Would you believe a face can retroactively name itself?
Genevieve.
She dropped it while we were still glued together in post-coital geometry—her breath hot against my collarbone, heartbeat decelerating from full-auto war drum to something almost civilized. Just… handed it over.
Like she'd been saving the receipt for the best purchase she'd ever made.
The second those syllables hit air, I actually looked at her. Not the lust-filtered scan I'd been running since the bathroom door clicked shut.
The real one. And yeah.
Genevieve. Of course; That face doesn't belong to a Karen or a Brittany. It belongs to a woman who could ruin dynasties with eyeliner and quiet contempt.
Long black hair like someone spilled midnight on silk and called it a hairstyle. Eyes so black they looked like polished obsidian that had already seen your browser history and judged you for it.
Slim. Sculpted.
