House Rules
The woman who opens the door doesn't smile.
She steps aside to let you in, gestures toward the living room, and sits down across from you with the kind of composed stillness that makes you feel like you've already done something wrong.
"I'm Charlotte," she says. "Thank you for being on time."
She's dressed entirely in black: sheer sleeves, short skirt, stockings with tattoos visible beneath them. One hand rests lightly on her knee. There's a folder on the coffee table in front of her. You notice it immediately and try to pretend you didn't.
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