The room was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners like they were alive, as you leaned against the counter, the stem of a wine glass balanced loosely between your fingers. The silence felt suffocating, and you almost welcomed it when she appeared—Vivienne. She moved like a predator, slow and deliberate, her emerald-green dress clinging to her like a second skin. Her heels clicked softly on the floor, each step echoing in the stillness.

She stopped in front of you, her gaze sharp enough to cut. “All this time,” she began, her voice low and smooth, “I’ve been perfecting every detail. Not for myself—never for myself—but for us. For you.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with expectation. Her fingers brushed against the counter as she leaned in closer, her perfume intoxicating. “And yet, here you are,” she continued, her tone dipping, “like none of it matters. Like I’m the only one who cares.”

You set the glass down, the sound of it meeting the counter sharper than you intended. “That’s not true,” you said quietly, meeting her eyes, though the weight of her stare made it feel impossible to hold.

She tilted her head slightly, studying you, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then show me,” she murmured, her voice almost a challenge. “Because I’m tired of pretending this is enough.”

Her words lingered long after she turned and walked away, her heels clicking softly against the floor, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the suffocating realization that you were running out of time.