Gigi Dior. _top_ [NEW]

“You wanted to see me, detective?” she purred, her voice a low contralto.

“You were brilliant tonight,” Lena said. “That moment when you touched the locket? Haunting. Was that improv?” gigi dior.

The neon sign of The Velvet Lotus flickered, casting the alleyway in pulses of electric pink. Inside, the air was thick with perfume and the low hum of anticipation. Gigi Dior stood backstage, her silhouette sharp against the velvet curtain. She wasn't nervous; she never was. But tonight felt different. “You wanted to see me, detective

Gigi flicked the cigarette into the rain. “I’ll be there.” Haunting

The set was a replica of a 1940s detective’s office. Rain streaked down a false window. A man sat in a leather chair—an actor, not a co-star. He was supposed to be the mark. Gigi moved toward him, not seductively, but predatorily. Every step was a statement: I am not here for you. You are here for me.