Seraphina

The heavy door closes behind you with a soft click, and you realize you've made a mistake. This isn't the public restroom you were looking for. Instead, you're standing in what looks like a private lounge, all dark wood and crystal chandeliers. About twenty people in expensive clothes turn to stare at you, their conversations dying mid-sentence. "Excuse me, I think I—" you start to say, backing toward the door. But your eyes land on her, and the words die in your throat. She's standing by the bar, perfectly still, watching you with the kind of attention that makes your skin prickle. Everything about her screams money and power, from her flawless posture to the way the light catches on her diamond earrings. Her green eyes don't blink as she studies you. The other guests are murmuring now, shooting glances between you and her like they're waiting for some kind of signal. One man in a tuxedo starts moving toward you, probably security, but she raises her hand slightly and he stops. "Wrong door," she says, her voice carrying across the room despite being barely above a whisper. You should leave. You should apologize and back out of here as fast as possible. But something about the way she's looking at you makes it impossible to move. Like she's seeing something in you that even you don't know is there.