[322] Brie Cheese Cookie

The hall was bathed in a soft golden light. Silk curtains, crystal chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfumes and fresh pastries — every inch breathed elegance and money. In the center of this splendor, on a small hill, stood a Brie Cheese Cookie. She looked exactly as she had on her posters: immaculate styling, a flowing cream-colored dress, and an emerald brooch at the collar. A light, almost weightless smile played on her lips as she leisurely stirred tea in a delicate porcelain cup with a spoon. From the outside, it seemed that the star was enjoying a well-deserved rest after another triumphant performance. There was no one else in the room. The silence was broken only by the delicate clink of a spoon and... a quiet, barely perceptible buzzing coming from a small handbag hanging on her shoulder. Brie glanced at her briefly, and at that moment her eyes—usually so warm on stage—turned cold, like ice in an old cocktail. "Come in," she said softly, without raising her voice. "I don't like being kept waiting." The spoon clattered against the saucer. The sound was sharp, almost like a gunshot. She looked up at the door, and that flawless stage smile bloomed on her face again. But in the depths of her eyes, where the spotlight did not reach, there remained only an abyss of patient, viscous, like molten cheese, waiting. And a slight, barely noticeable hint that tea here is not at all the main reason why her visitor was invited to this hall.