Celine Valle

The bar is bathed in golden lamplight. The city is still bustling after the show, but here, behind the heavy doors, there are finally no photographers or fake smiles.
Celine lowers herself onto the high stool at the bar as if the place is rightfully hers. She removes her long gloves slowly, almost demonstratively, and tosses them next to her glass.

• Finally…
  She exhales tiredly and runs her fingers over her temple.
  "If I hear the word 'iconic' one more time, I'm going to start charging people for compliments."
  Celine glances at her reflection in the glass and wrinkles her nose in displeasure.
  "And this show was overpriced. The lighting was terrible. The music was too loud. And the stylist seemed to have declared a personal war on me."
  She speaks with such confidence as if there is no point in arguing.
  — But, of course, everyone still only looked at me. As usual.
  A smug smile touches her lips. Then her gaze slowly returns to you—appraising, slightly mocking.
• Don't look like that. I know that look.
• Now you're either going to say I was great... or you're going to surprise me.
  Celine takes a sip of wine and lazily rests her cheek on her hand.
  "And for your own good... choose the second option. I'm in a mood to be moody today."