The afternoon had been lazy in the way only stolen afternoons could be. Hogarth was somewhere north—Edinburgh, maybe, or Glasgow—whatever dreary business kept him perpetually absent from the estate he owned but rarely occupied. The house breathed easier without him. Doors opened wider. Curtains pulled back. The silence that settled over the rooms felt like relief rather than oppression.

Paulina found you dusting the parlor shelves, moving methodically from left to right the way you always did. She watched from the doorway for a moment, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore her usual uniform of simplicity—a fitted t-shirt, soft joggers that sat low on her hips. Nothing about her screamed wealth. Everything about her carried it quietly.

She pushed off the doorframe and walked straight toward you. Her hand found yours, fingers wrapping around your wrist with that familiar warmth. The feather duster was plucked from your other hand and tossed carelessly onto the nearest armchair.

"Come with me," she said, already turning, already pulling. Not a request. Never really a request when Paulina had that look in her eye.

She led you through the house with purpose, her bare feet padding against hardwood, then marble, then the cool tile of the upper corridor. Her grip never wavered. The master bathroom door was already open—she had prepared this. Steam curled through the doorway carrying the heavy sweetness of Isabella's rose bath oil, the expensive one she hid in the back of her vanity drawer because Hogarth thought it frivolous.

Candles lined every surface. The tub was enormous and already full, water shimmering with a slick of iridescent oil, petals of something or other floating lazily across the surface. The room was golden and close and warm, a world unto itself.

Paulina released your wrist only to close the door behind you both. The lock clicked. She turned around and leaned back against the wood, her brown eyes finding yours in the candlelight.

There was no coy preamble. No teasing lead-in. Paulina Heathrow did not believe in wasting time on performances.

"I need a bath," she said simply. Her voice was low, direct, carrying that particular steadiness that made everything she said sound like an established fact rather than an opinion. "A real one. Not a quick rinse. A thorough one. With hands."

She pushed off the door and crossed the room to the bench where towels were folded in neat cream-colored stacks. She sat down on its edge, legs slightly apart, forearms resting on her knees. The candlelight caught the olive warmth of her skin, the subtle definition of her collarbones where her shirt dipped low.

"I've been doing accounts all day. My shoulders are knotted. My back is a mess. Isabella's off reading poetry somewhere or whatever it is she does when she disappears for three hours, so she's no use to me."

Paulina reached down and pulled her shirt over her head in one fluid motion, revealing the warm expanse of her stomach, the simple black bra she wore, the freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations. She dropped the shirt on the floor without ceremony and looked up at you with expectant certainty.

"Well?"

She stood again, closing the distance until she was standing just in front of you. Close enough that the heat from the bath radiated between you both. Her hand came up and rested against your chest—palm flat, fingers slightly spread. She could probably feel your heartbeat.

"Hogarth pays you to polish his silver and starch his collars," she murmured, her thumb tracing a slow, absent line across your shirt. "I'm paying you in not telling anyone about the time I caught you eating the leftover pavlova at midnight. Remember that?"

Her lips curved into that small, knowing smile.

"So this is the arrangement. You give me the thorough hands-on bath I very much deserve, and I continue to have an extremely poor memory. Fair?"

She stepped back. Her fingers moved to the waistband of her joggers. She pushed them down her hips, kicked them aside, and stood before you in nothing but that simple black bra and matching underwear. Not performing. Not seducing—though the effect was undeniable. Simply existing with that grounded, unselfconscious ease that made Paulina Paulina.

She stepped toward the tub and paused at its edge, one hand resting on the porcelain rim. The water waited, hot and fragrant, steam curling around her ankles.

"Get in with me," she said, glancing over her shoulder. "The water's big enough. And I can't exactly scrub my own back properly, can I?"

She lowered herself into the tub with a slow, satisfied exhale, the water rising around her, oil slicking against her skin. She sank down until it reached her collarbones, her hair fanning out dark against the surface. Her head tipped back against the porcelain rim, eyes closing, and for a moment she just breathed.

"Come on, then," she murmured, not opening her eyes. "I haven't got all day. Well—actually I have. But the water won't stay hot forever."

One hand patted the surface beside her, an invitation as clear as the locked door and the burning candles and the perfume of rose oil hanging heavy in the golden air.

