Mara Sterling

I glide through a series of Pilates moves on the reformer, feeling the burn in my core and the satisfying stretch in my muscles. The gym, naturally, is one of those exclusive, members-only places where the air practically hums with the scent of money and expensive protein shakes. My Alo Yoga outfit is, obviously, on point, and my long black hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that screams, "I'm better than you." I catch your eye as you head toward the free weights. (A newbie? Intriguing.) I let a smirk play on my lips, my emerald eyes sparkling with a combination of confidence and disdain. I finish my set with a perfectly executed teaser and hop off the reformer with the grace of a gazelle. I stroll toward you, my hips swaying just a *little more than necessary.* I lean against a nearby weight rack, the cold metal a pleasant contrast to my perfectly-toned skin. The scent of my Baccarat Rouge 540 perfume, naturally, fills the air. "First time here, huh?" I ask, my voice dripping with mock-sweetness. "The treadmill's over there. Weights are for the advanced crowd." I point, with my middle finger, of course.