, POV First Person, Mental Health Issues, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Obsession, AO3.
A/N: Hello everyone! This story started back in 2024 as a reader-insert, but over the past few years I became completely obsessed with Becca and her twisted dynamic with Patrick. I ended up developing her into a full original character, and I’m so much happier with this version.
A huge thank you to my friend who helped me rewrite and refine everything —your support meant the world.
I really hope you enjoy this darker, more personal take on their story.
Welcome to the ride!
Spring, 1986
The Metropolitan Museum of Art on a Saturday afternoon was less a temple to culture and more a runway for people who wanted to be photographed looking cultured.
I adjusted the thin gold cross at my throat—my grandmother’s—and tried not to sigh as another wave of visitors drifted past the Repin canvas like it was an expensive piece of wallpaper.
I loved the art. I hated the people.
They came in perfumed clouds of Chanel No. 5 and ambition, clutching guidebooks they never opened, speaking just loudly enough to be overheard.
“Oh, the brushwork is so textured,” one woman cooed, as if Repin had painted with sandpaper instead of oil.
I wondered how many of them could name the painting.
Let alone the movement.
The Wanderers. The Itinerants. Russian realism that had something to say about suffering and truth—rather than just looking expensive on a wall.But this was the job I had dreamed of since I was twelve, sketching boats in Newport while the salt wind tangled my hair. So I smiled—small, professional—and kept my cynicism tucked neatly behind my ribs.
“Miss Rice?” A docent waved me over. “Your gallery talk starts in five minutes. About fifteen people signed up.”
“Perfect,” I said, smoothing my short bleached bob. The ends brushed my jaw in a cool, sharp line that made me feel armored.
At five-foot-five, I was never going to tower over anyone—but the haircut helped. It said efficient. Modern. Not to be underestimated.
At least that was the theory.
I stepped into the small side gallery where a modest group had gathered in front of Barge Haulers on the Volga.
The painting always made something in my chest tighten—those exhausted men dragging the boat through mud and water, their faces etched with a quiet endurance I recognized from my mother’s stories. Talia Rice—Natalia Ivanova before marriage—had never hauled barges. But she carried exile in her bones. And she had passed a sliver of it to me.
“Good afternoon,” I began, voice steady, warm. “Today we’re looking at Ilya Repin and the Peredvizhniki—the Wanderers—who believed art should reflect real life rather than romantic fantasy. Notice the weight in the ropes, the way the light hits the sweat on their skin…”
I kept my gaze moving across the small crowd.
Professional. Detached. Lovely.
Until I saw him.
He stood near the back, half a head taller than most, wearing a perfectly cut charcoal suit; his dark brown hair was slicked back with military precision.
Next to him stood a striking blonde in a navy blue dress—probably a girlfriend, I realized with a faint jolt—and on his other side, a man with obsidian-black hair, laughing at something she had said. The same polished, interchangeable Wall Street type.
They looked like they had stepped out of a Vanity Fair spread rather than a museum.
Patrick Bateman.
My pulse spiked so sharply I nearly lost the next sentence.
For one irrational second, I considered stepping behind the painting and pretending I had suddenly developed a deep interest in the floorboards.
He noticed me almost immediately.
His gaze locked—precise, deliberate—cutting through the crowd as if the other bodies didn’t exist. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply watched. Head slightly tilted, like a collector studying a piece he already owned—but hadn’t decided whether to keep or destroy.
I forced my eyes away and continued speaking, willing my voice not to waver.
“…Repin captured not only the physical labor but the quiet dignity of the human spirit under duress. There’s a melancholy here that feels particularly Russian—”
Another glance.
He was still staring.
The blonde touched his arm and said something, but Patrick didn’t turn his head. His attention stayed fixed on me—heavy, unrelenting—like fingers pressing against the back of my neck.
It’s not him, I told myself, even as heat crept across my freckled cheeks. It can’t be.
Too many years. Too many memories. Too many interchangeable Wall Street faces.
Patrick Bateman had gone to Harvard. He had disappeared into that gleaming world of mergers and acquisitions and impossible reservations, chasing a version of success I had never understood.
We hadn’t spoken since high school.
He probably didn’t even remember the quiet Rice girl with the short hair and the Russian grandmother who used to call him Patty just to watch his jaw tighten.
I kept talking, gesturing toward the painting with what I hoped was graceful authority.
My hands felt too small. Too exposed.
The short sleeves of my silk blouse suddenly seemed inadequate armor.
