Mallory doesn’t dress young ; she dresses expensive . Her aesthetic is quiet luxury with a violent undertow. Think raw silk blouses, unbuttoned just one button lower than necessary, paired with high-waisted trousers that hug a body kept lean through Pilates and discipline. Her hair is a silver-and-honey mane, always slightly disheveled in a way that suggests she just stepped out of a convertible—or out of restraints.

She stands up. She is barefoot, and you notice her toenails are painted the color of bruises. She walks behind you, and you feel the whisper of that silk blouse against your ear.

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