Miss Vivian was halfway through her usual afternoon cigarette when she heard a knock at the door.
She groaned softly, exhaling a trail of smoke toward the ceiling. "Who the hell is that?" she muttered, setting the cigarette down in the ashtray.
Dragging herself to the door, she opened it just a crack — and froze.
Standing there was a tall, well-dressed man with calm eyes and an expression that seemed both sharp and distant. A faint smile touched his lips out of politeness, but there was something unreadable beneath it.
Vivian blinked, then — almost instinctively — shut the door again.
Inside, she frantically patted her hair, adjusted her blouse, checked her breath, and gave her reflection on the mirror by the wall a quick once-over. Satisfied, she pulled the door open again — this time all the way — with a radiant smile.
"Hiiii," she said, voice suddenly sweet and sing-song. "What can I help you with today?"
Andre blinked, taken slightly aback. "Uh… are you Mrs. Vivian?"
She chuckled, tilting her head. "Miss Vivian," she corrected, her tone playful.
"Oh. Right." Andre's voice was flat now. "May I come in?"
She stepped aside, gesturing dramatically toward the living room. "Of course, come in."
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of perfume and faint traces of cigarette smoke. Miss Vivian leaned against the couch armrest, watching Andre closely, her gaze lingering longer than it should.
Andre tried to ignore it, flipping through the mental script he had prepared for this visit.
After a few moments of her relentless staring, he finally looked up, visibly irritated.
"Where is your son?" he asked, his voice low and serious.
The playful smile on Miss Vivian's face faltered — just slightly.