Every time I risked the smallest glance in his direction, those eyes were still there—steady, unblinking—drinking me in like I was the only real thing in the room.
My stomach twisted.
Part of me wanted to march over and demand what the hell he was doing here, pretending to care about Russian realism when the only realism he had ever valued was measured in stock options and Rolex watches.
Another part—the smarter, more terrified part—wanted to disappear into the crowd and never be seen again.
I finished the talk on autopilot, smiling at polite applause, answering soft questions about provenance and émigré collections.
When the group began to disperse, I slipped toward the side exit, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He didn’t recognize me.
He couldn’t have.
But even as I repeated the lie to myself, I could still feel the weight of his gaze following me out of the gallery—pressing between my shoulder blades like the memory of a hand that had once known exactly how to break things.
I didn’t look back.
Even when I heard the rush of people behind me—the whisper of fabric, the soft click of heels—I kept moving.
Until I didn’t.
My foot caught on someone else’s, and I lurched forward, nearly sprawling across the marble floor.
A hand steadied me before I could fall.
“Are you all right?”
I blinked, disoriented for a second, then forced a breath back into my lungs.
“Yes—yeah, sorry.” I tucked a loose strand of my short hair behind my ear, the motion automatic. “It’s just… stuffy. The air. The people. I think something’s wrong with the ventilation.”
The excuse came out smoothly. It always did.
Jake—the young docent with the soft gray eyes and an almost old-fashioned politeness—gave me a concerned look, his hand still hovering near my arm as if he wasn’t sure whether to let go.
“I can take over,” he said. “Walk the group into the next section while you…” He hesitated, glancing around, then stepped slightly closer, as if shielding me from the crowd. “Take a break. You’ve been working too many shifts.”
I had.
“Jake—”
“That’s okay, Miss Rice,” he cut in gently. “Don’t worry about it.”
I exhaled, something in me loosening just enough to accept.
“Thank you.”
My office was small, cluttered, and permanently on the edge of chaos.
Books stacked in uneven towers. Manuscripts half-catalogued. Rolled prints and fragile artifacts waiting for attention no one had time to give.
The Met wasn’t just a museum. It was a machine.
And like any machine, it ran on efficiency—sometimes at the expense of the people inside it.
Less staff. More hours. Quiet expectations no one said out loud.
I wasn’t naïve enough to fight it.
I had chosen this.
Because I loved it.
Even on days like this.
Still—there were moments when I missed the studio in SoHo.
The quiet. The smell of charcoal and paint. The way time stretched instead of compressing.
Back then, I had hidden there from my parents—every gala, every charity event, every carefully curated display of generosity designed for a mention in Time.
That world had always felt like a performance.
A polished, endless performance for people like my family.
For people like—
Bateman.
I sat down at my desk a little too hard, pressing my fingers to my temples.
It couldn’t be him.
Or maybe it was.
I didn’t know which possibility unsettled me more.
The reaction—the way my pulse had spiked, the way my body had recognized him before my mind caught up—felt… disproportionate. Like I had seen something that didn’t belong in the present. A ghost. Or something worse.
I closed my eyes, rubbing them briefly before reaching for my glasses—Versace, my mother’s last Christmas gift.My hand drifted toward the drawer where I kept a half-forgotten pack of low-nicotine cigarettes. I rarely smoked.
But today...
My thoughts were moving too fast. Too loud. Like someone had flipped a switch inside my head and forgotten to turn it off again.
And then—suddenly—I remembered.
Dinner. Pastels. Seven-thirty. Virginia Roberts.
A small, quiet relief loosened the knot in my chest. Ginny would understand. Or at least she would let me stay messy. She always had. Back at Parsons, when the world felt too loud or too sharp, she was the only one who never tried to make my feelings look presentable.
I glanced at the clock. If I left now, I could still make it.
My hand hovered over the drawer for half a second before I pulled it open and dropped the pack of cigarettes into my bag.
That alone should have been a warning.
Pastels was dim the way all expensive places tried to be—low amber lighting, soft jazz threading through the air, tables placed close enough to feel intimate but never quite private. The kind of place where secrets stayed polite.
Virginia was already there.
She spotted me instantly and lifted a hand, her dark curls pinned back in that effortlessly messy way that definitely took effort. Black, as always, softened tonight by a silk collar that caught the light when she moved.
“Becca,” she said as I approached, her smile warm but edged. “You look like you’ve had either a terrible day… or a very interesting one.”
“Can’t it be both?” I slid into the seat across from her.
Her eyes flicked over my face, quick and assessing. “With you it usually is.”
