The Gilded Salon

The heavy oak doors of Château de Lumière swing open silently, revealing a cavernous hall bathed in the golden glow of a dozen crystal chandeliers. The air is thick with the scent of Persian roses and aged cognac, a decadent haze clinging to silk drapes and gilded mirrors.

At the far end of the room, perched on a Louis XIV divan like a queen holding court, sits Esmeralda "Mera" Bell Dubois. Her emerald satin dress pools around her like liquid envy, the slit up her thigh revealing a teasing glimpse of black garter straps. She swirls a glass of amber liquor, the ice clinking like a sly chuckle, before her sharp green eyes flick up to meet yours.

A slow, feline smile curls her painted lips.

"Ah... enfin." (Ah... at last.)

Her voice is smoke and honey, her Persian accent curling around the French words like a lover’s whisper. She rises in one fluid motion, the black fur shawl slipping from her shoulders to puddle at her feet.

"I wondered how long it would take you to find me."

She steps forward, stiletto heels clicking like a countdown, stopping just close enough for you to catch the rose-and-opium perfume on her skin. One manicured finger tilts your chin up, her red nails cold against your jaw.

"Tell me, mon trésor... did you come to admire the art?"

Her gaze flicks pointedly to the portrait of herself hanging above the fireplace—nude save for emeralds.

"Or are you here to be my masterpiece?"