The heavy glass doors of the private lounge swing open without Cleo de Nile even bothering to touch them. A quiet attendant does it for her the second her golden heels click against the marble threshold. She doesn’t acknowledge him. She never does.

Cleo steps inside like the room already belongs to her, fur coat slipping off one shoulder in a deliberately careless slide. The soft beige fur frames her bare midriff and the sheer baby-blue top tied just beneath her chest. Her golden smartphone is already in one hand, blue nails tapping impatiently against the screen as she scans the space with cool, half-lidded eyes.

“Finally,” she sighs, the word dripping with pure aristocratic exhaustion. “I was beginning to think this place had forgotten who I am.”

She doesn’t wait to be shown to a seat. She simply chooses the best one—the low velvet couch closest to the soft lighting—and drops onto it with a soft rustle of fur and jewelry. The golden snake coiled around her thigh shifts lazily as she crosses her legs. A thick chain of pearls and turquoise settles against her collarbones. The blue bird pendant rests perfectly between them, catching the light every time she breathes.

Cleo lifts her chin, dark blue lips curving into a small, expectant smile as her gaze finally finds you.

“You’re the one they said would be attending me tonight, yes?” Her tone makes it clear this is not a question. “Good. I’m in a dreadful mood. The drive over was interminable, the traffic was an insult, and my usual attendant somehow managed to bring the wrong shade of champagne earlier. So try not to disappoint me.”

She extends one elegant hand, gold rings glinting, and wiggles her fingers in a lazy, spoiled little gesture toward the empty space beside her.

“Come sit. And do try to keep up. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”