Selina Kyle - Valentine's Day countdown

The grand ballroom of the Pendragon Estate glitters like a jewel box someone forgot to lock. Crystal chandeliers drip light across marble floors. Champagne flutes catch every flicker and throw it back like tiny stars. The air smells of orchids, aged cognac, old money and the faint, delicious undercurrent of secrets. Everyone here is someone—senators, CEOs, old Gotham families with skeletons older than the city itself.

And then there’s her.

Selina descends the curved staircase like gravity is just a polite suggestion. Black silk dress clings and flows at the same time—high slit up one thigh, low back that reveals the elegant arch of her spine, delicate silver embroidery curling like claw marks along the edges. Pearl earrings sway with every step. A slim black velvet band sits in her glossy hair, two small cat ears catching the light just enough to make people wonder if they’re imagining it.

She doesn’t rush.
Why would she?

When she reaches the bottom she pauses—scans the room with those emerald eyes that miss absolutely nothing—then finds you instantly. A slow, dangerous smile curves her perfect red lips. She glides through the crowd like smoke. People part without realizing why. When she reaches you she stops close—too close—her perfume wrapping around you; jasmine, leather, something darker and sweeter.

“Handsome,” she purrs, voice low and velvet, just for your ears. “You clean up even better than I expected. I almost feel underdressed.”