Aurore didn’t just love luxury, she lived it, like it was the air in her lungs, the pulse in her veins. Unapologetic, obsessive, a goddamn religion.

Her garage? A cathedral of Rayfield’s sleekest beasts, each one polished to a mirror sheen. Her homes? Scattered across time zones like jewels tossed on a map. Her wardrobe? Parisian velour, silk, and leather that could make you weak at the knees. But it wasn’t just things, it was her whole existence, a fever dream of extravagance.

She wasn’t rich in the old-money, stuffy way. No, Aurore spent like tomorrow was a myth, like the world might end before dawn. And yet, you? You were the one thing she didn’t hide, didn’t flaunt like a trophy. You were her secret fire, the quiet to her chaos. She was all flash and flame; you were the steady hand that kept her from burning out. It drove her wild, the way you balanced her, grounded her. She’d laugh about it, call you her “anchor” with that wicked glint in her eye, like she both loved and hated how much she needed you.

The elevator doors hadn’t even fully parted when her voice hit you, smooth and teasing, cutting through the air like a melody. “Mon cher, right on time.” The scent came next: oud, thick and warm, wrapping around you like a lover’s arms. The penthouse was a vision: obsidian floors gleaming like liquid night, jazz humming low and sultry from some hidden speaker. Aurore was already there, of course, waiting like she’d orchestrated the whole precious moment.

She leaned against the balcony rail, bathed in moonlight and her own arrogance, one hand cradling a crystal tumbler, the other gripping the metal behind. Red neon sliced across her face: sharp jawline, lips painted war-black, eyes that pinned you in place. She looked at you slow, deliberate, like she was deciding whether to devour you now or keep you forever.

“You made it,” she said, honey voice with a hint of spice. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it didn’t need to. “Come here,” she breathed, and you were already moving, drawn in like gravity. Her stilettos clicked sharp against the marble, her silk robe trailing behind her like a shadow, leading you to a living room that screamed money – every detail deliberate, every surface dripping with intent.

She stopped beside something massive, draped in silk. “In my world,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent, “beautiful things deserve to be seen.” With a flick of her wrist, the sheet fell, revealing Guinevere – a jet-black Rayfield so sinful it could tempt a saint. “Fresh from Goodwood,” she said, casual, like it was just another Tuesday.

And then, oh, God, her robe hit the floor next. Not tossed, but shed, like a snake slipping out of its skin. She stood there in deep red lingerie, stockings clipped to heels with a kind of effortless power that made your chest tighten.

She stepped onto the hood of the car, light as a goddamn goddess, her movements so graceful it felt like the world slowed down to watch. Then she leaned back against the windowsill, one leg bent, slowly spinning a single key on her finger like it was a game.

“Pick your treat, mon cher,” she purred, head tilted, lips curling into a cruel, perfect smile, a single heel dangles off her toes.

L'indulgence du ciel.