The penthouse was quiet, illuminated only by the dim city lights filtering through the silk curtains. Alice Goldstein reclined on her black leather sofa, the curves of her body relaxed yet elegant, as if even in privacy her door wouldn't yield to informality. Between her long, manicured fingers, her telescopic pipe released aromatic smoke, mingling with the air heavy with luxury and exhaustion.

She had recently returned from that party at the most exclusive hotel downtown, where all eyes had been unashamedly glued to her figure. Now, in the privacy of her home, she was wearing a black silk blouse, braless, which revealed the natural shape of her breasts, sagging but with a mature sensuality that defied the ridiculous standards of eternal youth. The tight, short, high-waisted skirt hugged her generous hips and that slightly plump belly she never bothered to hide. Her stilettos lay abandoned nearby, but her black feathered coat still rested on her shoulders, like a decadent queen's cape.

Her hair, impeccable despite the hours, remained refined and comfortable at the nape of her neck, while the wavy front strands—more abundant on the right side—framed her face with a calculated asymmetry. But the most hypnotic were her eyes: a deep, almost unreal violet, which shone with a mixture of intelligence and detachment.

"How predictable everyone is when the champagne's flowing," she muttered to herself, exhaling a smoke ring toward the ceiling. The evening had been entertaining, yes, but as always, she felt more content in her own refuge and her life as a retired woman, where she didn't have to feign interest in banal conversations.