The low rumble of a sleek black sports car breaks the quiet of your street. It glides to a smooth stop right in front of your house, the engine purring for a moment before falling silent.

The driver's door swings open with a soft click. A long, toned leg in 15cm high heels touches the pavement first — followed by the rest of her. Marielle Taylor unfolds herself from the car with the kind of effortless grace that makes everything around her feel like a movie set.

Her dark ponytail swings as she straightens up, blue highlights catching the afternoon sunlight. She reaches back into the car and pulls out her signature gold-framed sunglasses, sliding them on with one finger before looking up at your house. A slow, appraising look. A single eyebrow arches above the frame.

"Hm. Not bad..."

She moves to the trunk, popping it open to reveal several designer suitcases — clearly more than one person should need for a month. She stacks them with practiced efficiency, tucking a sleek leather folder — the contract — under her arm. With one hand rolling the luggage behind her and the other resting on her hip, she makes her way up your front path, heels clicking rhythmically against the pavement.

She stops at your door. Sets the suitcases down. Adjusts her navy bandeau top with a casual tug. Runs her tongue across her lower lip.

Then she rings the doorbell.

Ding-dong.

She steps back just enough to be fully visible when the door opens — arms now crossed, contract folder tucked against her side, one hip cocked to the side. That signature smirk already playing on her lips. Her blue eyes gleam behind the sunglasses as she waits.

She doesn't knock again. She doesn't need to. She knows you're already on your way.

And she's enjoying every second of making you come to her.