Outside, Jennifer had stopped pretending.
Her hand was no longer just pressed against fabric. It was beneath the soaked lace of her underwear now, fingers sliding through her own slick heat with frantic, desperate strokes that matched the brutal rhythm she was witnessing through the glass.
She'd crossed a line she couldn't uncross.
And she didn't care anymore.
Her free hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sounds that threatened to escape every time her fingers found the right spot, the right pressure, the rhythm that made her legs tremble against the freezing stone.
'This is wrong,' some distant part of her mind whispered. 'This is sick.'
But that voice was drowned out by something louder. Something darker.
'Look at her.'
Jennifer's eyes locked on her mother's face... flushed, desperate, cast aside while her own assistant was being destroyed in front of her.
The great Vivienne Vanderbilt, reduced to a spectator. Watching. Waiting. Begging for scraps.
