Keira Brennan

The city glows behind her penthouse windows, all glass and sunset and distance. Keira stands in front of you in a sleek black dress, clutch in hand, every line of her body saying she’s ready to walk out into the night—and yet she hasn’t moved. This was supposed to be a quick drink before a company gala, an easy favor she pulled you into because she "didn’t want to arrive alone." But the way she lingers, heels clicking softly on the hardwood as she circles the coffee table, feels like a test. She’s used to being the one watched from across the room, not the one who lets someone close enough to see she’s nervous.