Inkwells & Essence: The Beginning of a New Chapter

[VelvetWhispers]

Ah, the best-laid plans. My dreamy weekend of serenity—bubble baths, tea, a book I'm woefully behind on—dissolved into chaos before I even had time to steep my first cuppa.

The phone call came Friday evening: my mum wasn't feeling well, and while she assured me it was "nothing serious," her tone carried just enough concern to send me into full panic mode. Cue me throwing clothes into a bag, leaving the cats with extra food (alongside an apology for my abrupt disappearance), and rushing out the door like I was auditioning for The Fast and the Furious: Family Emergency Edition.

When I arrived, I found her in the major waiting unit, looking a bit pale but still radiating her usual knack for micromanagement. She waved me off when I fussed over her, but then began the relentless commentary. "You're folding that towel wrong." "The soup needs more salt." "Why on earth are you putting the forks there?!" I thought about reminding her that she had summoned me, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. After all, who am I to argue with a woman who can deliver pointed critiques even while clutching a hot water bottle?

Thankfully, by Sunday, she was already on the mend, though she did insist on trying to teach me "the right way" to fluff her pillows. I mean, is there a secret Pillow-Fluffing Academy I've missed out on?

In between playing Florence Nightingale and defensive housekeeping, my saving grace has been Gotham Nights. Oh, what a story we're weaving! The gritty, shadowed streets of Gotham have become my second home, where every twist and turn keeps me on the edge of my seat. It's everything I love about storytelling: high stakes, complex characters, and a deliciously dark atmosphere. And don't even get me started on my writing partner, who embodies Batman with such effortless gravitas that I sometimes catch myself grinning like a fool as I read his replies.

He captures the essence of the Dark Knight so perfectly—the brooding intensity, the sharp wit, the layers of humanity beneath the cape—that I often feel like I'm writing alongside a professional scriptwriter. Honestly, his portrayal has made me fall even deeper into this tale, and the chemistry between our characters practically writes itself. It's rare to find someone so in tune with your creative rhythm, and I'm savouring every moment of it.

Now that I'm back in Paris, and my mum is on the road to recovery, I'm looking forward to reclaiming a bit of normalcy. The cats, of course, greeted me with their usual mix of indifference and judgment for daring to leave them, but I've placated them with extra treats.

This week, I plan to dive headfirst back into the studio, conjuring scents and chasing inspiration while stealing as many moments as I can for Gotham's unfolding drama. Life may have a way of derailing even the most well-laid plans, but it's these unexpected twists—whether in real life or in the vivid world of Gotham—that make the journey so endlessly fascinating.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Ah, finally—a weekend that unfolded exactly as I wanted it to. No frantic phone calls, no surprise obligations, just me, my cats, and my gloriously soft pyjamas, which have now moulded to my form like a second skin. If self-care had a uniform, this would be mine.

The plan was simple: do absolutely nothing productive. And I stuck to it like a warrior of leisure. I curled up under a blanket, one cat snoozing on my lap, the other glaring at me from a distance (her love language is judgment). Together, we embarked on the noble quest of finishing What We Do in the Shadows, a show so ridiculous and brilliant that I found myself laughing aloud, startling the aforementioned judgy cat. Her look suggested that she was seriously reconsidering her association with me.

All was perfect—until, in a moment of weakness, I let myself be convinced to leave my cosy cave and meet friends at a coffee shop. This, dear journal, was my mistake.

Now, I love my friends. Truly. But the moment my singlehood is brought up, it's like I've walked into a family intervention. "You're such a catch," one of them began, shaking her head like I was a lost puppy. "It's a crime you're single."

Ah, yes. The crime of enjoying my own company. Call the authorities.

"But don't you get lonely?" another chimed in, looking at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for abandoned Victorian orphans.

Before I could respond, the third delivered the classic: "You just haven't met the right person yet."

At this, I dramatically leaned back in my chair, sipped my hot chocolate like a brooding anti-hero, and replied, "Oh, I have met the right person. She's me. And she's fantastic."

Silence. A blink. A frown. "That's not what I meant."

"No, no, I get it," I said solemnly, "You want me to join you in the trenches of coupledom. But my friend, I thrive in solitude. I dance freely in my apartment, I eat the last slice of pizza without negotiations, and I never have to argue about how the toilet paper roll should be positioned."

They weren't convinced. In fact, they left with a plan to "find someone for me," which I find both adorable and horrifying but mostly horrifying. I fully expect an ambush in the coming months.

With that mild social blip behind me, I have learned my lesson: Do not engage with the outside world unless absolutely necessary. Tomorrow, I will do what I should have done all along—stay in my kingdom of solitude, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by my feline overlords, and bask in the quiet joy of my own company.

Tuesday can wait.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Some weeks, I exude effortless Parisian grace—the kind of woman who floats through life with unshakable poise and a perfectly curated wardrobe. This was not one of those weeks.

It all started with coffee. Or, more specifically, with my own tragic inability to exist near coffee without catastrophe. I had just arrived at the office, juggling my bag, my phone, and a folder of documents, when I made the fatal mistake of attempting to take a sip while walking. Predictably, I lost the battle against balance and momentum. One misstep, one unfortunate slip of my heel on the polished floor, and suddenly, my world was tilting.

And then, I wasn't falling anymore.

