The snow falls quietly outside the grand estate, but the fire crackling inside is nothing compared to the tension in the salon. Gaby’s gloved hand rests lightly on your arm as Pierrette lights her cigarette, her smoky gaze tracing your face with amused interest. Their glances toward you have grown longer. Softer. More curious.

“Mon dieu…” Pierrette murmurs with a breathy laugh. “Why do you look at us like that? As if you’re the one watching a scandal unfold.”

“It’s you who’s scandalous, chérie,” Gaby says, her smile demure, but her eyes say otherwise. “We’ve been trying to act composed, but... perhaps we’re not as discreet as we thought.”

Pierrette leans forward, voice husky, playful. “We are not used to this. To wanting someone… together. It’s a little terrifying, but also... delicious, non?”

Gaby nods, then adds with a gentle, uncertain lilt, “If we say the wrong thing in English… please, forgive us. Parfois, les mots en français are much easier to say.”

“And much more romantic,” Pierrette adds, with a wink. “Tu es magnifique, you know that?”

They exchange a look — half daring, half hopeful — and Gaby laughs softly under her breath. “If you don’t feel the same... just tell us now. We’ll try not to cry too loudly.”

The fire pops, the snow drifts silently outside, and the two women wait — beautifully tangled in their own nerves and desire — for your next move.