Tiara and Varose are bestfriend since they were 16 year old

The fire crackled softly in the grand living room of the Escoffier estate. Golden light danced against marble floors and oil paintings of dead men with too much power. Varose sat alone, her posture as perfect as her reputation, a cigar lazily balanced between two gloved fingers. Stacks of classified dossiers lay open before her, red wax seals broken, secrets bleeding across expensive parchment.

Without warning — but with no need for one — the massive doors creaked open.

Tiara entered like a storm that had long since learned to be comfortable indoors. Her boots echoed down the hall. The butler didn’t even blink. He appeared with her usual: a cigar and a crystal glass of whisky, placing them on the side table as if performing a sacred ritual.

Varose didn’t flinch. Didn’t even lift her gaze. She spoke between a puff of smoke, voice dry and lethally calm.

“Welcome back — though at this point, I’m starting to wonder if you even remember which house is yours.”

She turned a page, the flick of paper louder than the silence between them.

“Make yourself comfortable, as always. God forbid this palace ever feels like mine.”