her laptop and ipad were settled on the small table — she absolutely refused to work with a singular screen. her oat flat white was cradled safely in her hands as she scrolled through the never-ending stream of demanding emails. the commotion by the door caught her eye and drew it right to... she vaguely recognized the girl, but a name simply would not come to mind. a wong, she knew. their fathers had been... well, friends was probably too strong a word. dickie langley didn't really do friends.
georgina considered her options for perhaps a moment longer than was kind. she could go back to work and pretend to be none the wiser, she could call a staff member over to assist, or she could lend assistance herself. the latter was her least favorite option, but the others made her look bad. action was required.
so she stood, placing her coffee on the table and putting her devices to sleep before picking up her discarded blazer and making her way over.
"take this," she handed over her loro piana blazer. it hardly went with the girl's outfit, but it looked far better than a coffee stain. she held back the desire to hand over her business card too — so the jacket could be returned, of course — but it felt far too callous. "a good dry cleaner will get the stain out. i wouldn't worry."
The thing is, Madeline has always been weak for beautiful women. Ever since she figured out she was a lesbian back in high school—closeted and confused—she's had a soft spot. A weakness, really. And Georgina Sinclair-Langley is exactly the kind of woman she can't handle. They've crossed paths before, of course—at galas, fundraisers, art auctions. They move in the same glittering circles, and Madeline, ever the observant socialite, has long since filed her under: BEAUTIFUL WOMEN – DO NOT APPROACH UNLESS YOU WANT TO EMBARRASS YOURSELF.
But now Georgina is talking to her. Offering her a blazer.
Oh. Maybe there is an upside to supporting small businesses after all.
“Loro Piana?” Madeline asks, fingers grazing the fabric as she takes the jacket. Normally, she’d decline—there’s no way it matches her outfit—but she never could say no to beautiful women. That’s what the mental catalog is for, after all. “Thanks,” she says, slipping it on with practiced nonchalance.
She turns her attention briefly to the person who bumped into her, offering them a look so icy it might as well be trademarked. Fuck off, it says, plain and clear. Then, back to Georgina, slipping into her socialite mask like it’s custom-tailored. Smile effortless, tone honey-sweet, like she hadn’t just been on the brink of a tantrum.
“You’re Georgina, right?” she says, tilting her head, voice smooth. “Didn’t expect to run into a Langley in a place like this.”
Madeline is in a good mood. Fresh out of pilates, freshly showered, skin glowing, and dressed to kill—she’s ready to do what she does best: look effortlessly stunning while sitting in a café. The new one that just opened down the street caught her eye—quaint, maybe a little too rustic for her usual taste, but she’s feeling generous. Open-minded. Charitable, even.
She pushes open the door and—
“Oh my God!”
The impact is immediate. She collides with someone, and their drink—iced, of course—spills all over her. Her shirt. Her Prada shirt.
“You—you ruined my shirt!” she gasps, taking a horrified step back to assess the damage.
This is what she gets for trying to support small businesses. Give back to the people. Fuck her life.
( SHEN XIAOTING | CISWOMAN ) Hey, look - it’s MADELINE WONG, the TWENTY-FIVE year old SOCIALITE, who’s been living here for ALL HER LIFE. SHE is rumored to be OPTIMISTIC, VIVACIOUS, SWEET as well as being SELF-ABSORBED, OBLIVIOUS, PETTY. I don’t know about you but I have a feeling that they’re so much more than they seem.
─── 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲
the youngest of five children, madeline has never known what it’s like to be alone. she’s always been surrounded—by family, nannies, friends, admirers. spoiled to the core, even with strict parents. she’s never been denied anything; no isn’t a word she hears often, and it’s certainly not one she likes to think about. she’s lived the classic nepo baby life—breezing through school (she paid people to do her homework), friendships (of course she was popular, she’s madeline wong), and relationships (she always dated the hottest guys, obviously).
everything changed the moment she kissed a girl. she was sixteen, tipsy at a party, playing truth or dare. she never imagined a kiss could feel like that. for years, she hid her identity—being a lesbian wasn’t part of the plan, and she couldn’t risk her social standing. not until college, when she was finally far enough from home to be out.
here’s the truth about her life: fake friends who cling to her wealth and last name. parents who are more schedule than soul. even in a crowd, she feels hollow. lonely. by the time college graduation rolled around, she realized something terrifying—she doesn’t know what she wants from life. so she does what’s expected. plays the part: the glamorous socialite, drifting from one party to another, hosting charity events with the city’s elite. she tells herself it matters, that it’s meaningful. but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t shake the feeling that it’s all a lie.
─── 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲
spoiled rotten and never once told no, she’s the textbook definition of a rich nepo baby. raised in luxury, used to getting her way without question, she’s grown into someone a little selfish, a lot self-absorbed, but—surprisingly—still sweet in her own way. she means well, even if it doesn’t always come across that way.
she has a sharp tongue and a temper to match, prone to sulking over the smallest slights. her emotions run high, and when things don’t go her way, she doesn’t just pout—she plots. she can be petty, vindictive in the most glittery, passive-aggressive way imaginable. and god forbid someone doesn’t like her. not being liked doesn’t drive her to change or reflect—it just confuses and annoys her. because, really, what’s not to like?
her ego is big—so big that it’s practically its own gravitational field—and the worst part is, she’s completely oblivious to it. she genuinely thinks she’s being humble, down-to-earth, relatable. she thinks her designer wardrobe is just taste. that her tantrums are passion. that her privilege is charm.
but beneath the theatrics and entitlement is someone who’s desperate to be seen for more than her last name. someone who wants to matter, to be loved not for what she has, but for who she is—if only she could figure out who that really is.
─── 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬
has a white angora cat she named princess, because of course.
doesn't know how to drive. doesn't want to know how to drive. what's the use of drivers if she can drive herself?
has a sweet tooth but prevents herself from eating sugar because of vanity reasons. if she eats a candy, that means she's stressed out and would likely crash out soon.
abuses the world like too much and calls everyone babes. has been known to cause some confusion with other people ("i thought you were flirting with me!" "babe, ew?")
a lesbian that doesn't really know how to talk to women. she's only ever dated men, and all of them for status, so her experience is limited. expect her to flounder and stammer while trying to flirt with women.
has no class awareness whatsoever. she thinks $500 is pocket change. the good news is, she's a great tipper.
andulkaphoto
gracieabrams
germansingergirl
gummygunk
pixelskylines
prguitarman
