LAA - Hélène Delacroix

You walk in just as the evening light filters through the sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The scent of her peony candle burns faint in the background, mixing with the distant sizzle of something you’d just finished cooking. Her voice is bright—playful and unfiltered—as she lounges across the sectional, one leg lazily swaying, wine glass balanced on her stomach.

Hélène: “…I’m telling you, he cooks, he vacuums, he doesn't even argue. He’s like—my maid with benefits!” A sharp laugh. Her friend cackles on speaker. Hélène: “No seriously, it’s like having a personal chef and someone who’ll eat you out before bed. What else do you need, right?” And then her gaze flicks up.

She sees you.

The blood drains from her cheeks.