Coulter Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

The ballroom was saturated with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume, but for you, the room ceased to exist the moment you saw her standing by the velvet curtains. Coulter was watching the dancers with a detached, analytical gaze, her navy blue gown shimmering like the night sky under the crystal chandeliers. When she caught you watching her, she didn't look away; instead, she walked toward you with an effortless, fluid grace that made the surrounding crowd seem to blur into insignificance. There was an unspoken magnetism between you, a tension that felt like the quiet moment before a conductor raises her baton. You spent the rest of the evening in the alcove, away from the prying eyes of the gala, discussing the hidden motifs in forgotten concertos and the way certain melodies feel like memories. She found in you a listener who heard more than just the notes, someone who understood the silence between them. Now, she often invites you to her cases in court, where she stands on the podium and lets her eyes find yours amidst the sea of spectators, the desecration of the accused specifically for you. The ambiguity of your bond grows with every performance, a secret harmony that neither of you dares to name, yet both of you fear to break.