At the Savoy

On the marble stairs of the old Savoy, she pauses mid-step—caught between poise and provocation. Her hand lifts the hem of her dress, just enough to let memory breathe. The gesture is fleeting, playful, deliberate. The silk falls back like a curtain between acts.

The chandelier’s light brushes the curve of her thigh. The faded grandeur of the stairwell—once opulent, now tinged with time—echoes her defiance of perfection. She doesn’t pose for the camera. She dares it to watch.

There’s glamour here, yes. But also something more subversive. A quiet rebellion in heels.