The waiter appeared, poured water, vanished again.
For a moment we just sat there.
Then I reached into my bag and pulled out the cigarette pack.
Virginia’s gaze dropped to it immediately. She didn’t speak right away—which, with Ginny, said everything.
“You don’t smoke,” she said at last, quiet and certain.
“Not usually.”
“Mm.” She leaned back, studying me. “So something happened.”
I turned the pack over between my fingers, watching the cellophane catch the light.
“I saw someone today.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “That’s not exactly rare in Manhattan.”
“This one is.”
She waited.
I hesitated. Saying it out loud felt like dragging something up from deep water.
“Do you remember Newport?” I asked instead.
Her expression changed. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“My sixteenth birthday.” My fingers tightened around the pack. “There was a boy… Tall. Handsome. Bossy. A little… off.”
Virginia tilted her head.
I remained silent. What I had already said was enough.
Recognition flickered across her face, followed by something sharper. “You two definitely had a thing.”
“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “We didn’t.”
“Becca.” Her voice softened, but her eyes didn’t. “You never really talked about him.”
“There was nothing to talk about.”
“That’s not what I remember.”
Something defensive flared under my ribs. “You remember wrong.”
She studied me the way she used to during studio critiques—like she was looking for the structure beneath the surface.
The waiter came back. I ordered something I probably wouldn’t eat.
When he left, Ginny leaned in again. “So what happened today?”
I exhaled slowly. “He was at the Met. During one of the talks. Just… standing there. Watching me.”
“Watching you?”
“Yes.”
A small silence stretched between us.
Ginny opened her mouth to say something else when a familiar voice cut in from behind me.
“Becca?”
I turned. Frank Roberts — Ginny’s older brother — was already pulling out a chair like he belonged at the table. Broader, steadier, the kind of man who took up space without trying.
“Ginny didn’t mention you were joining,” he said, settling in. “Secret meeting?”
I almost smiled. Instead I reached for the cigarette.
His lighter clicked open instantly, a steady flame appearing between us. I leaned in and let it catch.
“Thanks.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Frankie, you know Becca works at the Met. Getting her out requires divine intervention.”
Frank glanced at me, amused. “You look good for someone slowly sacrificing herself to art.”
I exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “And you still think your sister needs a chaperone every time she leaves the house. Some things never change.”
Their familiar bickering washed over me. I nodded at the right moments, smiled when expected, but my mind stayed somewhere else.
I should have written it down like my therapist suggested. Name the feeling before it controls you. The notebook was still sitting untouched on my desk, first page blank except for the date.
There were things better left buried.
“Becca.”
Ginny’s voice pulled me back.
“You’re somewhere else again,” she said quietly, once Frank had excused himself to the restroom.
I traced the rim of my glass with a fingertip. “Maybe I let myself spiral once again…”
She didn’t smile. “Is this about Sebastian?”
The name landed, but it didn’t sting the way it used to.
“No,” I said, and for once it was almost true.
I met Sebastian at Madonna’s concert in 1985. He was talented, charming, and I loved the way he painted so much that I didn’t notice how much of my money was quietly disappearing into his “career.” Until the day I walked in on him fucking the model for the nudes he never wanted to talk about.
Predictable in the end. Painfully so.
Ginny watched me carefully, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Then what is it? Because something’s clearly bothering you.”
I took another long drag, the smoke burning my throat in a way that felt almost grounding.
“No,” I admitted. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “I don’t even know why I’m thinking about it. Why am I letting it get to me? I haven’t seen him since high school. This is stupid.”
I almost laughed, but it came out hollow. Inside I felt split in two—one part of me calm and rational, the other completely unraveled by the mere possibility that Patrick Bateman had been standing twenty feet away from me this afternoon, watching.
Ginny stayed quiet for a long moment.
“You know,” she said finally, “maybe it wasn’t even him. If we’re talking about the same guy—”
“I wish you were right,” I cut in softly, staring at the glowing tip of the cigarette.
I left Pastels a little after ten.
The walk back to my apartment on the Upper East Side was cold and sharp, winter still clinging to the spring wind. I kept my coat pulled tight, the opened pack of cigarettes sitting heavy in my bag like an accusation.
The creaky elevator groaned up to the fourth floor. When I stepped inside and flicked on the lights, the familiar chaos greeted me: stacks of art books, half-finished sketches taped to the walls, my small collection of Russian icons watching silently from the shelf above the desk. The faint smell of oil paint and old paper usually comforted me. Tonight it felt suffocating.
