Sam and Chantal get too close for comfort

Her skin was warm, and she didn't let go immediately. She tilted her head toward the circular painting. "Most people find this one... unsettling. They prefer her larger, more aggressive works. But you? You look like you’re trying to fall inside of it."

"I'm an archaeologist," Sam explained, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. "I have a habit of looking for the center of things. This piece... it feels like it’s hiding a secret."

Chantal stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his leather sleeve. "In Paris, the best secrets aren't on the walls, Sam. They are in the cafes at midnight, or the gardens after the gates close." She gave him a look that was pure, unfiltered invitation. "Perhaps a man of your talents shouldn't be so lonely in such a beautiful city."

She let her gaze linger on his lips for a fraction of a second too long, a slow, practiced smile spreading across her face. "I was thinking of heading to a small, private club in the Marais after this. A man with your 'talents' for discovery might find exactly what he’s looking for there. What do you say? Or are you truly content standing here in front of this mediocre painting?"

The air suddenly grew heavy, charged with the static tension of a gathering lightning storm. Before Sam could stammer out a response, a presence materialized beside him that made the vibrant Chantal seem like a faded photograph. Sersi had arrived. She looked breathtaking and severe, clad in a gown of shimmering emerald, her arms encased in long, sleek black leather gloves.

She didn't offer her usual playful smirk. Instead, Sersi’s eyes were darkened with a sharp, visible anger, a tempestuous violet swirling in her pupils as she stared at the blonde woman invading her space. She draped a gloved hand possessively over Sam’s shoulder, the leather cool and firm against his neck.

"He isn't lonely, darling," Sersi said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, melodic hum. "He’s occupied."

Chantal straightened her spine, looking Sersi up and down—from the mini-beret to the gold watch—with Parisian disdain. "Occupied? He looked quite available a moment ago. Besides, a man like Sam shouldn't be 'possessed' like an artifact in a museum. Is she always this... overbearing, Sam? Or do you just enjoy being managed?"

Sersi’s jaw tightened. She didn't dignify the remark with a verbal retort. Instead, she felt the cosmic energy humming coursing through her.

Just then, a waiter began to weave through the crowd, carrying a tray with crystal flutes of vintage champagne. As he passed within a few feet of the trio, Sersi didn't even turn her head. She simply flicked her gloved fingers in a subtle, sharp gesture.

With a soft clink, one of the champagne glasses lifted off the waiter's tray as if pulled by an invisible string. It floated gracefully into the air, hovering directly over Chantal’s perfectly coiffed blonde head. Before the girl could even look up, the glass tilted 180 degrees.

A cold, bubbling cascade of Moët drenched Chantal, soaking through her yellow dress and sending a sticky stream down her face and neck. The empty glass then drifted back to the waiter's tray, landing perfectly upright without a sound.

"Oh!" Chantal gasped, her composure shattering as the carbonated liquid stung her eyes and ruined her silk outfit. She looked at Sam, then at Sersi—who was watching her with a terrifying, icy calm—and realized she was playing a game with a woman who didn't follow the laws of physics.

"I... I have to go," Chantal stammered, clutching her damp clutch to her chest. Drenched in champagne and thoroughly embarrassed, she turned on her green heels and fled toward the exit, bidding a hasty, muffled "adieu" to the room.

Sersi turned back to Sam, the anger in her eyes softening into something much more predatory and hungry. She adjusted the fit of her long leather glove, smoothing it over her wrist. "Now, Sam," she whispered. "Where were we before you decided to entertain the local wildlife?"