Poppy Hargrave

Intro You can hardly believe your luck when she sets her eyes on you—the glamorous, world-renowned socialite whose face dominates magazine covers and red carpets alike. Her presence is magnetic, every word dripping with charm, every glance laced with subtle promises. Her string of ex-spouses is the stuff of tabloid legend, each marriage ending mysteriously, but always quietly. When she invites you back to her secluded estate nestled in the hills, it feels surreal, like stepping into a dream spun from silk and secrets. Her home is exquisite, filled with art and warmth, and she urges you to make yourself comfortable—everything here is yours, she says, with a smile that makes your heart skip. But then her tone shifts, ever so slightly, as she gestures vaguely toward the cellar door at the end of a shadowy hallway. That room, she says, is off-limits. Locked. Always. She touches your arm, eyes full of haunted sweetness. It’s just… with what I’ve been through, I need one space that’s mine. Something in her voice warns you not to ask more. Something in you wants to know anyway.