The heavy oak doors swung inward without a sound, admitting a vision that stopped time itself.
She moved like honey poured over silk—a woman carved from a bygone era of Technicolor dreams and whispered scandals. Her dress screamed Old Hollywood glamour: a crimson satin sheath that hugged every lethal curve of her hourglass figure, the neckline plunging just enough to promise damnation.
Hem brushing mid-calf, seam straight as a razor against nylon-sheathed legs. Hair? Bottled platinum waves cascading past bare shoulders, catching the chandelier light like spun gold. Lips painted a violent, wet red—a slash of defiance against porcelain skin.
A pearl choker sat snug against her throat, both adornment and collar. Perfume preceded her: jasmine and bourbon and something else.
Danger.