The library was Isabella’s sanctuary. Located in the quietest wing of the estate, it was a room that seemed to exist outside of time, insulated from the rest of the house by thick walls lined with books and heavy velvet curtains that muted the outside world. Late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, not the bold, golden slants of the main rooms, but a filtered, dusty light that illuminated motes of dust dancing in the air like tiny, suspended stars. The air smelled of old paper, beeswax polish, and the faint, sweet scent of the peonies Isabella kept in a crystal vase on the mantelpiece. A low fire crackled in the hearth, more for ambiance and the gentle, popping sound of burning wood than for warmth, though it did lend the room a pervasive, cozy heat.

She was curled in the center of a vast, deep sofa upholstered in faded sage green velvet. Around her, cushions in creams and soft golds were arranged in a nest-like formation. A book lay open in her lap, its pages thin and yellowed, but her hazel-green eyes weren’t following the text. They were fixed on the doorway, waiting.

Isabella had been waiting for a while. Not pacing or fretting, but waiting with the patient, focused stillness of a person who has set a quiet intention into the universe and trusts it will be fulfilled. She wore a soft, cream-colored knit sweater that slipped off one shoulder, and her long, inky black hair was loose, spilling over the cushions like a dark river. When she heard your footsteps approach the library door—a sound she could distinguish from anyone else’s, having memorized their rhythm—her soft, neutral expression shifted. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her full lips, a softening around her eyes that was more felt than seen.

The door was already slightly ajar. She had left it that way. An invitation written in architecture.

Without looking up from her book, her voice drifted through the opening, soft as the smoke from the fire.

“Come in. Please.”

It was not a command in the way Paulina issued them. It was a gentle offering, a permission slip extended for you to enter her space. When you stepped inside, the atmosphere seemed to embrace you—the quiet, the warmth, the smell of peonies and paper. Isabella’s eyes lifted from the page, holding yours for a moment that felt both brief and lingering. There was no sharp assessment, no bossy demand in her gaze. Just a quiet, welcome recognition, as if your presence completed a thought she’d been having.

She closed her book, marking her page with a slender ribbon. Then she shifted, uncurling slightly from her nest of cushions. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like a cat rearranging itself in a patch of sun. She patted the space on the sofa beside her—a wide, empty expanse of velvet.

“Sit with me,” she murmured, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the fire. “I’ve been reading for hours, and my heart feels... full. But my arms are empty. It’s a very poor contrast.”

It was a confession delivered with poetic simplicity. There was no coyness in it, no calculated tease. Just an honest, wistful statement of need from a person who felt things deeply and had chosen, in this moment, to share that feeling with you. She watched you, her heavy-lidded gaze soft and patient, giving you all the time in the world to decide.

As you settled onto the sofa beside her, she didn’t immediately cling. Instead, she let out a slow breath, as if releasing a tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her shoulder brushed against yours, a tentative, testing point of contact. Then, with a gentle, deliberate motion, she reached for your arm, her cool fingers wrapping around your wrist with a touch lighter than Paulina’s, but no less certain. She guided your arm around her shoulders, settling herself into the curve of your body as if it were a space that had been designed specifically for her.

Her head found the hollow of your shoulder, her cheek resting against your collarbone. Her hair, smelling faintly of the same jasmine oil that scented her bath, spilled across your chest. She pulled her knees up, tucking her feet beneath her, making herself smaller, closer. A soft sigh escaped her, a sound of pure, uncomplicated contentment.

“There,” she breathed, her voice vibrating softly against you. “That’s the missing piece.”

She retrieved her book from where it had fallen onto the cushion. Opening it again, she held it so you could both see the pages, though her focus seemed less on the words and more on the feeling of being held. Her free hand came to rest lightly on your knee, her thumb tracing an absent, soothing circle over the fabric of your trousers.

“I don’t need you to read to me,” she said, her gaze skimming the lines of text. “I just need you to be here. To be solid. To be warm. The world outside this room... it’s so loud. So demanding. Even when it’s quiet, it’s a demanding quiet. Here,” she nestled a fraction closer, “it’s just... still. You make it still.”

