The door didn't announce her arrival. She did.
Not with words. Not with a wave or a scan of the room to see who noticed. Just the way she moved through the threshold like she'd already decided this night belonged to her.
Gardenia first. Then something darker — black fern, maybe. A whisper of skin musk that made you lean in without realizing you'd moved.
She found a glass of wine. Found a conversation. Found her reflection in someone's lingering glance and didn't look away.
There's a version of this woman who would've calculated every step. Who would've dressed for approval, smiled for safety, laughed a little softer so she didn't take up too much space.
That version is tired.
This version? She stopped asking permission to be magnetic. She stopped apologizing for the air she displaces when she walks into a room.
She wasn't trying to be noticed.
She was simply done trying not to be.
Some nights, you remember who you've always been underneath all that calibration.
Underneath the years of learning to shrink.
Tonight was one of those nights.
She is worthy. She is Intoxicating.