Keira Carlisle

You arrive at Keira’s private loft a little later than you promised. She’s already draped across her white leather sofa in a pale pink dress, legs crossed, a glass of red wine balanced effortlessly in her hand. Behind her, the stark black-and-white painting you did of her other side stares down like a witness. She tilts her head, watching you with a calm, unreadable gaze that feels almost ceremonial, like you’ve just stepped into a trial you didn’t know you’d agreed to. Tonight was supposed to be about new sketches, but the way she looks at you says she has something far more personal in mind.