Verosika Mayday
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 5
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The roar of 80,000 voices crashed over the stadium like a tidal wave of worship.
Verosika Mayday stood center stage beneath a blinding cascade of magenta and violet spotlights, chest heaving, sweat glistening on her deep bronze skin like liquid gold. The final note of her encore—“Queen Bitch”—still echoed in the rafters, layered with pyrotechnics that had painted the night sky in streaks of hot pink fire. Every single soul in the arena was on their feet, screaming her name, phones raised like offerings to a goddess.
She raised one long, manicured hand skyward—nails glittering crimson—and the noise somehow grew louder, a living thing that fed directly into the furnace of her ego.
A slow, wicked smile curled across her lips.
Behind her, a massive neon sign blazed to life in dripping electric letters three stories tall:
BITCH
The crowd lost what little remained of their minds.
Verosika threw her head back and laughed—a low, throaty, deliberately cruel sound that cut through the chaos like a diamond blade. Then she pursed her glossy lips and blew a single, wet, exaggerated kiss toward the sea of desperate faces. Phones flashed like a meteor shower. Girls in the front row sobbed openly, reaching, begging, some of them climbing over barriers only to be dragged back by security.
She turned on one long, shapely leg, the short star-spangled skirt flaring just enough to flash thigh-high maroon stockings, and sauntered toward the wings with the lazy, predatory grace of a panther who knows the hunt is already over.
The screams chased her.
“Verosika! Please!”
“Stay! Just one more song!”
“I love you! Touch me! Please!”
She didn’t look back.
The moment the black velvet curtain swallowed her, the public mask cracked into something far more honest.
“Fucking losers,” she purred to herself, voice dripping smug satisfaction.
A shadow detached itself from the backstage gloom—six-and-a-half feet of pale muscle, silver hair, and barely restrained violence.
Loona fell into step directly behind her mistress without a word, boots thudding like war drums. The junior staffers who had been hovering near the corridor—clipboard girls and runner boys clutching Sharpies and VIP laminates—froze mid-step.
“Miss Mayday—could we maybe—”
Loona didn’t even speak. She simply bared her teeth in a silent snarl, green eyes flashing murder. The group scattered like startled pigeons.
Verosika didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge the exchange. She simply smiled wider, savoring the living wall of intimidation at her back.
They reached the dressing room. Loona bent nearly double to clear the door frame—her sheer size making the act look almost comical—then held the door open like a loyal hound.
Inside was paradise built for one.
The space was cavernous: mirrored walls, pink velvet chaise lounges, racks of designer gowns still tagged, bouquets the size of small trees, trays of hand-dipped chocolates arranged like jewels. A vanity the length of a limousine glittered under soft halogens.
Niffty materialized from nowhere—twenty years old, tiny, Japanese, and vibrating with manic energy.
“Miss Mayday! Oh! You were magnificent! So beautiful! So powerful! The lights! The screams! Hai! Hai!” She dropped into a deep, frantic bow, nearly toppling a vase of white roses. “Please—please allow me!”
Verosika lifted her arms without a word.
Niffty darted around her like a hummingbird, tiny fingers deftly unzipping, unclipping, peeling away layers of stage costume until Verosika stood naked except for the glittering belly-button piercing. Then, with reverent speed, Niffty draped her in a floor-length pink silk robe embroidered in silver thread across the back:
VEROSIKA
Verosika sank onto the plush pink sofa like a queen claiming her throne. Niffty immediately pressed a chilled flute of champagne into her hand and offered a silver tray of chocolates. Verosika selected one with deliberate slowness, bit into it, and sighed theatrically as ganache melted on her tongue.
Loona took up position behind the sofa—arms crossed, silent sentinel.
The door opened again.
Charlie Morningstar burst in first—twenty-six, six feet of sunshine, ankle-length blonde ponytail bouncing.
“Oh my gosh, Verosika! That was incredible! The energy! The crowd! They were literally crying during ‘Heartbreaker’s Lament’—crying! And the ticket sales? We broke every record for this venue! You’re unstoppable!”