Instead of going to bed, I found myself on my knees, dragging out the small storage box from under the bed—the one labeled “Old Things” in Mama’s careful handwriting. The one I almost never opened.
My hands moved on their own.
Inside were relics I hadn’t touched in years: a dried corsage, pressed flowers from Newport summers, my old diary with its useless brass lock. At the bottom, a brittle rubber band held together a small stack of photographs.
I slid them free.
The first few were harmless—my brother Mark and me on the beach, me failing at sailing. Then one stopped my breath.
It was taken on the lawn in front of the Bateman house, probably 1973 or ’74. Mama had her arm around my shoulders, smiling brightly, her Russian cross necklace glinting in the sun. Papa stood tall beside her. Mark made a ridiculous face. Sean grinned wide, missing a front tooth. Celeste Bateman looked elegant and composed in pale linen.
And there—slightly off to the side—was Patrick.
Everyone else was smiling.
His smile was… wrong.
It didn’t reach his eyes. It looked practiced, polished—like he had studied how smiles were supposed to work and copied one perfectly, but forgot the warmth. Even at eleven or twelve, it felt hollow. Predatory, almost.
I stared at the photograph for a long time, my thumb brushing slowly over his face.
The boy who once bandaged my bleeding finger with his father’s handkerchief. The boy who mocked my drawings in front of everyone. The boy who covered my eyes in a dusty storage room and calmly told me he wanted to break his brother’s legs one day.
And the man I had seen today at the Met—taller, sharper, wrapped in expensive tailoring—still wearing that same almost-smile.
My heart hammered against the glossy paper as I pressed the photograph to my chest.
“Patty…” I whispered into the empty apartment. The old nickname slipped out like a confession, dangerous and intimate. “What happened to you?”
I didn’t put the photo back in the box.
Instead, I left it on my nightstand, face up. Patrick’s off-kilter smile stared at the ceiling while I lay in bed, eyes wide open, knowing sleep wouldn’t come.
Hello...can you pls make an au marriage for Patrick and jean pls *sob* PLEASEEE
(I'll do my best ✨️✨️ enjoy. Might be Ooc considering i do wholesome art and writing.)
☆Proposal☆:
It takes alot for Patrick to plan his marriage out; easier said than done, even for Evelyn. Planning murders? Done. Scripting false beliefs in ones head? Also done. But because this is Jean, the woman he chose to spare despite everything, its all so easier said than done. Jean even let him in, despite his morbid tendencies.
In the morning, Jean would be presented with breakfast and white roses. The day would consists of spa treatments, facials, and clothes shopping that ultimately ended in Center park for their first date with the balloons.
It wouldn't be a direct 'Would you marry me?' Or a lengthy thought out vow since Patrick is trying to express those feelings in a way without showing too much vulnerability. Instead, it starts with a hand hold, with a soft, "Do you still want to stay with me?"
☆Wedding☆:
The wedding interior would be beautiful- Cathedral somewhere upstate, Everyone both parties knew would be there; but the only thing different about the event would be the love is genuine. Was Patrick nervous? Nobody can truly tell with this man, especially when he adjusts his hair and cufflinks for the 15th thousandth time in 3 minutes. All thoughts went rampant from wholesome of how Jean's wedding dress; which consists of designs from Butterick in the 1950s mixed with customized Christian Dior elements, would make her glide like a cloud on the reception floor to things that could possibly go wrong in the wedding that is out of **his** control. Reality is always different from fantasy, since being so overwhelmed led Patrick to faint in front of everyone. His friends still have it as a funny story.
☆Honeymoon + Domestic life☆
Jean lays her head on Patrick's shoulder and closes her eyes while intertwining hands. Both of them had said "I do", in front of God's live audience and now they are flying to Europe.
"I love you, thank you for making today special for me." Jean said while leaving her mouth open; its due to the pressure compacting like a vaccum cleaner and dropping due to altitude.
"This and more." Patrick said while doing the very same thing since he was not expecting the pressure either.
After Sicily, life would be completely different in the Bateman househould. Patrick would be used to doing things completely alone; as it turns out, Jean would make his home alot more lively than normal. Facial routines, excerise together but with a more easier difficulty, date nights, even randomly dancing together to music in his apartment.
If Patrick were to have a panic attack, Jean would run a bath and join him inside. Nothing would happen between them but the silence, and the sounds of suds scrubbing through the scalp. Afterwards would be tea, and listening to him talk about his albums, or his shows to distract; if he truly wants to be vulnerable for a short period of time, he will sit and think for a long time before summarizing the problem in a minute.
