Work Text:
Victoria Cross was a woman who had built her career on skeletons she herself had helped bury.
At forty two, she had seen everything the music industry could offer in terms of depravity, excess, and consequences swept under the rug. Broken artists, broken contracts, broken people she fixed them, hid them, or turned them into marketing opportunities.
But nothing absolutely nothing had prepared her for the scene she found when she opened the door to the master bedroom of the Cobra Mansion that Thursday afternoon.
The suspended bed swayed in a slow, steady rhythm, the silver chains singing their obscene melody. The evening light poured through the glass wall, now transparent, exposing the act to the Los Angeles skies like a private performance for the gods.
Billy Joe Cobra was kneeling on the bed, naked, glorious, his body a living sculpture, skin bathed in sweat. The green snake tattoo on his flank seemed to slither with every movement of his hips. And in front of him, propped on his forearms, the slender, marked body of Spencer Wright received each thrust with muffled moans against the pillow.
Victoria froze in the doorway.
Her eyes processed the scene in fragments: the fourteen year old on his knees, the dried semen on his thighs, the fingerprint shaped bruises on his hips, the expression of pure ecstasy on his young face. Processed Billy the malicious smile, the gaze fixed on the ceiling mirror that reflected the scene, the precise movements of someone with no intention of stopping.
He sees me, Victoria realized. He knows I'm here. And he's not going to stop.
Billy slowly turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror's reflection. His smile widenedthat predator's smile she knew so well, the same one he used when breaking contracts, destroying competitors, or announcing a new single that would shatter records and industry rules.
"Victoria," he greeted, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who was actively fucking his teenage cousin.
"You're early. The meeting wasn't at six?"
He didn't stop. His hips continued their rhythmic movement, each thrust burying him deeper into Spencer. The teenager moaned, fingers clawing at the silk sheets.
Victoria closed the door behind her.
"New perfume campaign," she said, her voice coming out steadier than she expected. "The marketing team needs your notes on the visual concept. And the contract with Rocque Records needs signing by Friday."
Billy nodded, as if discussing the weather. "The campaign. Yes. I saw the briefing." He pulled his hips back, almost completely exiting Spencer, then pushed forward again in a slow, deliberate motion. The teenager arched his back, a louder moan escaping his lips.
"I want warmer lighting," Billy continued, his pace quickening slightly. "The current concept is too cold.Too much blue. I'm thinking amber tones. And the tattoo needs to be visible. Partially, at least. I don't want vulgarity, I want suggestion."
Spencer sobbed, his body trembling. Billy gripped his hips tighter, slowing again.
"And the Rocque contract," Billy pressed on, as if he didn't have a moaning teenager beneath him. "Is Gustavo trying to screw me over again? That exclusivity clause?"
Victoria consulted her tablet, her eyes staying firmly on the screen, not on the entwined bodies before her. "Removed. He resisted, but Arthur Griffin pushed."
"Good." Billy sped up again, his movements now more urgent. Spencer buried his face in the pillow, muffling a cry. "Knew I could count on you."
He looked at Victoria through the mirror, his dark eyes impenetrable. "Anything else?"
Victoria hesitated. Her eyes involuntarily drifted to the teenager beneath Billy. To the bruises. To the semen. To the age she knew had in her files-to be exactly fourteen years old.
"He needs to sign the contracts," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "The confidentiality ones. We updated the drafts last week."
Billy laughed a low, rough sound that vibrated through his entire body. "Of course. Spencer loves signing papers, don't you, love?"
Spencer didn't answer. He was beyond words now, his body completely surrendered to Billy's rhythm.
"Later," Billy said, his breath finally beginning to quicken. "He'll sign later."
His eyes met Victoria's again. "Anything else?"
Victoria Cross, who had hidden bodies not metaphorically, but literally for artists far less valuable than Billy Joe Cobra, did something she'd never done in fifteen years of career.
She hesitated.
Looked at the teenager. At the bruises. At the age.
"No," she said finally. "Nothing else."
Billy smiled that smile of triumph she knew so well.
"Then close the door on your way out."
Victoria closed it.
In the hallway, she stopped.
Leaned against the cold marble wall, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Her heart was racing not from excitement, not from shock, but from recognition.
She had known, from the first day she met Billy Joe Cobra, that he was capable of anything. Anything. The talent, the charisma, the beauty all of it was just the pretty packaging for a void so deep it swallowed everything around it.
Victoria had watched that void consume managers, producers, lovers, friends. Watched it turn people into tools, relationships into transactions, morality into a negotiable obstacle.
I should do something, she thought.
And then she thought about Billy's contract. About the profits from the last album. About the $300 million world tour. About her own cut, her bonus, her reputation as the manager who tamed the untamable Billy Joe Cobra.
I should do something, she thought again.
And then she thought about the confidentiality agreements Spencer would sign. About the clauses she herself had drafted, covering every possible scenario including, especially, this one. About the legal consequences that would await the teenager if he ever dared to speak.
Not my responsibility, she decided.
My job is Billy. Only Billy.
She straightened her blazer, checked her tablet, and walked toward the elevator.
Inside, in the room with the transparent glass wall, Billy Joe Cobra continued to claim his territory.
And Victoria Cross, the woman who would hide a body for him, continued to do what she'd always done:
Manage the career.
Ignore the rest.
Cash the checks.
Forty minutes later.
Billy found Victoria in the living room, now dressed in sweatpants and nothing else, his hair still damp from a quick shower. Spencer was beside him, also dressed a dress shirt that clearly belonged to Billy, bare feet, the bruises on his hips partially hidden.
"The contracts," Billy said, extending his hand.
Victoria handed him the folder. Billy flipped through the pages with casual efficiency, then passed the pen to Spencer.
"Sign here, here, and here."
Spencer signed without reading. His hand was steady. His eyes didn't meet Victoria's.
When he finished, Billy took the contracts and handed them to Victoria with a satisfied smile.
"There. All in order."
Victoria placed the papers in her folder. "The campaign meeting is tomorrow at ten. Don't be late."
"I'm never late," Billy replied, already walking back toward the bedroom, Spencer's hand in his. "I just make people wait. It's different."
Victoria didn't answer.
Just watched them disappear down the hallway.
He needs therapy, she thought. He needs a forensic psychologist. They both need intervention, separation, someone to say no.
Instead, she scheduled the perfume campaign meeting for ten o'clock.
And that night, when she couldn't sleep, Victoria Cross opened an expensive bottle of wine and sat on her terrace, looking out at the lights of Los Angeles.
I would hide a body for him, she remembered thinking. would bury a living person if he asked.
Now she knew it wasn't drama. It was just fact.
She was already hiding a body.
Only that body still breathed.