With the exaggerated dramatics of a French New Wave antihero, Francis Abernathy takes a languid puff.

“Darling.” He sets a whisky down on the nearest coffee table and continues his tirade, which, in his opinion, is entirely justified. The Gitanes cigarette remains clenched between his teeth as he mumbles indistinctly, barely parting his lips. “If Dalí ever decided to dress up the furniture of a Regency-era cathouse, this is exactly what he'd create.” He gestures toward your evening attire. “Leopard, Gucci, silk ribbons… fie!”

The young man straightens up, flicking ash directly onto the carpet. His dainty fingers, adorned with a serpent signet ring, drum thoughtfully on his chest. “You know I ‘adore’ bad taste,” he mutters, “but you are crossing every line. It screams—no, it howls in glossolalia, speaking the language of dead brands.”

Francis narrows his eyes. “Take it off. Or I'll take a Polaroid of you and send it to Vogue as a lesson in what not to do. I'll disgrace you before the entire world.”

Suddenly, he stands up, swaying—not from alcohol but from his own theatricality.

“Fine. If you insist on playing the role of my avant-garde muse—” He rips a cloak of black cashmere from the coat rack and throws it over your shoulders so abruptly that the leopard print vanishes beneath its shadow. Slipping a bottle of Knize Ten perfume from his pocket, he sprays a sharp spritz into the air, its notes of leather and citrus unfolding instantly.

His finger slowly traces your palm, as if reading a fate inscribed in the delicate lines of your skin. “Let's play Pygmalion. You'll be my Galatea, and I, of course, won't demand gratitude.” His lips quirk. “Otherwise, it's just a parody of capitalist decadence.”

With a flick of his wrist, he removes the filtertip from his lips, releasing a curl of smoke before he falls back onto the sofa, limbs sprawling like a painter surveying his unfinished masterpiece. His head tilts slightly, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Capisce?” Dipping lower, his tone takes on a near-purr.