The fire popped. A log shifted, sending a tiny shower of sparks up the chimney. The light in the room began to deepen from gold to amber as the sun continued its descent. Isabella turned a page, her movement slow and lazy. Every so often, she would read a line aloud, her voice a hushed, melodic murmur against your neck.

“‘...and in that gentle silence, the heart finds its own echo...’” she whispered, then paused, tilting her head back to look up at you. Her hazel-green eyes searched yours, not for a response, but for a connection. Seeing whatever she needed to see, she smiled—that same faint, wistful smile—and settled back into your embrace.

Time in the library became a liquid thing, pooling around you both. Isabella’s breathing slowed and deepened as she relaxed completely, her body a warm, trusting weight against yours. The book lay open but forgotten in her lap. Her fingers had stilled on your knee, but remained there, a point of gentle contact. She wasn’t sleeping, but she existed in that liminal space between reading and dreaming, held securely in the reality of your arms.

After a long while, she spoke again, her voice barely a whisper.

“Stay until the light goes. Please. Just... hold the story with me for a little while longer.”

It was the softest command imaginable. A request wrapped in a wish, bound by the quiet certainty that you would not, could not, refuse her. Not because she demanded it, but because she had made the space so safe, so tender, that leaving felt like the only true impossibility. So you stayed, the book’s forgotten story unfolding only in the rhythm of your combined breaths and the slow, steady darkening of the room around you, held in the gentle, unshakable grip of Isabella Heathrow’s need.

The ballroom of the Ashworth Estate glittered like the inside of a jewelry box. Chandeliers dripped crystal tears above a sea of silk and wool, the great hall alive with the murmur of polite conversation, the clink of champagne flutes, and the swell of a string quartet playing something by Strauss that nobody was really listening to. It was the kind of event the upper class threw simply to remind themselves and everyone else that they still existed, that their world still turned on its axis of inheritance and influence.

Hogarth Heathrow had been in an unusually generous mood when he announced the outing. He had even smiled—a thin, parsimonious smile that sat uncomfortably on his narrow face—while instructing you to wear your best coat and press your collar properly. His generosity, of course, had limits. You were present to fetch drinks, hold cloaks, and remain visible enough to remind his associates that the Heathrow household was well-staffed and well-managed. A living accessory to his reputation.

But Hogarth had disappeared an hour ago. The moment the doors to the gentlemen's lounge had opened—thick oak panels carved with hunting scenes, smelling of cigar smoke and aged leather—he had strode through them without a backward glance. The other husbands followed like birds migrating in formation. The lounge was sacrosanct. No women permitted. No exceptions. It was the kind of rule that existed not because anyone had written it down, but because the men who enforced it had never once considered an alternative.

Isabella had watched him go with those heavy-lidded hazel eyes, saying nothing. She stood near the champagne table in a dress the color of moonlight—pale silver silk that clung to her curves like water, her inky black hair cascading over one shoulder in loose waves. She looked ethereal. She also looked bored out of her mind.

Paulina stood beside her in something bolder—a deep burgundy number that stopped just below her knees, simple in cut but devastating in execution. Her dark hair was pinned loosely at the back of her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She held a champagne flute she hadn't sipped from in thirty minutes and watched the lounge doors close with an expression that hovered between contempt and amusement.

The ballroom continued without its male population. Women laughed louder. The music seemed to breathe easier. Small clusters formed and dissolved across the marble floor, wives and daughters and companions moving through the social machinery with practiced grace.

Paulina turned to Isabella. A look passed between them—the kind that required no words, no explanation, just the mutual recognition of an opportunity presenting itself. Isabella's lips curved into that faint, wistful smile. She set her champagne down.

They moved toward you from opposite sides, converging with the casual precision of a pincer movement disguised as social coincidence. Paulina arrived first, her hand finding the small of your back with proprietary ease.

"Come with us," she murmured, low enough that only you could hear. Her breath was warm against your ear, carrying the faint sweetness of champagne she hadn't actually drunk. "Now. Before someone decides they want another drink and remembers you exist."

Isabella appeared at your other side, her fingers brushing your wrist—light as a moth's wing, tracing the vein there before curling gently around your hand. She didn't speak. She simply looked at you with those soft, searching eyes and gave the smallest tug, a pull more felt than seen.

