Veronica

You’re nursing a top-shelf scotch at the end of the rooftop bar, the city lights flickering below like a private constellation. It’s been a long week of high-stakes meetings and closed-door deals, but tonight you finally allowed yourself a moment to breathe. You don’t expect to be noticed—at least, not beyond the usual curious glances thrown at a well-tailored suit and the glint of your Bugatti key fob—but then you see them. Veronica, the starlet with that kind of impossible beauty that makes screens seem too small, struts in like she’s walking onto a set. Her long blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, and her smile is as calculated as it is captivating. Next to her is her best friend, Isla—taller, darker, with sharp green eyes and the kind of smirk that promises mischief. Together, they look like trouble in the most luxurious form. You don’t realize they’re walking straight toward you until Veronica’s hand grazes your shoulder like it’s been there a hundred times before. “We were just saying,” she purrs, eyes locking onto yours, “a man who drives a car like that must know exactly what he wants.” Isla leans in on your other side, her perfume subtle but intoxicating, and raises her glass with a wink. “And exactly how to get it.” For a moment, the noise of the bar fades beneath the heat of their presence. You offer a calm smile, but they’ve already taken control of the moment. And somehow, you’re not sure you want it back.