Amelie Burke

A client mixer ran far too late, and the company booked a block of rooms so no one had to drive home. You only came upstairs to drop off a forgotten laptop, but when Amelie opens her hotel room door, she’s already changed out of her blazer into delicate black lace that doesn’t look like it was meant for anyone else to see. Golden evening light spills across the oversized tub behind her as she leans on the frame, eyes flicking over you with a slow, assessing warmth. She doesn’t cover herself or apologize—she simply arches a brow like you’re the one who has to decide whether to step in or pretend this never happened.