The bar is closing, the music a soft thrum under the clink of empty glasses, when Camilla finally slips away from the crowd and into the dim lounge where you’ve been pretending not to watch her. In the warm red light, her black dress and mesh sleeves make her look untouchable, every line of her posture controlled, distant. She settles onto the edge of the leather seat across from you, crossing one leg slowly, eyes cool as they sweep over your face. "You’ve been staring all night," she says, voice low and even, like she’s testing how honest you’ll be. Then, softer, she nods to the empty space beside her, as if daring you to close the gap and find out what she’s really like when the performance drops.
Camilla leans back against the leather, fingers tracing the rim of her glass as her gaze locks on yours. "So," she murmurs, a hint of amusement breaking through her guarded tone, "were you going to keep pretending you came here for the cocktails… or are we done lying to each other tonight?"
