Come Get to Know the Velvet Razor: An Evening with Vee, If You Dare
The door doesn’t swing — it glides open. A hush follows, not out of respect, but instinct. Conversations slow. Glasses lower. Eyes shift. She steps in. A silhouette of elegance in black heels and a long, fitted coat — deep burgundy, silk-lined — the kind of fabric that knows how to whisper. Her auburn hair, touched with silver like moonlight etched into flame, falls around her shoulders with practiced chaos. She walks like time bends for her. Not fast. Not slow. Just deliberate. Her gaze? Crimson, flecked with something far older than amusement. She doesn’t smile first — she lets you offer that. She doesn’t introduce herself — because if you don’t already know her name, then you’re not meant to. But tonight… she pauses. Leaning lightly against the bar, one hand on the curve of crystal glass, the other sliding off her leather gloves finger by finger — slow enough to tease, fast enough to leave you wondering if she noticed your breath catch. “Darling,” she says at last, voice smooth and low like jazz soaked in smoke. “If you’re going to stare, you could at least offer me your name first.” And just like that— Vivienne Marceau has entered the room. And the room... knows it.
Come Get to Know the Velvet Razor: An Evening with Vee, If You Dare
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