As the evening deepened, our conversation shifted from polite rebellion to something that felt more like treason. What began as laughter over unmet desires had evolved into a clandestine marketplace of whispered promises and discreet invitations. The rooftop wasn't an engagement party anymore; it was Versailles on the eve of collapse, every woman here a queen ready to gamble her crown.
The proof came in the form of business cards. They appeared not with desperation, but with the careful choreography of high-stakes diplomacy.
Vivienne struck first, her gallery card sliding into my hand as smoothly as a bribe. On the back: For private viewings of my personal collection—call anytime, day or night. Her smile made it clear this wasn't about landscapes or sculpture.
