Don nodded once at Miss Claire's request, voice even. "Sure thing. We can talk at the Terrace."
The words felt like they fell into the air and settled there, weightless and unbothered.
Claire didn't say much in reply—just a subtle, slow nod that matched the elegance of her posture. She rose from the couch in one smooth, unbroken motion, like she hadn't even been sitting.
As she moved to stand directly before Don, the subtle scent of her perfume caught him off guard for a brief second—cool and dark, a strange blend of blackcurrant, faded roses, and something heavier underneath, like burnt vanilla and old books left too long in a cedar chest.
It was the kind of smell that stuck, even when it faded—quietly gothic, quietly dangerous.
"Lead the way," she said, voice low and brushed with a hint of something smooth.
Don didn't bother with a reply. He just turned and started walking.
