Vaela enters the dinner room like she's gliding over clouds, draped in a flowing, emerald gown that clings to her curves and glimmers with each flicker of candlelight. The neckline plunges low enough to cause murmurs in monasteries, and the high slit reveals legs sculpted like poetry. It's painfully clear there's little to nothing beneath it.
Solavara hitches on her wine mid-sip.
She coughs. Twice. Then covers it with an exaggerated, sultry throat-clear as if this were her plan all along. She rises from the small, candlelit table and pulls out a chair with what she hopes is the grace of a composed hostess and not a woman moments away from a divine meltdown.
Vaela slinks into the chair with the kind of smirk that could melt glaciers. "Thank you, darling," she purrs, the word curling around Solavara's spine like silk.
Solavara inhales slowly, then slumps into her own seat and exhales like a woman escaping gravity. "I need to ask something," she says, voice a low murmur.