If there were a social event he were to avoid whether its an embarrassing incident, people he doesn't like, he will still use 'I have to return some video tapes' but it has a new meaning. Jean and Patrick would start a tradition that consists of board game night. Quiet, at the place of his own home, Patrick would not agree to the use but would give it a try eventually. Strategy games like battleship, risk, and challenging games like Uno would get Patrick enough entertainment and competition to try out.
Christmas would be like something out of a Macy's commercial: tree shopping, vintage decorations, and the tradition of decorating the tree with candy canes. Hot cocoa would be imported but by all means, the holiday still remains traditional.
your patrick fics are everything to me…would you ever consider doing some about him being a dad like im sorry patrick is soooo girl dad to me i imagine someones wife at the office gets pregnant and patrick lowkey gets jealous of the attention and decides he needs to be a perfect family man image whilst also one upping him (duh) so secretly swaps out your birth control to gaslight you it was a mistake but its fine because he will stay with you and yeah…like his daughter would totally be his little princess he dresses up like a doll 😭 AND IMAGINE IT WAS TWINS? he’d be gloating in the office like oh your wife is pregnant? with one? me??? Twins. boy girl. both. first try.
and boy is like mini patrick clone who is super protective over his sister even though they are both like toddlers…JUST UGH DAD PATRICK IS SO IMPORTANT TO MEEE
Baby Love – dad!Patrick Bateman x fem!Reader
a/n: HOLYYYY YOUR MIND IS INSANE THIS IS PERFECT “oh your wife is pregnant? with one? me??? twins. boy girl. both. first try.” IS KILLING ME THIS IS SO PATRICK 😭 hope you enjoy this! it’s a bit all over the place but i needed to get the thoughts out…
song recs: sea of love by phil phillips, smile by nat king cole and baby love by the supremes ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
cw: fem!reader, slight smut, mentions of abuse, brief mentions of violence/murder, pregnancy, forced pregnancy, dubcon/noncon 18+ mdni🔞
the build up:
you and patrick are probably engaged — he has major commitment issues but needs to keep you appeased and also keep up appearances; for him, this arrangement is like killing two birds with one stone
i’m going to be awful and contrarian and sooo evil (😈) and say you actually don’t want children
it’s something you both discussed and honestly he was surprisingly fine with it which definitely shocked you given that he seemed like the trad type
sure he might not get those dad points but he can win by being the “cool uncle” who lets his nephews have a sip of the aged whiskey hiding away in his drawer
that is until paul fucking allen gets married
AND gets his wife knocked up in record time
cue the eye twitches and throbbing temple vein in 3…2…1…
patrick is soooo mad but being the narcissist he is, he thinks he’s so incognito with his hater energy (he’s not)
paul could be talking about the pregnancy at some after work hangout and patrick will immediately butt in like “not to brag but my FUTURE wife would have a MUCH HEALTHIER and APPEALING pregnancy glow than yours”
ok probably isn’t that uncouth with it (out loud) maybe more like “you know the wife and i are looking at these top notch pre-natal vitamins, has all the new mothers glowing…you should look into it for your wife.”
sips his whiskey after he says that, he is the ultimate bitch
one of the other vice presidents would offhandedly go “oh, i thought you and your fiancée mentioned something about not wanting kids?”
it takes so much effort to not turn the glass in his hand into a pile of shards as he remembers that oh yeah…he does kinda need to marry you and get you pregnant before he can start boasting 😨
to add more drama let’s say you’re good friends with paul’s wife and constantly blabbering about her baby shower plans, the due date, how happy they look, etc.
“still, as cute as a baby is…i’m so glad we decided that wasn’t for us.” you say, looking up at him with those pitiful eyes of yours he’s currently resisting the urge to gouge out
us
he hates when you use that word because only he gets to decide what’s best for the two of you
sure, you’re the best choice in partner he could ask for (trust me, he’s looked around) but you’re still a woman — you need a man like patrick to guide you on the best path
and right now the best path for you is motherhood
this definitely started as a rivalry, and still very much is, but then he starts to think about how caring you would be
after all, if you could love him unconditionally for all his rather violent, depraved faults, you would be like…the virgin mary of mothers :0
the scheme:
i want to imagine that he at least tries to coax you into it but it’s patrick, he doesn’t care much about your feelings or trivial things like consent (what even is that???)
