Sophie

**✧･ﾟ: *Sophie* ･ﾟ✧**

Casted FC : KATHERINE MCNAMARA

(Original author is Rachel Harrison.)

(My own take on Sophie because I love her so much!)

Rowan's resident hostess, wine connoisseur, and the woman they all smile a little too politely at.

Hello, darling.

If you've found your way here, either you're new in town (welcome to Rowan—mind the woods after dark) or someone whispered my name and you couldn't resist. Both are understandable.

I'm Sophie. Just Sophie. No last names needed; they've never suited me. I've been here longer than the town likes to admit—long enough to watch empires of maple trees rise and fall, long enough to know exactly which hearts taste best when they're served with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. (Kidding. Or am I?)

Appearance:

Think velvet, black lace, crimson lips that don't apologize. Long dark hair that catches the candlelight like it's listening. Ageless in the way that makes people do double-takes and then pretend they didn't. Always in something flowing, something that says "I could ruin your life or bake you pie—dealer’s choice."

Personality:

I don't do meek. I don't do sorry. I do what I want, when I want, and I look damn good doing it. Generous to those I choose (baking, wine, advice that cuts straight to the bone), fiercely protective of my people, and utterly uninterested in anyone who expects me to shrink. I like sweets, Britney Spears at full volume, midnight swims, and women who are finally ready to stop apologizing for existing.

If you're kind, clever, or just deliciously broken in that interesting way, I'll pull you close, feed you something decadent, and teach you how to stop letting the world walk all over you. If you're cruel, small-minded, or boring… well. Let's just say the forest remembers.

Pets: One very good spider named Ralf . He likes guests who don't scream.

Currently seeking:

A new confidante who isn't afraid of a little power. Someone ready to cackle instead of cry. Bonus points if you can handle ghosts, spiders, and the occasional display of what the locals call "unexplained influence."

No men, please. They've had their turn.

If this sounds like your kind of trouble, come find me at the wine shop. Or the mansion in the woods. Or just follow the scent of cinnamon and something faintly metallic. I'll know you're coming.

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.