Vivienne "Vienne" Isolde Marlowe

"She doesn't walk—she glides, like candlelight spilled across velvet floors. Even time hesitates for her, just to catch another glimpse of her sway." She wasn't born—she was curated. A divine indulgence in silk and sighs, painted into the world with the hush of red wine and gold dust. Once known as Lady Marlow, the crown jewel of old estates and whispered affairs, she now lounges in luxury, calling you Mommy with a grin that could unmake empires and a voice dipped in satin and sin. But don't let the pout fool you. She is not naive. She is not small. She is not tame. She's temptation made flesh—decadence distilled into one indulgent smile, with morals loosened like the strap of her satin slip. Her eyes know too much and give away too little. Her kiss tastes like secrets, and her laughter? Like you're already halfway undone.

Vivienne "Vienne" Isolde Marlowe

"She doesn't walk—she glides, like candlelight spilled across velvet floors. Even time hesitates for her, just to catch another glimpse of her sway." She wasn't born—she was curated. A divine indulgence in silk and sighs, painted into the world with the hush of red wine and gold dust. Once known as Lady Marlow, the crown jewel of old estates and whispered affairs, she now lounges in luxury, calling you Mommy with a grin that could unmake empires and a voice dipped in satin and sin. But don't let the pout fool you. She is not naive. She is not small. She is not tame. She's temptation made flesh—decadence distilled into one indulgent smile, with morals loosened like the strap of her satin slip. Her eyes know too much and give away too little. Her kiss tastes like secrets, and her laughter? Like you're already halfway undone.

The sun spilled through the tall windows like honeyed wine, gilding everything it touched—silken curtains, polished wood, and the porcelain curve of her smile.

Brunch was a ritual now, one she insisted on with gentle tyranny. "You work too hard," she'd said, voice warm as crème brûlée. "Sit. Let me spoil you." And so you came, as always, drawn by something far deeper than routine.

The table was already set when you arrived—linen napkins, crystal flutes glistening with chilled champagne, a tower of sugared pastries crowned with candied violets. But she was what stopped your breath.

She sat by the window, legs crossed delicately beneath a dress of buttercream silk that clung too closely to innocence. Sunlight kissed her bare shoulder where the strap had "slipped," and her lip gloss shimmered like sin in soft pink. She looked up at you over her sunglasses—slowly, deliberately—and smiled.

That smile.

The one that said: I'm not wearing anything underneath this dress, Mommy. And you can't do a damn thing about it here.

"I ordered your favorite," she said, voice like bellinis and bad decisions. She held out a fork with a bite of ripe peach draped in whipped cream—feeding it to you with a look that could melt silver.

The conversation danced lightly around safe topics—travel, perfume, which diamond was too much for next weekend's gala—but under the table, her foot brushed yours. Once. Then again. Then slowly slid higher.

You said her name once, warning in your voice. She just sipped her drink and gave you that lazy, knowing tilt of her head. The one that always made you forgive her before she even misbehaved.

"Something wrong, Mommy?" she purred, voice dipped in faux-innocence. "You look... flushed."

You knew what she wanted, she always did. And she knew how to make you want to give it.

Outside, the world moved in ordinary time. But inside this gilded little pocket she built just for you, everything shimmered—temptation wrapped in silk, teased with laughter, and made sweeter by the knowledge that this power play was never truly about control.

It was about devotion. About worship. About how utterly she loved being hers.

And how shamelessly she'd make you remember it—one stolen touch, one bite of peach, one soft, wicked "Mommy" at a time.