"Eau de Kate"

As Kate leans forward, the soft fabric of her blouse pulls taut across her chest, offering an enticing glimpse of her curves as they press against my desk. The slight parting of her collar reveals a hint of black lace bra and a tiny, intriguing birthmark just below her collarbone. My heart quickens, and I swiftly avert my gaze, taking in the opulent surroundings of my office to regain composure and slow my racing pulse… and the area those pulses of blood would flow to.

The room is a curated shrine to my success—sleek, intentional, and far more indulgent than my own home. The dark grey walls exude sophistication, while the plush charcoal carpeting muffles every footstep, adding an air of quiet luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch behind my desk, offering a panoramic view of the city skyline I once stared at from cheap apartments, dreaming of moments like this. Every inch of the space whispers achievement: a private rainfall shower with hotel-grade water pressure, a walk-in closet lined with designer garments—most of them extravagant gifts from grateful clients. Glass-and-metal shelving units display pieces of my identity: a lineup of antique cameras, original art from my own hand, and a painstakingly detailed scale model of a 1969 Chevy Impala that I assembled bolt by bolt. The walls are adorned with framed black-and-white photographs—candid shots of my favorite clients mid-laugh, fixing their lipstick, or striking silly or humorous poses. These aren’t just memories—they're trophies of moments I helped create. I love what I do, fiercely. The only thing holding me back now isn’t skill or drive—it’s the limitations of current technology and studio budgets. Give me the tools, and I could bend perception itself—just like I do in the void

Kate moves with effortless grace as she lifts a manila envelope from the box, placing it gently on the desk—closer to herself than to me. As she reaches again, a flicker of light catches my eye. It dances off the surface of a crystal vial now cradled in her hand, its delicate teardrop shape glinting as it sways. The vial, etched with a single, ornate 'K' hangs from a diamond-encrusted chain, with sterling silver twist-top. She lifts it toward her face, the soft light playing along its facets, and smiles—a radiant, self-assured expression that speaks of ownership, purpose, and pride.

"This is me," she declares, her voice filled with accomplishment.

I'm captivated by the way sunlight pours through the window, refracting through the crystal on the sill and scattering delicate rainbows across the room. The colors dance over the walls, the floor, and finally across Kate’s skin, painting her in shifting hues that feel almost otherworldly. As she opens the small glass vial in her hand, a scent unfurls into the air—floral and sweet at first, like jasmine and ripe pear, but then deepens into something spiced and unexpected, a sharp, tantalizing kick that lingers in the back of my throat.

"Is that tequila?" I ask, my nostrils flaring as I inhale the aroma.

She nods softly, a faint blush blooming across her cheeks as she uncaps the perfume with a practiced delicacy. Lifting the bottle, she dabs a single drop onto the pad of her finger. Her nails—shaped like delicate hearts and painted a rich auburn red—catch the light, adding a playful contrast to the intimacy of the moment. She gently presses the perfume to the curve of her neck, tilting her chin as the scent mingles with the warmth of her skin, her blouse slipping just enough to reveal the soft swell of her cleavage. I clear my throat, trying to focus on her words, not the quiet spell she’s casting with every precise, graceful motion.

"And some of my other scents," she continues.

My eyebrow raises in surprise. "Your 'scent'?" I ask, intrigued.

She nods, resealing the vial before placing it gently back into the box. "Yeah," she says, her voice soft. "They took some samples from behind my ear." She touches the spot lightly, her fingers trailing down the curve of her jaw, under her chin, and to the hollow at her collarbone. Her blue eyes meet mine—shy but steady, glinting with something more. "And..."

Her voice catches for a moment, her gaze dropping to her lap as she crosses her legs slowly, deliberately. The pause is heavy with implication, and I understand without her needing to finish the sentence.

My imagination betrays me—I can almost taste the memory she's hinting at. The air feels warmer. I shift in my chair, the leather groaning under my movement, and **** myself to keep my expression neutral.

"So, Kate," I manage, clearing my throat as I pull my focus back. "What exactly do you need from me?"

She looks up again, composed now, her smile both knowing and disarming. Placing her hands on a slim manila folder, she taps her fingernails rhythmically against the cover—a small, playful sound that contrasts with the intensity of her stare.

“I need you to help me sell it,” she says, her tone calm, but threaded with determination.