Lute followed two steps behind—twenty-five, pale asymmetrical bob, expression carved from ice.
“Gross revenue: one hundred forty-seven million. After expenses and taxes, net to you personally exceeds eighty-nine million. Preliminary numbers only.” Her voice was clipped, military. “Ma’am.”
Sallie May sauntered in last—twenty-one, tanned, red bandana, cowboy boots clicking. She smirked at Lute’s deadpan delivery.
Verosika took another long, luxurious sip of champagne, pinky extended like she was mocking royalty.
“Eighty-nine million?” she repeated slowly. “Darlings… I expected ninety-five. At least.” She popped another chocolate. “And the attendance figure? Tell me it wasn’t padded.”
Charlie’s smile flickered only for a second. “Eighty-two thousand! Official capacity! They were turning people away at the gates!”
Verosika arched one perfect brow. “Still… room for improvement.”
Niffty had already dropped to her knees and begun massaging Verosika’s feet—sloppy, enthusiastic, occasionally too hard. Verosika didn’t complain; she simply reclined farther and let the tiny maid worship.
Cherri Bomb exploded through the door next—strawberry-pink ponytail swinging like a lit fuse.
“Oi, mate! That was fuckin’ mental! The whole stadium was shakin’! They’re still chantin’ your name out there! You gotta come to the afters—everyone’s gonna be there, it’s gonna be massive—”
Loona’s growl cut the air like a chainsaw.
Cherri froze mid-sentence, eyes wide. “…Right. Shuttin’ up now.”
Verosika swirled her champagne, considering.
“No,” she said at last.
The room went still.
Charlie blinked. “No… to the after-party?”
Verosika’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Exactly. Absence makes the little darlings desperate. Let them speculate. Let them post theories. Let them beg online for sightings. Mystery is power.” She leaned forward slightly. “The rest of you—go. Party. Drink. Fuck. Whatever. But spread rumors. Tell them I’m at an exclusive yacht off the coast. Tell them I’m in a secret penthouse downtown. Tell them I’m with royalty. Make it good. Make it viral.”
Charlie nodded eagerly. Lute simply inclined her head—“Understood, Ma’am”—and Sallie May gave a lazy salute before they filed out.
Cherri hesitated only long enough for Loona to bare her teeth again.
An hour later.
The presidential suite occupied the entire top floor of Havenridge’s most obscenely luxurious hotel. Verosika had claimed the penthouse level for herself; the floor below belonged to the rest of the entourage. Only Loona and Niffty had been permitted upstairs tonight.
She stepped through the double doors in nothing but the sparkling pink silk robe, loosely belted so that it parted with every step, revealing long bronze legs and the shadowed curve of hip. Beneath the robe—nothing.
She crossed to the enormous bed—pink satin sheets, mountains of pillows—and stretched out, one leg dangling off the edge.
Loona dropped to her knees without being asked.
The towering bodyguard—muscles like coiled steel, silver hair spilling over pale shoulders—lowered her head and pressed her lips reverently to the arch of Verosika’s foot. Slow, submissive kisses trailed upward along her calf, her shin, the inside of her knee.
Verosika reached down, long nails scratching gently behind one pointed ear.
Loona shuddered. A low, broken moan escaped her throat—half growl, half plea.
Verosika’s laugh was dark velvet.
“Look at you,” she purred, voice thick with cruel delight. “All those muscles. All that violence. All those bodies you broke. And here you are… my little puppy.”
She scratched harder. Loona’s massive frame trembled.
Tears—actual tears—slid down the bodyguard’s pale cheeks. Not from pain. From something far more dangerous.
Gratitude.
Verosika tilted her head, pink hair spilling like candy floss over one shoulder, and smiled down at the broken warrior at her feet.
“Say it,” she commanded softly.
Loona’s voice cracked.
“I’m yours, Mistress.”
Verosika’s smile widened—sharp, victorious, radiant.
“Good girl.”
The city lights glittered far below.
