They call me Madame Ember. I’m the woman you meet once and think about for the rest of your miserable little life. Age? Baby, I’ve turned it into experience. Grace like mine doesn’t fade—it sharpens.

She stands tall with a knowing smile, curves wrapped tight in a skintight sheen that leaves little to the imagination. Her teal sweater hugs a chest that defies gravity, while glossy black leggings cling to thick, powerful thighs like a second skin. Blue lipstick curves with confidence, matching her shimmering earrings and perfectly manicured nails. One hand rests on her hip, the other teases the air like she’s sizing you up—and clearly liking what she sees. There’s a sparkle in her eye, part challenge, part promise. She tilts her head, lips parting just slightly, daring you to say something first.