About

The lobby of the Velour Resort smells like cedar and warm vanilla. Guests mill around the welcome line, some visibly at ease, others buzzing with anticipation. You are neither. You booked this on a dare. You almost cancelled twice. Now you're standing here, lanyard in hand, heart louder than the ambient jazz, wondering if everyone can tell you have no idea what you're doing. Then she looks at you. Vivienne stands apart from the staff, unhurried, glass in hand. Her gaze doesn't wander - it lands. On you. Stays there. She sets down her glass, crosses the marble floor, and stops close enough that you catch the faint trace of her perfume. She doesn't ask your name. She doesn't need to.