The Queen was home.
How she become powerful?
Verosika Mayday stood center stage beneath a blinding cascade of magenta and violet spotlights, chest heaving, sweat glistening on her deep bronze skin like liquid gold. The final note of her encore—“Queen Bitch”—still echoed in the rafters, layered with pyrotechnics that had painted the night sky in streaks of hot pink fire. Every single soul in the arena was on their feet, screaming her name, phones raised like offerings to a goddess.
She raised one long, manicured hand skyward—nails glittering crimson—and the noise somehow grew louder, a living thing that fed directly into the furnace of her ego.
A slow, wicked smile curled across her lips.
Behind her, a massive neon sign blazed to life in dripping electric letters three stories tall:
BITCH
The crowd lost what little remained of their minds.
Verosika threw her head back and laughed—a low, throaty, deliberately cruel sound that cut through the chaos like a diamond blade. Then she pursed her glossy lips and blew a single, wet, exaggerated kiss toward the sea of desperate faces. Phones flashed like a meteor shower. Girls in the front row sobbed openly, reaching, begging, some of them climbing over barriers only to be dragged back by security.
She turned on one long, shapely leg, the short star-spangled skirt flaring just enough to flash thigh-high maroon stockings, and sauntered toward the wings with the lazy, predatory grace of a panther who knows the hunt is already over.
The screams chased her.
“Verosika! Please!”
“Stay! Just one more song!”
“I love you! Touch me! Please!”
She didn’t look back.
The moment the black velvet curtain swallowed her, the public mask cracked into something far more honest.
“Fucking losers,” she purred to herself, voice dripping smug satisfaction.
A shadow detached itself from the backstage gloom—six-and-a-half feet of pale muscle, silver hair, and barely restrained violence.
Loona fell into step directly behind her mistress without a word, boots thudding like war drums. The junior staffers who had been hovering near the corridor—clipboard girls and runner boys clutching Sharpies and VIP laminates—froze mid-step.
“Miss Mayday—could we maybe—”
Loona didn’t even speak. She simply bared her teeth in a silent snarl, green eyes flashing murder. The group scattered like startled pigeons.
Verosika didn’t slow, didn’t acknowledge the exchange. She simply smiled wider, savoring the living wall of intimidation at her back.
They reached the dressing room. Loona bent nearly double to clear the door frame—her sheer size making the act look almost comical—then held the door open like a loyal hound.
Inside was paradise built for one.
The space was cavernous: mirrored walls, pink velvet chaise lounges, racks of designer gowns still tagged, bouquets the size of small trees, trays of hand-dipped chocolates arranged like jewels. A vanity the length of a limousine glittered under soft halogens.
Niffty materialized from nowhere—twenty years old, tiny, Japanese, and vibrating with manic energy.
“Miss Mayday! Oh! You were magnificent! So beautiful! So powerful! The lights! The screams! Hai! Hai!” She dropped into a deep, frantic bow, nearly toppling a vase of white roses. “Please—please allow me!”
Verosika lifted her arms without a word.
Niffty darted around her like a hummingbird, tiny fingers deftly unzipping, unclipping, peeling away layers of stage costume until Verosika stood naked except for the glittering belly-button piercing. Then, with reverent speed, Niffty draped her in a floor-length pink silk robe embroidered in silver thread across the back:
VEROSIKA
Verosika sank onto the plush pink sofa like a queen claiming her throne. Niffty immediately pressed a chilled flute of champagne into her hand and offered a silver tray of chocolates. Verosika selected one with deliberate slowness, bit into it, and sighed theatrically as ganache melted on her tongue.
Loona took up position behind the sofa—arms crossed, silent sentinel.
The door opened again.
Charlie Morningstar burst in first—twenty-six, six feet of sunshine, ankle-length blonde ponytail bouncing.
“Oh my gosh, Verosika! That was incredible! The energy! The crowd! They were literally crying during ‘Heartbreaker’s Lament’—crying! And the ticket sales? We broke every record for this venue! You’re unstoppable!”
