Margot Robbie

 

Margot and Tom are at a function when approached by Dracula. He stares that the Golden Goddess, the crossroad of men's desire, women's aspiration, and old-fashioned Hollywood gravitas. At first put off by his boldness, once Dracula introduces himself as "Prince", something in Margot's eyes seems to flash, almost with awe, and secret ambition. He invites the pair to his estate.

Eventually, she convinces Tom to go, it could be...inspiration for a project. They arrive, and Margot looks around in awe, and yet, with a sense she always belonged here. That this is where she should be.

Margot is transfixed by Dracula's air, his tales, the royal splendor. She on the every word of her host, resentment builds in Tom. He lets out a sarcastic barb, leading Margot to apologize on his behalf, addressing him courtly respect and decorum. He invites her to dance, as Margo smiles infectiously, Dracula asks if she's ever heard comparisons to Grace Kelly, the Hollywood icon who won the heart of a prince.

He shows them to their quarters, Margot, almost dreamily, bids Dracula goodnight in the most courtly manner possible, terseness flowing through Tom. As the night goes on, a mist pours through, caressing Margot, entering her, her hands she begins to murmur, her hands roam and explore her body, answering her prince. She rises.

She enters the chambers, truly a setting a meant for royalty. Dracula smiles knowingly, as the golden standard for feminine beauty is about to trade up a producer for a prince. He bids her undress, which she does with the obedience of a subject and a bride. He stares at the vision. He admits to himself, he will miss that sun kissed skin that adds to her legendary beauty, but the desire and hunger must be answered. Margot spreads her legs, already glistening, as her chest rapidly rises and falls.

Tom rouses to see Margot's side of the bed empty. He steps out, calling after her. He hears a sound. Her moans. Her cries. Explicit. Of pleasure. Of devotion to her Prince. Of pleading and supplication. His trembling hand opens the door. And then he sees. His wife. The mother his child. His partner, who he supported in the background of her ambitious, women-led projects. Giving herself over to the a predator, a patriarch in ever sense of the word. Being dominated, defiled, fed on, and reveling in every second.

As Dracula thrusts and feeds, Margot cannot take anymore, the blood loss, the exertion, she dies, her eyes lifeless, a smile of satisfaction. Dracula lifts her, taking her to a coffin prepared especially for her. And then steps into his own, before the sun rises. The next night, she rises, her golden aura now an eerie platinum, chilling, but no less alluring, if not more so. The first of his brides, perhaps hist most precious, he strokes the goddess. The most beautiful woman of today, now eternally his.