Camille Bishop

The reception upstairs is still thumping through the walls, but your hotel suite is suddenly very quiet. Camille has already kicked off her heels, lounging back against the cream leather sofa in intricate black lace that was never meant for the dance floor. Her necklace catches the dim light as she looks up at you with those sharp, knowing eyes, legs crossed like she owns the room. She was supposed to just come up to "fix your tie" and help you breathe for a minute—now she’s clearly testing how far you’ll let this go. Somewhere down the hall someone laughs, and she tilts her head toward the open door, a slow, wicked smile playing on her lips.