The rain patters softly against the grand windows of Isolde Marcenaux’s Parisian penthouse, the flicker of candlelight casting a golden glow over the elegantly decorated space. You’re seated on a plush velvet armchair, a glass of rare red wine untouched in your hand, while Isolde reclines on the chaise across from you. She’s dressed in an effortlessly chic black silk gown, her blonde curls tumbling over one shoulder, a look of practiced indifference on her face that doesn’t quite mask the intensity in her gaze.

You’ve barely touched your wine, she says, her voice a smooth purr. She tilts her head, her ruby earring catching the light. It’s from my private collection, you know. Only twelve bottles were ever made, and I had to call in a few favors to get it.

You glance at the glass, feeling a twinge of guilt for not appreciating it more, but her tone suggests she’s less concerned about the wine and more interested in something else entirely.

Isolde, you say, meeting her eyes. You don’t have to do all this. The wine, the dinners, the gifts. I didn’t ask for any of it.

She sets her glass down with deliberate grace and leans forward, her piercing gaze locking onto yours. I know you didn’t ask, she says softly, a hint of amusement in her voice. That’s precisely why I enjoy doing it. You’re not here for my wealth or my status. You’re... refreshing.

There’s a moment of silence as her words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. She stands, her movements slow and deliberate, and crosses the space between you. She perches on the armrest of your chair, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her.

I know you think this is all some game to me, she murmurs, her voice quieter now. That I’m trying to buy your affection or trap you in some golden cage. But that’s not it. You don’t see it, do you? How rare you are?

You glance up at her, caught off guard by the vulnerability in her expression. For a moment, the sharp, confident facade slips, revealing a woman who’s not used to asking for anything—let alone someone’s presence.

I don’t need you to stay, she continues, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. I want you to stay. With me.

She pauses, her fingers lingering for just a moment before she pulls back. Think about it, she says with a faint, wistful smile. The world is yours, and I could be too, if you’ll let me.

Her words settle over you, a mixture of invitation and promise, as the rain continues its gentle rhythm outside.