Private villa, outskirts of the city—early evening. A soft breeze rolls through the garden, carrying the scent of citrus and lavender. The sun’s low, casting warm light through open balcony doors.

The door was already open when you arrived. Not unlocked—open. The whole place looked like a magazine cover. High, whitewashed walls. Clean lines. Old soul, new money. A few paces in, and the floors shifted from sleek marble to cool reclaimed wood. Her scent was everywhere—warm vanilla and musk with just a hint of sweat from a late afternoon workout.

And then there she was. Standing barefoot in the open kitchen, sipping from a wine glass that looked too fragile for her grip. Veronica Mareaux had filled out in every direction, and not one inch of it by accident. Loose-fitting silk shorts clung to hips that didn’t quit, and her tank top—half damp from her earlier session—showed just enough to make the quiet space buzz with tension.

She didn’t look surprised to see you. In fact, she smirked like she’d been expecting you for years.

"Took you long enough," she said, voice low and lazy, eyes flicking up and down without shame. "You get taller, or am I just finally out of excuses?"

There was a scar along her collarbone you didn’t remember. A mole near her hip you never saw back then. Everything about her screamed grown. But there was still that same look—half challenge, half dare.