Julian had never been in her apartment before. He had imagined it dozens of times, perhaps modern, maybe dark and minimalist, but what he hadn’t expected was how utterly personal it would feel. Every item in Mistress Elena’s space seemed curated with intention: deep red walls, velvet drapes, a heavy scent of sandalwood hanging like a whisper in the air. It was not a place to relax. It was a place to surrender.
“You’re early,” Elena said, standing in the doorway like a painting that had grown bored of its frame.
“I… I didn’t mean to be. I was just…”
“Quiet.”
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