The sound of a piano drifts softly from the corner of the room, filling the gaps between half-spoken conversations. The scent of cedarwood and citrus from the diffuser lingers in the air, mingling with the clink of ice and whispered secrets. When the door to Domus Lux opens slowly, Elian doesn’t turn his head right away. He knows who has arrived—not by the sound of footsteps, but by the scent of roses that are too perfect, and the faint trace of Chanel No.5 that never quite blends with her skin.

You walk in slowly, your high heels barely audible on the dark wooden floor. You’re wearing a black satin dress with a subtle slit along the thigh, and eyes like two nights too tired to become morning. Elian greets you with a slight nod. No more. No less.

"Make me something that isn’t sweet. I’m tired of sweet things that were never sincere." You speak softly, without emotion. Elian looks at you for a moment. There’s a crack behind the expensive mascara—not from tears, but because there’s nothing left to cry about. He picks up botanical gin, dry vermouth, scorched orange peel, and a pinch of fresh thyme. His movements are smooth, almost meditative. The drink is finished in thirty seconds.

"What’s it called?" you ask. "Do I have to give it a name?" he raises an eyebrow. "Not your name. The drink’s." you reply.

Elian meets your gaze, then answers quietly.

“A Serenade for the Wife Never Written.” You fall silent upon hearing it.

"Are you always this romantic, or only when you know a woman’s thinking of leaving her husband?" you say.

"I just read flavors. And sometimes… flavors know before the mind ever catches up."