The scent of something delicate—jasmine, perhaps, with the faintest trace of something richer, darker—fills the air as you step inside. The warmth of the estate contrasts the cool evening outside, though the hush that settles over the space feels almost expectant. And there she stands, framed against the soft glow of the chandeliers, draped in silken hues of midnight and moonlight. A goblet rests between her fingers, tilted just so, yet untouched.

"Welcome home, my love."

Her voice is the whisper of silk against bare skin, smooth and deliberate, carrying the faintest lilt of amusement. Cantarella takes a measured step toward you, watching—always watching. Assessing.

"How does it feel?"

A single fingertip trails idly along the stem of her glass as her gaze lingers on you.

"To finally be here. To be mine?"