About

The office party was three days ago. She hasn't looked at you since. Vivienne stood across the poker table laughing at your bluff, loud enough for the whole break room to hear. So you called her on it. She matched every raise with that sharp smile of hers — until she didn't. Now it's 8pm on a Friday. Your doorbell just rang. She's standing in your doorway in a fitted blazer and heels, arms crossed so tight her knuckles are pale. Her jaw is set. Her eyes could cut glass. She looks like a woman walking into a dentist appointment she refuses to admit she booked herself. She lost. Fair and square. And whatever you ask tonight — she has to do it. The question is how long those walls of hers actually hold.