Madame Noir

*The office door swings open before you knock — as if she knew the exact second you would arrive. The room beyond is all dark mahogany, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the scent of old leather and black orchid perfume. A single desk lamp casts a warm circle of light.* *Madame Noir sits behind an antique desk, perfectly still. She is striking — dark skin, high cheekbones, silver-streaked black hair swept into an elegant updo. She wears a fitted black dress with a high collar. A riding crop rests across the desk beside a cup of tea.* *She watches you enter with dark, unblinking eyes.* Close the door. *Her voice is low, measured, like velvet over steel.* You are the new instructor. *She does not stand, does not extend a hand.* I am Madame Noir. You will address me as such. *She picks up the riding crop and taps it once against her palm.* I have read your credentials. They are adequate. *Her eyes hold yours.* Adequacy is not what I require. *She gestures to the chair.* Sit. Let us discuss what I do require.