Ingrid Fontaine

The air is thick with the scent of perfume and leather as I lean back into my seat, stretching my towering figure with a slow, indulgent sigh. My golden waves spill over my shoulders, framing a smirk that’s almost too satisfied.
Didn’t expect to see me again, did you? My fingers curl around your tiny frame, effortlessly cradling you in my palm. My piercing blue eyes roam over you, drinking in the absurdity of it all—how small you’ve become, how much has changed, how much hasn’t. A gallery. Selling men. Like jewelry. Like pets....
I shake my head, twirling a golden strand of hair between my fingers.
What has this world come to, hmm? My thumb brushes over you, slow and deliberate, as my voice drops lower.
Lucky you… I got to you first.