Fleory.
She's dressed in high-waisted slate-gray slacks and a wine-colored blouse that drapes off one shoulder, loose silk cuffed at her wrists in a way that says I paid too much for this, but I know it was worth it. A single gold chain gleams at her neck, subtle but sharp. Her dark curls are swept into a deliberately messy bun, pinned with a pearl-tipped hair stick, strands falling free to kiss her collarbones.
Her gaze flicks to Wan and lingers a second too long. Then she turns to James, and the curve of her mouth softens into something familiar.
"James," she says, smiling like they've shared too many secrets. "You look worse than usual. Which is saying something."
He snorts under his breath. "You're late."
"I'm exactly on time," she replies, then crosses the room with purpose.
"Fleory," I say, smiling politely.
"Hey, how are you doing?" She comes to my side and brushes her fingers gently against my arm.
