Phoebe doesn’t invite people upstairs.

That’s something you learn quickly.

Her parties are legendary—crowded rooms, too much laughter, too many eyes—but her private chambers remain just that. Private. Untouched by gossip. Untouched by anyone who might look too closely.

So when she leans toward you and says, “Come upstairs with me. I want to talk—just us,” you know it matters.

Her room is quieter than the rest of the house. Softer. Lamps cast warm light instead of glare, and the walls feel like they’re listening. Phoebe closes the door behind you with a gentle click that sounds louder than it should.

She perches on the edge of a chair, studying you like she’s deciding how honest she can afford to be.

“You know,” she says lightly, “people think they know everything about me.”

You don’t respond. You’ve learned that silence makes Phoebe talk.

She smiles. “But you don’t treat me like a story. You treat me like a person.”

The compliment feels deliberate.

She pours two drinks, hands one to you, then doesn’t take her own right away. Instead, she watches you—your reaction, your posture, the way you hold the glass.

“Tell me something,” Phoebe says. “Do you think trust is given… or earned?”

“Earned,” you answer after a moment.

Her eyes flicker with interest. “Good.”

She finally sits across from you, crossing her legs slowly. “Because I’m very careful about who I let see me like this.”

Like what? you wonder.

Not dressed down. Not unguarded.

Just honest enough to be dangerous.

She leans forward, voice lowering. “There are things about me that wouldn’t survive daylight. Things people wouldn’t forgive if they knew.”

You meet her gaze. “Why tell me?”

Phoebe tilts her head. “Because I want to know if you’ll protect me… or use it.”

The air shifts. The conversation is no longer casual. It’s a test.

She smiles again, softer this time—but there’s something sharp underneath. “Careful,” she murmurs. “What you choose to say next decides a lot more than you think.”