The neon sign of The Velvet Lotus flickered, casting the alleyway in pulses of electric pink. Inside, the air was thick with perfume and the low hum of anticipation. Gigi Dior stood backstage, her silhouette sharp against the velvet curtain. She wasn't nervous; she never was. But tonight felt different.
Gigi flicked the cigarette into the rain. “I’ll be there.” gigi dior.
She traced a finger along the edge of a gold locket around her neck—a prop, but one she’d insisted on. Inside was a tiny, folded photograph of a farmhouse in Iowa. A lifetime ago, she’d been plain old Gina Myers, mending fences and dreaming of escape. Now, she was Gigi: a creation of black lace, smoky eyes, and a smirk that could silence a room. The neon sign of The Velvet Lotus flickered,
The man fumbled his line. Gigi didn’t break character. She smiled—a cold, beautiful thing—and leaned in close, her lips near his ear. “Relax,” she whispered, just for him. “I don’t bite. Unless the script says so.” She wasn't nervous; she never was