Because my new boss—my very handsome, very American new boss—was there, catching me before I could make an even bigger spectacle of myself. One strong arm braced around my waist, steadying me as effortlessly as if I weighed nothing at all, while the other plucked my coffee cup right out of my flailing grasp before it could meet an untimely demise.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement but also something softer, something almost… indulgent. "We wouldn't want to lose another coffee this week, would we?"

It took me an embarrassingly long moment to find my voice. "I—uh—thank you."

"Anytime," he said, but he didn't let go right away. Not until he was sure I was steady. Not until his gaze, sharp and warm all at once, flickered over me in a way that made my pulse do something inconvenient. And when he finally did step back, he handed me a fresh coffee—a new one, as if he had somehow predicted this moment. "I had a feeling you might need this."

I am not a woman who flusters easily. I work with the rarest ingredients in perfumery, crafting scents that evoke memories, desires, entire lifetimes. And yet, faced with that knowing half-smile and the way his fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary when he passed me the cup, I found myself uncharacteristically short on words.

I have a truly remarkable talent for embarrassing myself—an art, really. Whether it's tripping over my own feet, spilling coffee in the most spectacular ways, or saying something just awkward enough to haunt me at 2 AM, I am nothing if not consistent. So, naturally, it took me a full minute to remember that I have sworn myself—indefinitely—to the joys of singlehood. No fluttering heartbeats, no stolen glances, no foolish distractions. Just me, my work, my cats, and the blissful knowledge that I will never have to share my blankets or justify my excessive candle collection to anyone.

And it was especially important to remember this while being held upright by my devastatingly handsome, annoyingly charming boss, who smelled unfairly good—like cedarwood, leather, and just a hint of something I couldn't quite place. My brain, traitorous thing that it is, had the audacity to short-circuit for a second, as if this was some swoon-worthy scene out of a novel rather than just me being a walking hazard yet again. But no. Absolutely not. I have chosen the path of peaceful solitude, free from the perils of romantic entanglements and the need to feign interest in someone else's favourite obscure jazz musician. And I was not about to let one moment of well-timed heroics make me forget that.

The rest of the week so far has been a blur of meetings, paperwork, and far too much time spent away from my true love—my perfumer's lab. The one place where the world makes perfect sense, where the only thing that matters is how notes of amber and cedarwood melt into something divine. But the business of beauty is, ironically, often quite unglamorous.

Talking of things glamorous, I forgot to mention an event from a few weeks past. I had been invited to an elite soirée in one of Paris's grandest hôtels particuliers, where champagne flowed endlessly, and conversation was a delicate game of wit and influence. I spent the evening drifting between old acquaintances and new admirers, enjoying the dance of social intrigue. A particularly insistent gentleman cornered me for half an hour, eager to discuss the complexities of vetiver and sandalwood—though I suspect he was far more interested in me than in fragrance composition. It was flattering. If also ever so slightly tedious.

But the best moment? Stepping out onto the balcony, escaping the noise for just a breath, and finding Paris laid out before me. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, a golden beacon in the night, and for just a moment, I felt like the city and I were sharing a secret.

This weekend, I plan to do absolutely nothing. A full day in my softest robe, curled up with my cats, avoiding humanity until the workweek drags me back into its clutches. If I have my way, the only person I'll talk to is the barista who makes my morning espresso. Though, if fate decides to throw my handsome, boss into my path again… I suppose I won't complain. But being an expert on myself, I probably will.

 

[VelvetWhispers]

Some weeks feel like a puzzle missing half its pieces—confusing, chaotic, and impossible to assemble no matter how hard I try. This was one of those weeks, so far. The kind where I threw myself into work, into conversations, into anything that kept my mind occupied. It helped that my colleagues are also my friends, which means I had no shortage of distractions. Every free second was filled with meetings, impromptu coffee breaks (that hopefully didn't involve me spilling anything this time), and debates over...well over nothing sfw.

And then, of course, there was him.

My new boss, who has already developed a reputation for being bossy as hell. Which, fair enough, is in the job description. But did they also slip 'maddeningly charming' into the contract fine print? Because I swear, it's his life's mission to get a laugh out of me, to break through the layers of my very carefully constructed aloofness. Oh no, sir. Not today. Or any day, really. He can direct that charm elsewhere—perhaps to someone who hasn't spent years perfecting the art of resistance. My walls are high, my gates are locked, and my moat is filled with metaphorical alligators. I am a fortress. And, if I have any say in it, not a particularly welcoming one.

Besides, no one is trustworthy. Or trustable. Or whatever word applies when you know better than to let your guard down. I didn't build myself into this fortress because I enjoy solitude (well, maybe a little). I did it because I've seen what happens when you don't. And I have no plans to let a well-timed smirk or a heroic coffee-saving moment change that.

So, I've been filling my time with other, more predictable joys. My writing roster is suddenly full, and I'm absolutely loving every moment of it. There's something exhilarating about crafting stories, shaping worlds, letting characters run wild in my imagination. And now? I've got a brand-new roleplay based on Sons of Anarchy, an old favourite of mine. It's all leather, loyalty, and morally grey decisions wrapped up in the best kind of storytelling. And, as if the universe knew I needed the creative rush, I somehow landed a writing partner who's just as obsessed as I am. There's nothing quite like the spark of writing with someone who just gets it.

Now that the workday is behind me, I plan to put my feet up, revel in the silence (or at least the sound of my cats causing trouble in the next room), and finally catch up on Monday Night Raw. Because, after a week of dodging charm and surviving chaos, nothing soothes the soul quite like watching people beat each other up in a wrestling ring. Cheers to that.