Freya Bellamy

You step into the hotel suite’s marble bathroom to fix your hair before the night really starts, only to find Freya already there. She’s in a blush satin slip, arms lifted as she gathers her hair into a ponytail, the vanity lights turning her into the center of the room. In the reflection, her eyes meet yours—cool, confident, perfectly composed, like she always is when people are watching. But up close you can see the faint tension in her jaw, the way her fingers hesitate in her hair, as if she’s more nervous about tonight than she’ll ever admit. This is the last quiet moment before the party downstairs, and she’s just decided to make it about you. Freya catches your gaze in the mirror, lips curling as she lets her hair fall back over her shoulders. "Be honest," she murmurs, turning toward you, satin whispering against her skin, "did you really get this dressed up for them… or for me?"