The Socialite

Whatever beast was growing within her, she could contain it. She was strong, after all, and the beast was predictable. It wasn’t a monster. Everyone told her she was strong. Though they told her that less, now. Instead they simply told her she was just so pretty and could they buy her a drink or bring her home and fuck her on their new West Elm leather sofa.

The Socialite is always busy with a party, brunch, or date. She couldn't possibly want for anything. And yet.

***

A short story of ~ 3100 words.

Pay what you want (including nothing!). Thank you for reading.