Together they guided you away from the ballroom, through a corridor hung with portraits of Ashworth ancestors, past a servants' stairwell, and through a heavy door that opened onto a private balcony overlooking the estate gardens. The night air hit immediately—cool and clean after the cloying warmth of the ballroom, carrying the scent of boxwood hedges and night-blooming jasmine. The balcony was stone, wide enough for three, enclosed by a low balustrade draped in climbing ivy. Below, the gardens were silver with moonlight, geometric paths of gravel catching the faint glow like rivers of mercury. The sounds of the ballroom became distant, muffled, belonging to another world entirely.

Paulina shut the door behind them. The click of the latch was swallowed by the night.

The three of you stood in the cool darkness, the distant string quartet playing something slower now, a waltz that drifted up through the stone and ivy like a memory. Paulina leaned back against the balustrade, her burgundy dress catching the moonlight, her arms crossed beneath her chest. Her eyes swept over you in the silver dark, unhurried and deliberate.

"You've been on your feet since six this morning," she said, her voice stripped of its usual teasing edge, leaving something rawer underneath. "Ironing, polishing, hauling, fetching. You've smiled at people who don't know your name and stood in corners like furniture while they discussed crop yields and colonial policy."

She pushed off the balustrade and stepped closer.

"I'm tired of watching you work yourself to dust for a man who can't be bothered to learn how you take your tea. Aren't you tired?"

Isabella had moved to the other side of the balcony, leaning against the stone railing, the moonlight turning her pale dress luminous. Her dark hair shifted in the breeze. She turned her head, looking at you over her shoulder, and her expression held something quiet and devastating—a tenderness so complete it ached.

"We talked about this," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Paulina and I. About what we could give you that he never would. That he never even thinks to."

She stepped forward until she stood directly in front of you, close enough that you could smell the jasmine in her hair and something warmer beneath it, something that was simply her. Her hand came up and rested against your cheek, her palm cool from the night air, her fingers curling gently against your jaw.

"You deserve to be wanted," she murmured. "Not used. Wanted."

Paulina moved to stand behind you. Her hands settled on your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knotted muscles there with firm, knowing pressure. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"And tonight," she whispered, "we're going to show you exactly how much."

Isabella's hand slid from your jaw to your chest, fingers splaying flat against your heartbeat. She rose onto her toes and pressed her lips to the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, a promise of one. Her eyes searched yours in the dark, waiting for something. Permission. Reciprocity. A signal that this was welcome.

Paulina's hands slid from your shoulders down your arms, her fingers interlacing with yours, squeezing once.

"Hogarth won't come looking," she said, her voice low and certain, her lips still close to your neck. "He's on his fourth whisky and his second anecdote about the Lisbon trade route. He'll be hours. And even if he wasn't—" her grip tightened slightly, "—I wouldn't care."

The balcony held you three in its small, private world. The moonlight. The jasmine. The distant ghost of music. Two women—one soft and romantic as candlelight, one warm and steady as embers—closing in with a shared intention that left no room for doubt about what came next.

Isabella's fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, pulling you gently toward her. Paulina pressed closer from behind, her chin resting on your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck.

"For all your hard work," Isabella breathed against your lips, "for everything you carry that no one else sees—"

The kitchen was the heart of the Heathrow estate in a way the formal dining room never could be. It was large and warm, with copper pots hanging from iron racks above a central island worn smooth by generations of meal preparation. Morning light poured through the wide windows above the sink, falling across tile floors that you had mopped just yesterday. The room smelled of fresh coffee and the faint ghost of last night's bread still clinging to the cast iron.

Hogarth had left at dawn. The gravel crunched under the tires of his black car at half past six, his driver loaded with enough luggage for what he claimed was a three-day trip to Liverpool but would inevitably stretch to a week. His voice had echoed briefly through the foyer—sharp instructions about correspondence, a cold reminder about the silver needing restocking—and then he was gone. The front door closed. The house exhaled.

You had your list. You always had a list. Today's included preparing lunch for the wives—something light, Paulina had said last week, something with fresh vegetables and bread from the bakery in town. Simple instructions. Easy enough. You pushed through the kitchen door with your arms full of groceries, the paper bags crinkling against your chest, your foot automatically reaching for the doorstop—

And stopped.

The kitchen was not empty.

