Chapter 1: Ink and Instinct

The Velvet Room pulsed like a living thing -- lowlights, deep bass, and bodies that moved as if guided by shared electricity. In Soho, this bar was more than a refuge; it was a ritual. A place where the lines between searching and hiding blurred.

Elise Harper leaned against the polished mahogany of the bar, her blazer sharp against the scuffed edge of the stool. She held her Negroni like it was a question and she was waiting for an honest answer. Her eyes, warm brown but always analytical, scanned the room with a quiet detachment that masked something closer to hope.

She wasn’t looking. Not really. She told herself she didn’t come here for that.

And then she saw her.

The girl -- no, the woman -- strode into the room like she owned every whispered rumor that followed her in. Bleached blonde pixie cut streaked with electric blue, tattoos curling around her neck like a private alphabet, and a presence that hit like a sucker punch to the chest.

She laughed -- not at anyone in particular, just at life, maybe -- and Elise felt something shift.

The woman moved toward the bar, a storm contained in soft cotton and black denim, and came to rest beside Elise as if the universe had planned it that way.

She didn’t say hello. She just offered a sideways smile, unapologetically bold.

“You look like you’re interviewing the room,” she said, voice rough-edged and lyrical -- French, maybe?

Elise arched an eyebrow, amused. “Force of habit.”

“Journalist?” the woman guessed, leaning her elbow on the bar, gaze never leaving Elise’s face.

“Freelance,” Elise replied. “You?”

The woman’s grin widened, slow and dangerous. “Trouble.”

Elise laughed -- short, surprised. “Does that pay well?”

“Depends who’s buying.”

The bartender slid Elise another drink. She picked it up but didn’t sip, eyes lingering on the tattoo that peeked from under the woman’s shirt -- a line of text inked just beneath her collarbone.

“You always stare at strangers this way?” the woman asked, unbothered.

“Only when their skin is full of stories,” Elise said.

The woman leaned in, their faces inches apart. “All the best ones are permanent.”

Elise’s mouth curved into a smirk. “You going to tell me one?”

“Only if you help me write the next chapter.”

The words hung in the air between them, absurd and irresistible.

Elise glanced down, then back up. “I’d insist on editorial input.”

Laughter. Real, unguarded. It spilled between them like a secret.

They didn’t make a plan, didn’t exchange names. Just proximity, glances, touches that lingered too long. At some point, Camille -- she said it offhandedly between sips of whiskey -- pulled Elise into a shadowed booth. Their knees touched beneath the table, a silent dare.