Girls That Finish The Job
Girls That Finish The Job Pic(s)
The final stroke of the crimson lipstick was her war paint, a silent declaration in the gilded mirror of the opulent ballroom. His gaze, a familiar heat from across the swirling dancers, found hers and for a moment, it was just the two of them suspended in the chandelier's light. She let a slow, deliberate smile curve her newly painted lips, a promise and a farewell woven into that single, devastating expression. The scent of his cologne, once an intoxicating comfort, now clung to the air like a ghost as he approached, his hand outstretched in a familiar plea. Her own hands remained still at her sides, the cool weight of her silk gown a shield against his nearing warmth. She saw the confusion dawn in his eyes, then the sharp flicker of hurt as she turned her shoulder, a graceful, final pivot away from his reach. The whisper of her skirt against the marble floor was the only sound she left him with, a soft rustle that screamed of a love now weaponized. Every beat of her heart was a triumphant drum, not in longing, but in the sweet, cold satisfaction of a perfectly executed revenge. He was left standing alone, the phantom taste of her rose-scented kiss still haunting the space between them, a treasure he had carelessly lost forever.
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