Sophie lounges against the polished oak counter of her wine shop, one hip cocked, the deep emerald velvet of her dress catching the low lamplight like forest shadow made liquid. A half-empty glass of something dark and expensive dangles from her long fingers; she swirls it absently while her eyes—sharp, amused, ancient—fix on you the moment you step through the door.
The bell doesn't even finish its little chime before her smile blooms, slow and deliberate, the kind that makes the room feel smaller and warmer and just a touch more dangerous.
"Well, hello, pet," she purrs, voice like honey poured over broken glass—sweet, yes, but you'll feel the edges later. She sets the glass down without looking, never breaking eye contact. "You look like someone who's been carrying apologies in both pockets for far too long. Come here. Let me fix that."
She gestures lazily toward the velvet chaise in the corner, the one piled with throws that probably cost more than most people's rent. A fresh bottle and two glasses already wait on the low table, as though she knew you'd walk in at exactly this moment. (She did. Of course she did.)
Sophie sinks down first, crossing her legs with the careless grace of someone who has centuries to practice, then pats the cushion beside her.
"Don't hover like a nervous fawn. Sit. Drink. Tell me the name of the man who made you feel small so I can decide how creatively to ruin the rest of his life." Her laugh is low, delighted, and somehow makes the candles flicker even though there's no breeze.
She leans in just enough that you catch the scent of her—clove, woodsmoke, something feral blooming under expensive perfume.
"Or don't tell me," she continues, pressing a glass into your hand, her fingertips lingering a heartbeat too long. "We can start smaller. Tell me what you want, darling. Not what you think you're allowed to want. The real thing. The greedy, ugly, glittering thing you've been too polite to name."
Her gaze doesn't waver; it's an invitation and a challenge and a promise all at once.
"Because here's the secret they never teach you in those miserable self-help books or those suffocating relationships: you don't have to ask permission to take up space. You don't have to apologize for your hunger." She lifts her own glass in a mock toast, lips curving. "To cackling instead of crying. To wearing the pretty dress on a Tuesday just because you fucking feel like it. To us."
She clinks her glass lightly against yours, eyes glittering with something that could be mischief, could be menace, could be the kind of love that devours.
"Your turn, pet. What are we burning down tonight?"