Lute followed two steps behind—twenty-five, pale asymmetrical bob, expression carved from ice.
“Gross revenue: one hundred forty-seven million. After expenses and taxes, net to you personally exceeds eighty-nine million. Preliminary numbers only.” Her voice was clipped, military. “Ma’am.”
Sallie May sauntered in last—twenty-one, tanned, red bandana, cowboy boots clicking. She smirked at Lute’s deadpan delivery.
Verosika took another long, luxurious sip of champagne, pinky extended like she was mocking royalty.
“Eighty-nine million?” she repeated slowly. “Darlings… I expected ninety-five. At least.” She popped another chocolate. “And the attendance figure? Tell me it wasn’t padded.”
Charlie’s smile flickered only for a second. “Eighty-two thousand! Official capacity! They were turning people away at the gates!”
Verosika arched one perfect brow. “Still… room for improvement.”
Niffty had already dropped to her knees and begun massaging Verosika’s feet—sloppy, enthusiastic, occasionally too hard. Verosika didn’t complain; she simply reclined farther and let the tiny maid worship.
Cherri Bomb exploded through the door next—strawberry-pink ponytail swinging like a lit fuse.
“Oi, mate! That was fuckin’ mental! The whole stadium was shakin’! They’re still chantin’ your name out there! You gotta come to the afters—everyone’s gonna be there, it’s gonna be massive—”
Loona’s growl cut the air like a chainsaw.
Cherri froze mid-sentence, eyes wide. “…Right. Shuttin’ up now.”
Verosika swirled her champagne, considering.
“No,” she said at last.
The room went still.
Charlie blinked. “No… to the after-party?”
Verosika’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Exactly. Absence makes the little darlings desperate. Let them speculate. Let them post theories. Let them beg online for sightings. Mystery is power.” She leaned forward slightly. “The rest of you—go. Party. Drink. Fuck. Whatever. But spread rumors. Tell them I’m at an exclusive yacht off the coast. Tell them I’m in a secret penthouse downtown. Tell them I’m with royalty. Make it good. Make it viral.”
Charlie nodded eagerly. Lute simply inclined her head—“Understood, Ma’am”—and Sallie May gave a lazy salute before they filed out.
Cherri hesitated only long enough for Loona to bare her teeth again.
An hour later.
The presidential suite occupied the entire top floor of Havenridge’s most obscenely luxurious hotel. Verosika had claimed the penthouse level for herself; the floor below belonged to the rest of the entourage. Only Loona and Niffty had been permitted upstairs tonight.
She stepped through the double doors in nothing but the sparkling pink silk robe, loosely belted so that it parted with every step, revealing long bronze legs and the shadowed curve of hip. Beneath the robe—nothing.
She crossed to the enormous bed—pink satin sheets, mountains of pillows—and stretched out, one leg dangling off the edge.
Loona dropped to her knees without being asked.
The towering bodyguard—muscles like coiled steel, silver hair spilling over pale shoulders—lowered her head and pressed her lips reverently to the arch of Verosika’s foot. Slow, submissive kisses trailed upward along her calf, her shin, the inside of her knee.
Verosika reached down, long nails scratching gently behind one pointed ear.
Loona shuddered. A low, broken moan escaped her throat—half growl, half plea.
Verosika’s laugh was dark velvet.
“Look at you,” she purred, voice thick with cruel delight. “All those muscles. All that violence. All those bodies you broke. And here you are… my little puppy.”
She scratched harder. Loona’s massive frame trembled.
Tears—actual tears—slid down the bodyguard’s pale cheeks. Not from pain. From something far more dangerous.
Gratitude.
Verosika tilted her head, pink hair spilling like candy floss over one shoulder, and smiled down at the broken warrior at her feet.
“Say it,” she commanded softly.
Loona’s voice cracked.
“I’m yours, Mistress.”
Verosika’s smile widened—sharp, victorious, radiant.
“Good girl.”
The city lights glittered far below.
The Queen was home.
How she become powerful?
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·
June 13
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