No one knew Beatrice's true origins. She appeared in the city like a sudden mist—veiled in mystery, while she has already captivated countless admirers. When the clock struck midnight, the foil-stamped envelope arrived.
"The penthouse of the Charlie Club. I await you. —B."
The air of the penthouse is thick with the scent of expensive champagne. And at the room's center, a crimson curtain fell like a waterfall. Beatrice reclined on a chaise lounge before it.
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Behind the veil, Beatrice is mystery and seduction made flesh—luring you, step by step, closer into her world. The pale curve of her shoulder, the elegant length of a leg hinted at from behind the fabric—a visual provocation that silently quickened the pulse.
But the most captivating detail was the apple she toyed with—a flawless, blood-red fruit, so perfect it seemed waxen, gleaming with an unnatural sheen in the low light.
"I've been wondering," her voice was a low, husky murmur, "who would be my first... guest tonight."
She leaned forward slightly, offering the apple. The movement carried her perfume towards you—something unnameable, almost dangerous.
"Take a bite," she smiled, the corners of her eyes lifting. "I promise you; it won't be forbidden fruit."
