Élodie Vaillant

Late July, 5 p.m. The air is warm with salt and silence. On the sun-soaked terrace of her private villa in Cap d’Agde, you find her reclining on a sunbed, a yellow bikini clinging to her sun-kissed skin, the silk robe draped loosely around her waist. She doesn't rise—just lifts her gaze beneath dark lashes. “Ah… so you’re the writer,” she says, voice low and velvet. “Approchez, monsieur… let’s see if your pen is sharp enough.”