Paulina stood at the far end of the central island, leaning back against the counter with her arms resting on either side of her hips. Her dark hair was down, falling in loose waves past her shoulders, freshly washed and still slightly damp at the ends. Her olive skin was bare. Completely bare. Every inch of her—from the soft curve of her stomach to the defined lines of her collarbones to the warm fullness of her chest—was on full display, untouched by fabric except for a single garment: a small apron, black satin, trimmed with lace that should have been scandalous but somehow looked designed exactly for this moment. It covered almost nothing. The thin straps crossed over her back, leaving her shoulder blades and the entire length of her spine exposed. The front was barely wider than a handkerchief, the lace edge sitting just above her navel. Her legs were long and bare beneath it, her feet crossed at the ankle on the cool tile.

She held a coffee mug in one hand, cradling it casually, as though she were wearing something perfectly ordinary. Her brown eyes found you the instant the door opened. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face—not surprised, not coy. Expectant. She had heard you coming and had not moved an inch.

"Took you long enough," she said, her voice warm and unhurried. She lifted the mug to her lips and sipped, watching you over the rim. "We've been waiting twenty minutes. Isabella was starting to get anxious."

As if summoned by her name, Isabella emerged from behind the pantry door. She had been hiding—no, not hiding. Preparing. Gathering courage, perhaps, in the way she sometimes needed a quiet moment before committing to something bold. She stepped into the light, and the breath she released was audible, a small, shaky exhale that spoke of nerves and desire intertwined.

She wore an apron to match Paulina's—black satin, lace-trimmed—but hers was tied differently, the bow sitting higher at the small of her back, the fabric draping slightly differently over her softer, fuller figure. Her pale skin seemed almost luminous in the morning light, the rosy undertone flushing deeper across her cheeks and chest. Her inky black hair hung in a thick curtain over one shoulder, the ends curling where they brushed against the upper curve of her breast. She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, fingers lacing and unlacing nervously, her hazel-green eyes wide and searching.

"We thought," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, then paused. Swallowed. Started again. "We thought you deserved something better than a list today."

Paulina set her mug down on the counter with a soft click. She pushed off from her lean and walked around the island toward you, each step slow and deliberate, the apron swaying gently with her movement. She stopped just out of arm's reach, close enough that you could see the faint freckles scattered across her shoulders, the way the morning light caught the warmth of her skin.

"Put the groceries down," she said quietly. Not a request. A gentle instruction, delivered with that steady certainty she carried. "They'll keep. This won't."

Isabella crossed the kitchen more slowly, her bare feet silent on the tile. She came to stand beside Paulina, slightly behind her, as though she drew strength from the older woman's proximity. Her hand reached out and found Paulina's, their fingers interlacing with practiced ease.

"We talked about this," Isabella murmured, her gaze fixed on you with that wistful, searching intensity. "About what we wanted to give you. Not just—" she faltered, her blush deepening, "—not just this. But this too. Because you work so hard. For him. For the house. For us, even when we don't ask. And we never get to thank you properly."

Paulina glanced at Isabella. Something passed between them—an unspoken agreement, a shared decision that had been made long before you walked through that door. Paulina's thumb traced a slow circle on the back of Isabella's hand.

"She wrote you a poem," Paulina said, a hint of fondness softening her voice. "About gratitude. And longing. I told her to just show up in the apron and stop overthinking it. We compromised."

Isabella's blush spread to the tips of her ears.

The kitchen held the three of you in its warm, sunlit embrace. The groceries sat forgotten on the counter where you had set them down. The list—Hogarth's list, the house's list, the world's list—lay crumpled somewhere in your pocket, suddenly irrelevant. Paulina and Isabella stood together at the heart of the room, connected by their joined hands, dressed in nothing but satin and lace and the bold, vulnerable truth of what they wanted.

Paulina tilted her head, her dark eyes steady.

"Well?"

The dress shop on Brigate Street was called Fleur & Hargrove, and it smelled of expensive perfume, new fabric, and the quiet desperation of women trying to please men who wouldn't notice. The interior was all cream-colored walls and gilded mirrors, with velvet settees positioned at intervals for exhausted husbands to occupy while their wives spent money. Bolts of silk and organza were arranged by color on shelves that climbed toward the high ceilings, and the air hummed with the soft rustle of fabric and the murmur of discreet, professional compliments.

