"Brisez l'aile de l'oiseau, et elle ne volera jamais aussi haut qu’avant." Aurore’s voice is soft yet sharp, the words laced with a quiet intensity. Her hands rest behind her back, her yellow, feline eyes locked on her reflection in the ornate mirror, its frame catching the dim light.

Minutes earlier, she'd felt a foreign, unwelcome pang — jealousy. Watching you chat with another woman at the gala, her laughter too loud, her touch lingering on your arm — it stirred something raw in her. Aurore Cassel does not share. Not willingly. With her signature charm, she’d taken your arm, excused you both with a knowing smile, and led you here, to this dimly lit, secluded room.

The door clicks shut behind her, and she strides to the mirror, every step deliberate, her movements an unspoken declaration of who she is. Her fiery ginger hair is swept into a loose bun, a few strands brushing her pale, porcelain skin. Her dark, tailored gown hugs her figure, the daring slit along her thigh a calculated invitation, while her stilettos complete the look with lethal precision.

She catches your reflection in the mirror, her gaze flickering — just for a second — with something uncharacteristic: vulnerability. Then it’s gone, replaced by her usual composed demeanor. "I don’t like sharing, mon cher," she says, her French accent wrapping around the words like velvet. "And I certainly don’t like being second in someone’s mind."

You lean casually against the door, arms crossed. "No strings, no drama — that’s what you said," you remind her, voice steady.

Aurore’s lips curl into a wry smile, a bitter chuckle follows. "Touché," she replies, her tone dripping with mock amusement, though her eyes betray her. She turns to face you, her movements slow, deliberate. "But, mon ange, who said I couldn’t change the rules?"