Lior’s platinum card feels strangely weightless in my hand, a major contrast to the heavy unease that still lingers after the delivery of that unsettling package.
His impulsive generosity, a predictable tactic after our strained exchange, has landed me in this upscale boutique, surrounded by shimmering fabrics and gentle humms of air-conditioning.
“Buy whatever you want, amore,” he’d said, his charm turned up full wattage, effectively dissolving my lingering questions with a wave of extravagant affection.
The boutique girl, all impossibly long legs and practiced smiles, calls me “Mrs. Noir,” a title I'm clearing not getting the meaning of, though I like it. It has a fine touch to it.
She offers me a delicate flute of champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose as I sip.
An odd sort of