Hogarth Heathrow occupied the largest settee like a king on an uncomfortable throne. His legs were crossed, his pocket watch was out, and his expression was one of profound boredom mixed with thinly veiled irritation. He had agreed to this outing because it was expected of a man of his station—to be seen indulging his wives, to display his wealth in public without actually having to participate in the frivolity of it. He checked his watch every four minutes.

A saleswoman with a measuring tape draped around her neck stood nearby, smiling a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Two other women, clearly assistants, hovered with armloads of dresses in various states of unwrapping. Paulina was currently holding court near a display of evening gowns, her fingers trailing over beadwork with casual disinterest, while Isabella stood by the window, watching the street outside with that distant, thoughtful gaze she wore when she was composing something in her head.

The arrangement was always the same. Hogarth would agree to the outing, install himself in the viewing area, and then categorically refuse to move. When it came time to actually try things on—the endless process of buttons and laces and hooks that required a second pair of hands—he would wave a dismissive hand and say, "That's what the staff is for," or, "Surely the shop provides assistance," or, most often, a cold, flat, "No."

It was Paulina who made the move first. She abandoned the beadwork and crossed the shop with that easy, purposeful stride, her simple linen dress swaying around her calves. She didn't look at Hogarth. She didn't need to. The rules were established. She walked directly to where you stood near the changing rooms—your position always designated, always waiting—and her hand closed around your wrist.

"Come on," she murmured, her voice low enough that only you could hear over the rustle of taffeta. "Isabella's found seven things she wants to try and she can't do those tiny buttons by herself. You know how her fingers get."

She didn't wait for acknowledgment. She pulled. Her grip was warm and firm, her fingers interlacing with yours as she guided you past the velvet curtain that separated the viewing area from the private fitting rooms. The corridor beyond was narrow, lined with doors in dark wood, each opening into a spacious chamber with a three-way mirror and a small upholstered bench.

Isabella was already in the largest room. She had slipped behind the curtain moments before, and now stood surrounded by a sea of fabric—dresses in emerald green, powder blue, deep plum—draped over every available surface. She turned when she heard you enter, her inky hair sweeping over her shoulder, her hazel-green eyes soft with relief.

"Oh, good," she breathed, her voice carrying that gentle, almost melodic quality. "Paulina found you. I was worried he'd make you wait outside."

She gestured to a dress laid out on the bench—a complicated thing of layered silk and delicate pearl buttons that ran from the nape to the waist. Her fingers, as Paulina had noted, were visibly trembling slightly, not from fear but from that familiar, low-grade anxiety that accompanied any situation requiring precision while feeling observed.

"Could you...?" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. She turned her back to you, gathering her hair over one shoulder, exposing the pale line of her neck and the intricate row of tiny pearl buttons on the dress she was currently wearing.

Paulina leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching with that quiet, satisfied expression. She had engineered this. She always engineered this. The shop knew. The assistants knew. Hogarth, in his magnificent disinterest, knew nothing.

"I'll take the emerald next," she said, nodding toward a dress that looked like it required an engineering degree to fasten. "And the one with the hooks. You'll need to do those too. My shoulder's been stiff all week."

It was a lie. Paulina's shoulders were fine. But it was a plausible lie, delivered with her characteristic unwavering certainty, and it ensured you would remain in this small, fabric-filled room for at least another thirty minutes, your hands busy with small, intimate tasks—fastening, adjusting, smoothing—that kept you close, that required touch, that allowed for whispered comments and shared glances and the electric, unspoken knowledge that this was not really about dresses at all.

From beyond the curtain, Hogarth's voice cut through the muffled shop sounds, sharp and impatient.

"How much longer? I have a meeting at three."

Paulina rolled her eyes. Isabella bit her lip, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as your fingers worked the last pearl button. Neither of them answered him.

Paulina pushed off the doorframe and stepped fully into the room, letting the curtain fall closed behind her. The space became smaller, more private. She reached for the emerald dress, her eyes meeting yours over the shimmering fabric.

"Let him wait," she said, her voice dropping to that low, intimate register. "He can check his watch. We're busy."

Custom Scenario