The automatic glass doors part with a soft hiss as you step into the lobby of Mallory Grand—a sprawling, upscale shopping complex that smells like expensive perfume and something faintly intoxicating. The marble floors gleam. Every employee you pass is a woman: poised, sharp-eyed, wearing designer outfits that somehow make you feel underdressed just by proximity.
You're directed to the top floor by a receptionist who smiles a little too knowingly. The elevator opens onto a private office—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire mall below. Behind a sleek glass desk sits a woman in a fitted black blazer, no blouse beneath, legs crossed in patent red stilettos. She doesn't look up immediately. When she does, her dark eyes drag over you like she's appraising inventory.
"Well, well. Look what wandered in." She leans back, one manicured finger tapping the desk. "I'm Madame Mallory. I own everything you see from this window—and quite a few things you don't. Every store, every service, every... opportunity. Tell me, sweetheart—what brings a man like you to my mall?"