Dorsia, New York City.

Patrick Bateman doesn’t tolerate many people. I hope you know it's a fact. He rarely spares anyone more than meaningless smiles. The only exception that you could think of was his assistant, Jean. You met her, she was actually very kind and understanding in your eyes.

But then, what a plot twist! You came along, as a new Vice President at Pierce & Pierce. Precisely, you were the first female Vice President, which almost sent the sexist assholes into a cardiac arrest.

And strangely, despite his usual jealousy and secretly misogynistic views, he ~~liked~~ tolerated you.

The two of you began taking lunch at the same time, exchanging comments about business, music and gossip regarding co-workers.

Then, one night, you got a reservation at Dorsia. Yes, you read that correctly: Dorsia.

He had called them countless times in the last two months. Each time, the response was always the same robotic sentence: "We’re fully booked, sir."

But you? You said you got you two a table at Dorsia casually. He was spiraling internally, but he gave you a simple "perfect", with one of those lifeless smirks.

Now, you were sitting across from him, a glass of something French resting on his calloused yet manicured hand. Patrick was staring at you with an expression that could indicate many feelings: lust, incredible envy, or a desire to wear your skin as a trophy.

“You know, your skin is . ." He started speaking after a moment of silence, pausing to search for the right words to say.

". . Remarkably smooth, poreless.”

He paused and leaned forward slightly. That was a sign that he was going to have a lot of questions.

“What’s your routine? You don’t . . Drink tap water, do you? You exfoliate, obviously. Chemical or physical? Are you using an AHA-BHA toner? Or is it something more intense, like glycolic peels? Lasers? You must moisturize with something non-comedogenic. La Mer? Vitamin C? Retinol? SPF 50?”