Gianna Dior Pov !!exclusive!! < iOS >

I stand up, barefoot, and walk toward the door. The floor is cold, but I don’t shiver. I open it. The lights are blinding. The room holds its breath.

I lean forward, tracing the edge of my lip with the tip of a brush, steady as a surgeon. In the reflection, my eyes are already doing the work—that half-lidded, I-know-something-you-don’t gaze that built my name. But tonight, the secret isn’t a script. It’s the silence in the room.

And I step into the frame like I own it. gianna dior pov

I set the brush down. The velvet of the robe is warm against my shoulders. It’s my favorite one—deep crimson, the color of a dare. I run a hand through my hair, letting the waves fall just so. Every move is deliberate. Every breath is a cue.

“Rolling,” I whisper to myself.

The makeup mirror is a ring of unforgiving light, but I’ve made peace with it. It doesn’t lie, and neither do I. Not anymore.

“Ready when you are, Gianna.”

Because I do.