Dark Fantasy · Horror · The Plot Calls Anthology · 27 juin, 2025

The Plot Calls #3 : "Blooming Beatuy"

Pride

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The glass lobby of Harmony & Pratt Consulting gleamed with curated precision—succulent walls, polished floors, filtered air pumped with faint lavender. It looked like youth in architectural form.

Behind it all, framed in silver near the reception, hung a faded poster:

"Cho It All — Valerie Cho's Global Beauty Legacy."

In the 80s, Valerie wasn’t HR royalty. She was a legend.

International model. Beauty mogul. Founder of Cho It All, the makeup and fashion brand that made “Crimson Kiss” lipstick a cultural phenomenon.

But fame has its appetite.

She traded it all to help the next generation. Harmony & Pratt hired her to sculpt their talent pipeline—the best models, spokespeople, beauty influencers. She became the agency’s queen bee. Counselor. Gatekeeper. Myth.

Her wardrobe—immaculate.

Her playlists—legendary.

Her laugh—filling every floor of their mirrored offices.

People called her timeless.

She let them.

But time doesn’t ask permission.

It started small.

A candid shot from the summer gala. Unedited. Valerie wasn’t ready. The angle caught the soft crease under her chin. The tired shadows around her eyes. The bend in her smile—wrong, unfamiliar.

She hadn’t aged poorly.

She had aged.

“Terrible lighting,” she muttered. “Cheap lens.”

That night, she bought new filters. Upgraded her skincare. Reordered discontinued serums. Downloaded an LED mask from a brand that wouldn’t exist without her legacy.

It wasn’t insecurity.

It was maintenance.

Weeks passed. Then months.

Her socials became a museum—sunlit, sculpted beach shots from twenty years ago, curated selfies, blurred edges. Likes climbed. Comments praised her glow.

But at work? Valerie retreated.

Meetings shifted to voice-only.

Happy hours? Declined.

Holiday parties? “Not her scene.”

Then came Talia.

Twenty-seven. No filters. No contour. Just raw youth, radiant skin, and a viral smile.

Coworkers fawned. Complimented her glow. Asked about her skincare.

Valerie smiled. Her teeth clenched.

Later that night, she downloaded three dating apps. Uploaded her sharpest, most edited photos. Just to look, she told herself.

The apps flagged her.

“Inauthentic presentation.”

The insult seared.

She wasn’t lying.

She was preserving.

But bitterness festered.

And then… the whisper.

Not sound—more a breath deep inside her skull. No voice. But it knew her.

She looked beyond her compact mirror.

Across the lot, just beyond the manicured hedges where the floodlights didn’t reach—a shimmer. Violet. Faint. Alive.

She didn’t hesitate.

Barefoot, heels forgotten, she padded across marble floors, through glass doors, into the humid Florida night.

The hedges framed a narrow break in the landscaping.

There, between boxwoods and spotlighted palms, the soil pulsed—black and violet, slick as oil, shimmering faintly.

It wasn’t part of the garden.

It was something else.

The Plot.

She knew without knowing.

The surface breathed, slow and steady, like a held sigh.

No porcelain hand. Not yet.

Just the soil—open. Waiting.

Her fingers trembled—but not from fear. From hunger. From memory.

She slipped her favorite lipstick from her pocket. Crimson Kiss. The original formula from Cho It All—discontinued when she sold the brand.

The shade that built an empire.

She placed it gently on the soil.

It sank like a fading photograph.

The next morning, the mirror told the truth.

Her skin glowed. Jawline sharp. Eyes bright.

People noticed.

Compliments flowed. "Did you change your hair?" "You look incredible."

Valerie smiled. Her laugh returned—brittle, beautiful.

But beneath it, the hunger remained.

Each night, she returned.

A compact.

A perfume bottle.

A faded headshot from her final campaign.

The soil devoured it all.

Her face tightened. Her body sharpened.

Coworkers stared. Old flames texted.

Even Talia—bright, young, natural—admired her.

"Whatever you’re doing… bottle it," she teased.

But inside? Hollow.

The compliments rang weightless. Her reflection—a stranger rehearsing beauty.

Her youth returned.

Her joy did not.

She stopped laughing.

Stopped answering calls.

Stopped attending meetings.

Her apartment filled with cosmetics, untouched packages, uneaten food. But the hunger gnawed—deeper than skin, louder than compliments.

At her office window, she watched the hedges.

The soil shimmered.

It called.

The final night came quietly.

Valerie walked barefoot to the garden again. Gaunt. Eyes sunken. Hair brittle. Skin flawless—like porcelain, like glass.

This time, the porcelain hand had emerged. Perfect. Delicate. Palm open.

Beside it—the Idle Man.

Tall. Pale. Robed in black.

Neither waiting nor expecting.

Idle.

Valerie knelt beside the soil.

The hand pulsed—hungry. Her reflection wavered in the polished surface of her compact mirror.

The woman staring back? Flawless.

But empty.

She placed the mirror in the hand.

It sank.

Her skin dulled.

Her pulse slowed.

Her breath shallowed.

She felt herself dim—drained, hollowed, undone.

A week later, her manager unlocked the office.

The air was cold. Metallic.

Valerie sat in the corner.

Motionless.

Eyes glassy. Skin pale. Lips painted Crimson Kiss red.

Her reflection gone.

On her desk, a note in perfect script:

"I fed The One Beneath. Beauty is not freedom. Attention is not affection. Time does not rewind. The Plot Thickens."