The opulent sanctuary of Sarai Monroe's private hostel room felt less like a retreat and more like a velvet-wrapped trap. Every inch of it shimmered with the curated ambition of a rising fashion icon—glossy Milan Fashion Week posters, a perfectly arranged wall of Chanel and Dior mood boards, sketches pinned with diamond-studded tacks. But tonight, the room's beauty only amplified the chaos tightening around her.
The warm, decadent scent of her vanilla-amber perfume still floated in the air, but now it tangled harshly with the sharp heat of anger. The crystal chandelier overhead bathed everything in a soft, flattering glow—except the tension between them, which cut through the room like glass. The full-length mirror across from her reflected a version of Sarai she suddenly didn't recognize: a woman dressed to conquer, now cornered.
