The hour of 11.30 in the night barely made a difference to the City that Never Slept. Lights glittered blindingly and cars went screaming past still on the orange-lit roads, flow of pedestrians giving no sign to ceasing. Evening had long since faded away and yet that seemed to make no difference to Ophelia Leigh-Ann Veuve, too. She was a glorious sight mingling among the handful of muggles littered about the pavement, swathed in a dashing gown that was practically a peach-coloured swirling dream of chiffon and silk, sky-high lace-embroided heels enhancing her otherwise unimpressive height of 5'6". Heads turned. The young lady had a sort of grace in her loping, somewhat drifting stroll that made it hard to believe that there weren't a camera set steering behind her, or that she was, in fact, teetering between 'tipsy' and 'drunk'.
Actually, Opie had a hard time believing that she was entirely alone right now, too. Eighteen years old and graduated, attending school prom on the arm of her doting fiancé - but what did it say for the sole heiress to the massive business dynasty that was Veuve Universal? According to her parents, danger lurked everywhere, especially at this stage of time when a life-changing catastrophe had only just blew past nearly two months ago in the United Kingdom. She'd spent the entire last week begging and pleading to be given at least this one day's worth of solitude and freedom, to which vehement objections had finally given way to reluctant consent, but she wasn't holding high hopes.
In any other circumstance, the witch wasn't about to take risks, but alcohol did what it did best by clouding her judgment. The heel of her stiletto caught itself in a crack in the pavement and she stumbled slightly before regaining step, taking a moment to tilt her head slowly, an almost child-like expression colouring her delicate features as her liquid dark eyes searched about in mild paranoia. She'd earned her Apparation licence last month and had Apparated her way out of Salem, but Phi had over the years grown unbelievably conscious of her social standing and the ties that came along with it: wizarding and muggle paparazzi alike, her house elf that constantly tagged along as per her parents' commands, her fiancé whose arm she'd hung off for the past few hours in the school ballroom.
Oh, speaking of that.. An irony, wasn't it? Satisfied that she spotted no familiar faces nor any camera or recording devices, Ophelia went tripping once again in the direction of the flat belonging to her fiancé's brother. She knew where it was. It was no more a mission to find out Christian's living quarters as it was for her to pick out pretty dresses like the one she was wearing. She'd figured it out from when he'd first moved into it at all, but before the age of eighteen, there was little that she could do about it. Unspoken apologies were bit back so frequently when she tossed and turned on her bed at nights thinking about him, she was almost certain she had bite marks on her tongue from it. That will change now. Or so she hoped. What would he say when she turned up on his doorstep, not even actually sober? She knew she wasn't sober all right.
Paying no attention to the staring muggle security guard, she pulled out a transfigured residency card from her satin purse, waving it carelessly as she stumbled into the lift and punched the number which was Christian's floor. Opie blinked hard in a fruitless attempt to clear her head, sniffing a touch at the inside of her wrists to catch a whiff of her perfume, frowning a little when she caught none but instead picked up on the scent of alcohol. Drat. She was busy reapplying a spritz of perfume as she went hopping out of the elevator and moving towards Christian's flat. It was really not the elegant young woman that the American muggle and wizarding upper society adored to bits buzzing Christian Kennedy's doorbell at 11 in the night. More like just Ophelia Leigh-Ann Veuve, and a significantly drunk one at that.
legacy era • financing director, veuve universal • age 36
signature credit to mel