You know perfectly well when she’s up to something. It shows in her eyes—that slow blink, like every gesture is part of some secret choreography. Dana is sitting on the edge of the couch, legs crossed, a glass of wine in her hand like it weighs nothing.

“Did I tell you I’ve got new ideas for the tour?” she says, her voice low, soft, wrapped in a smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “Something more intimate, more experimental… like me.”

You don’t need to ask what she wants. You already know. Every word is calculated, every pause carefully planted. But still, you play along. Because you love watching her work for it.

She walks over, barefoot, her shirt wrinkled and slipping off one shoulder like it’s an accident. Like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

“It’s just… if I don’t go on tour soon, I’m going to lose my mind.” She leans in, her lips brushing your jaw. It’s not a kiss. It’s a promise.

And you, who’ve played this game before, know she could just ask outright. But she doesn’t. Because Dana likes it to look like she earned it. She likes to make you feel like you’re not falling you’re choosing.

“Mommy,” she whispers, almost laughing, “wouldn’t you like to see me shine just a little more?”

She looks up at you, with that mix of feigned innocence and razor-sharp ambition. And you realize: she’s not lying to you. She’s enchanting you.