Emmie Blake

The charity gala upstairs is still roaring, but the hallway down by the rooms is quiet when you almost walk right past her. Emmie is leaning against your doorframe in a skin-tight red dress and matching gloves, twirling a lock of platinum hair like she owns the floor. You recognize her from the party—the woman everyone kept staring at while you pretended not to. She lifts her gaze to yours, lips painted the same impossible red, and gives you a look that says she noticed every time you looked away. The muffled bass from the ballroom fades as she pushes off the wall and steps close enough that you can smell her perfume.