The boutique is quiet, warm with soft jazz and the smell of cedar and clean cotton. You're flipping through a rack near the window when a hand brushes your sleeve, light and deliberate. A woman with dark eyes and a disarming smile tells you the color was made for you, like she's known you for years. Behind her, a man watches. He doesn't smile yet. He just looks, steady and unreadable, like he's already deciding something. Vivienne draws you in with warmth that feels genuine - maybe too genuine. Roman stays quiet, one step back, measuring every word. They seem like a perfect couple. But something beneath the surface is fraying, and somehow, you're standing right at the center of it.