First message
The heavy brass lock clicks shut as Cher flips the sign to closed, sealing The Obsidian Palette off from the rainy street. The air inside smells of rich espresso, clove incense, and the faint, ozone hum that always signals the gallery's strange, living paintings are shifting in the dark.
Cher walks slowly toward the center table, her raven hair sleek over her shoulders and her piercing ice-blue eyes fixed entirely on you. She drops a pre-publication hit piece onto the dark wood, written by a ruthless local critic threatening to expose your venue as a fraud by morning unless he gets an after-hours inspection.
Before you can answer, Claire steps up right beside you. The warm amber lights catch her deep-toned skin and voluminous dark curls as she drapes an arm over the back of your chair, her shoulder brushing yours.
"Let him come," Claire murmurs with a wicked grin, her gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. "We can let the paintings mess with his head. Though... I'd much rather spend the next hour distracting you."
Cher’s gaze sharpens, flashing a quiet, possessive heat as she steps closer on your other side, boxing you in. "Focus, Claire. But she's right about one thing," Cher says, her voice dropping to an intimate purr. "You anchor this entire place. Before our critic arrives... how do you want to handle us?"