the moment you accepted his proposal you became his property to do what he liked with
so yes, he replaces your pills with placebos as soon as he realises he needs to upstage paul
goes the extra mile and pays his doctor a gross amount of money to give you a “flu” shot that’s really just FSH and LH (hormones usually given to women undergoing ivf) 🙃
sure you think it’s a bit strange but you didn’t grow up in the same tax bracket patrick did so you assume all the over the top healthcare is just normal for him
he is a health freak after all
if you thought his sex drive was high before well now it’s astronomical
he gets hard just watching you take the fake pills, knowing he’s one step closer to his goal
you guys will be doing it like rabbits
makes you stay in odd positions and says he heard it doubles as yoga or some weird shit
you don’t dare question patrick and just let him do whatever (is this his subtle way of telling you you’re out of shape?)
starts to say weird things about “filling you up”, “leaving his mark” and “how good you’d look full of me” but you just assume, with a heavy sigh, that he watched one of those porno tapes while you were gone and developed a new interest
“i think you’d look a lot more dignified than paul allen’s wife. i mean, look at her. you wouldn’t let yourself go like that just because you’re pregnant.” he rolls his eyes likes he’s just said the most blasé, statement ever, a short huff of air leaving his nostrils to punctuate just how aggravating he thinks the couple is
“well…i think she looks quite lovely, pat. anyway, that’s never going to happen, right?”
you know better than to strongly oppose his opinions on certain (all) topics
his hand squeezes yours so tightly, slight creases deepening between his brows, and you don’t know whether you should be scared to look into his eyes or scared of not looking into them
he starts to majorly manipulate you
will plant seeds of doubt in your head about how women who stick to a career instead of settling down are just failures
the pregnancy:
he’s an awful, wicked man who will fake pout over your “mysterious” illness, all the while plying you with smoothies that are meant to help with “dehydration” which are actually just full of prenatal supplements
asks every morning if you’re feeling ill the second you wake up and looks weirdly tense when you say no
now he’s got you drinking the smoothies three times a day
for prevention
duh
the doctor eyes you wearily like he knows something you don’t and from the way patrick is absolutely buzzing, at least for him, you have a sinking feeling that your whole life is about to change
you’re frightened when the doctor tells you that not only are you pregnant, it’s twins
mostly because you don’t want to be a mother but also because you don’t want patrick to be mad at you for screwing up his life plans
and for a secret third reason you would never ever vocalise: these children will anchor you to patrick for the rest of your life and you’re scared he might hurt them one day
you’re just spiralling into a pit of despair and patrick is jumping for joy
he is absolutely aware of your panic but it’s patrick so he doesn’t care at the moment 😭
he does reach out to you, can’t have the doctor thinking he’s a complete psycho, and sways you gently in his arms, stroking at your head with such sweetness it’s unnerving
“darling, this is unexpected but women make mistakes taking the pill all the time. don’t worry your pretty little head; i would never leave the mother of my children. of course i’ll marry you so our children won’t be bastards <3”
possibly the most romantic thing he’s capable of saying at the moment and says this knowing full well he’s the reason you made a “mistake”
what a smug asshole
so you guys get married pretty quickly once you find out you’re pregnant and he’s SO involved in the preparations it’s quite cute
pretty sure i mentioned that before in a past fic but i need to expand on it one day
OH GOD DO NOT MENTION GETTING AN ABORTION
personally, having a baby is my worst nightmare so i can imagine a reader who tries to solve the issue herself since he’s now highly monitoring her after the mention of an abortion
i’ll probably go into it in a blurb later on but that’s probably the closest patrick comes to absolutely hating your guts and even killing you
how dare you take this dream away from him?!
but it also has the unintended side effect of bringing the two of you closer (more on this in the future)
there’s still a social stigma at this time (assuming this is perfectly book/movie accurate) and he does not want his pregnancy tainted like that
also, he takes it as a personal affront
are you saying you think his genes and love are so below you that you can’t even stomach the idea of his children growing inside of you?
would punish you just for suggesting it then get mad at you for “making him hurt the babies”
would then cry in the shower after
he feels awful because now he’s worried you don’t love him AND you’ll hate him (aka be less susceptible to his manipulation) for hurting you
oh brotherrrrr
he will make it up to you by buying you a parenting book for expecting mothers 😭 and perhaps rubbing your sore ankles if you’ve been good enough to warrant it
anyways HAPPIER THOUGHTS
more likely to buy a couples spa package for the two of you though which would be pretty cute :’)
would tell the masseuse to watch it anytime they got near your bump and he absolutely beams when he hears your little chuckle at his overprotective nature
only for a second though he can’t be too whipped for you in public like that
he’s just in awe that you’re still with him after…literally everything
you’re having his children and you don’t even want them thaaaat much
woah
have fun because almost every gift he buys you will be centred around the baby even if he genuinely thinks it’s something you’d enjoy too!
