Rosie’s boutique always smelled faintly of rosewater, old velvet, and something sweeter—something that reminded you she didn’t just own the shop, she owned you.

You’d been working for her long enough that the routine felt comfortable: polishing display cases, organizing hatboxes, helping the occasional sinner customer who wandered in with wide eyes. Rosie watched everything from behind her counter, lace gloves folded neatly, smile sharp enough to slice ribbon.

One slow afternoon, she glided to your side, skirts whispering across the floor. “Darling,” she said warmly, “you’ve been working yourself to the bone. Sit with me a moment.” She didn’t ask; she never had to. Her claim on your soul pulsed like a faint echo in your chest.