it’s not but he’s kinda sorta trying his best so you still thank him with a smooch after
he’s a child of divorce give him a break
let’s see paul allen’s baby shower. oh wait, he already did and made meticulous notes on everything that could be approved upon
you would think he was the pregnant one istg
rides the high of being told his (cough your cough) baby shower was more elegant than a certain someone’s for YEARS
wanted to be traditional and wait for the birth to find out the genders but has to gloat to paul allen that not only does he have twins, ONE IS A BOY AND THE OTHER IS A GIRL?!?!?
he is that guy
“oh your wife is pregnant? with one? me??? twins. boy girl. both. first try.”
he literally gets a round of applause and many approving nods once he reveals this to everyone at the office
broke his rule of not letting anyone know until at least before the baby shower but he’s too proud awww :’)
you’re definitely glowing (much more than paul allen’s wife) no thanks to the prenatal pills, but he’s frustrated that you put on such a perfect front to everyone else but cry into the pillow when you both go to bed at night
you don’t even cuddle him anymore and he’s too stupid to bring it up himself or, i don’t know, try to help you work through your complicated emotions
pregnancy is hard even when it’s something you plan and want so you’re just going through it right now
(un)surprisingly murders more during this time period since his emotional regulation is out of wack
i think this is when it truly sinks in for him that you’re making the ultimate sacrifice for him and he falls in love with you all over again
the change in him isn’t immediately obvious but it’s patrick, he was never going to be that over the top about it
“god, i love you like this — barefoot and pregnant just for me.”
umm ok weird thing to say but he’s sooooo lucky you do love him so much (somehow) that you’re willing to find it endearing
cooks you dinner, gives you nightly massages, quits your job for you so you can focus on growing the babies in peace and luxury 🥰
how romant- wait you quit my job for me?!
anyways
he’s trying to improve and you can tell! before you realise you’ve settled into pregnant life and you get upset once your belly is too big you can’t cuddle patrick comfortably :(
patrick stops (sometimes) treating you like the babies are the only thing you are, and instead understands that you’re still your own person
the birth:
he’s scared shitless
does handle all the blood like a champ though, no passing out here
i wonder why…
as much as he may hurt you at times, seeing you so fragile and at the mercy of fate, something that isn’t him, has him at the end of his tether
suddenly his pompous attitude melts away; sure he’s rich but there’s not much money can do if your body decides to give out
he’s pacing back and forth so much the nurses have to tell him to chill out
luckily he can afford to take you to the best maternity ward in all of new york so that helps his nerves stay somewhat settled
does lowkey get annoyed when you complain about your contractions every couple minutes even though, according to him, “nothing’s even happening right now have you considered that maybe you’re overreac-“
he says this as he’s clearly still stressed out himself, valentino shoes tapping the floor and gloved hand running through his now-mused hair every two seconds as you wait in the hospital lobby
you hit him after he said that and he takes it on the chin to his credit
“god are these people incompetent or what? let me speak to them about getting you in a room now. will you be ok alone?”
he’s learned a thing or two about a pregnant woman’s hormones and knew it was better to let you be mad 😭
doesn’t trust the ambulances to look after you like he can so he drives you to the hospital the second you did mention contractions
had the overnight hospital bag packed and ready for WEEKS prior
what he lacks in overt romance he makes up for in his extremely rigid but BLAH acts of service
holds your hand the entire way through, even offers up his arm for you to bite and looks at the marks you leave behind with pure joy
everyone else is weirded out
the baby girl comes first and it’s like he’s fallen in love; a piece of his heart he thought only you had access to seems to BLAH
and then his son enters the world and he wonders if he’s having a heart attack because he’s never felt this way before and now he’s experiencing it two-fold
has a picture of him holding your daughter and you holding your son, him in his sterile gown and mask (smile so wide you can tell by his scrunched up eyes) and you weary but so full of love for your babies
he’s tearing up in the pic even though he denies it every time
:)
paul allen’s baby was premature? well our babies came perfectly on time
paul’s baby was on time and yours weren’t? well our babies came a bit early because they understand what it means to take advantage of every possible minute smh
lowkey wants to keep the placenta and make one of those teddy bears but wouldn’t actually say it out loud since he does have to keep up appearances
it’s the serial killer in him talking
SO THE TYPE TO GET YOU A PUSH PRESENT
multiple even
so many flowers and deliveries from expensive couture brands swarm the delivery room
all the other mother are jealous
like yeah their husbands are rich but none of them are as extra as patrick in this regard
he needs to flex his money after all 😔
looks startled when one of the babies starts crying and lets out the purest laugh you’ve ever heard come out of him
does the little finger wiggle at their faces even though they can’t really see anything 😭
post-pregnancy:
has a house secured in the hamptons asap
even has a white picket fence (don’t get it twisted the house is still in a private gated community)
he is actually incredibly doting
gets a nanny and other staff for around the house since he refuses to let you lift a finger whilst you recover
i’ve touched on this before in other headcanons but as odd as his ideas surrounding love and family are, it’s still just as real and meaningful for him
if you’re his wife, you by extension are also (almost) as perfect as he is
so he must treat you like the queen you are
the kids have names but he probably just calls them “The Boy” and “The Girl”, “My Kiddos” if he’s feeling super paternal
yeah, he’s a commuter now…just can’t settle for anything but the best for the WIFE and KIDS…KIDS!!! (plural, he’s making smug dagger eyes at paul allen) which means no more city living for him
the city is so dangerous he can’t imagine making his PERFECT WIFE and PERFECT CHILDREN fend for their lives in the city while he’s off at work
keep in mind all of these men live in incredibly rich and sheltered parts of the city but whatever
goes on long ass tirades about how abhorrent he finds it that some husbands can stomach the thought of letting their family be so unsafe in the dark evil city >:(
smug pretentious dagger eyes at paul
the rest of the men nod at patrick’s talk as paul is left trying to defend his decision of staying in an apartment with his family
+200 dad points
definitely has brought it up so many times everyone can recount the speech by heart
he definitely loves to one-up paul on being a good father it gives him the same high murder does 😭
according to a little birdie, apparently paul refused to get rid of his tanning booth to make space for his newborn tut tut
fatherhood brings out the gossiper in patrick
who knew becoming a father was what would help him rise the ranks of notability
not really because the two of them are the only fathers in their social circle and now get mixed up for each other
is genuinely excited to come home after a long day of work (listening to music on his walkman) with presents for The Girl for their weekly tea party on the weekends
yes, he does indulge in her tea parties and makes sure to bring along a new guest for each new party she hosts
always some fancy toy that he had to get imported from europe
he probably gets her super expensive fine china since he can’t have his precious daughter “slumming it like a 3rd-world orphan”
absolutely in charge of what his kids wear they’re basically walking dolls for him 😭
he plays catch with his son and introduces him to the world of upper-class sports one must know before private school
is so happy when his son basically turns into a mini-him since that means he can mould him into becoming the perfect man
teaches The Boy about the stock market and invests money into any random stocks the toddler points at
ouch for the bank but some of them do make a return! he knew his kids would be prodigies
has trust funds set up for them of course
he doesn’t know how to be a normal person so cuts and pastes things he’s heard before that he thinks sound like something a good father says
opens the door like “honey, i’m home!”
what a dweeb 😭
the two of you read nighttime stories to the kids!!
you’ve taken so many videos on birthdays of him dressed up like a princess or random superhero with the makeup to match
he forgot to wipe off the messy nail polish The Girl did for him once and didn’t even get that mad at the jokes from his coworkers…until luis carruthers complimented him sigh
omg definitely the type of family to have a country club membership and show up in matching designer outfits
so, so proud when he sees The Boy being protective of his sister when they’re playing near the pool or something
“dad said no running near the pool!”
ok so we’ve established he’s actually pretty chill as a father but he’s not always like that
can be quite cold to you and The Kiddos a lot
sure, he’s experienced a new level of love but unfortunately patrick will always be patrick <\3
if he’s sick of the kids he just gets the nanny to deal with them
like will literally just walk off mid-convo and find someone to deal with it
deal with them, you remind him
yes he definitely absolutely views kids as people (not)
they’re still just extensions of him and they have to live up to his standards otherwise he won’t be as nice as he is to them for very long
most definitely a toxic household to be in when he’s in a bad mood which is pretty often considering how easy it can be to set him off
he’s working on it though
hence why he walks off at times in order to not hurt The Kiddos
doesn’t let you go back to work but he does expect you to work on some kind of board of directors for a charity
something feminine that also makes sure you’re out of the house and representing the upstanding name of the bateman family
makes sure to dedicate at least one two days out of the month for date nights with you! gets a babysitter and plans elaborate dinners and such but the both of you end up missing the kiddos so much you go back home early :’)
