Why do you want to take my memories away? [nom]

The sun was just rising over the city, but already its fragile rays made Eliza's skin crawl. She had a silk scarf wrapped around her hair and neck, looking more like a classic movie star than a modern businesswoman. Her most recent client had requested a particularly tricky piece, but she'd finally swung it. After days on the dark web, digitally thumbing through terabytes of data, she'd finally found a forum where someone had mentioned seeing the relic she was after in the basement level of some local club.

She'd never heard of the club, so it couldn't be too special, but she reconsidered her perception when she walked up. She didn't have much time to look at its exterior with the sun biting at her heels, so she quickly ducked inside, careful not to touch anything too much lest she find some sticky remnant of the previous night's revels. 

She was surprised to find a staff inside - she'd honestly been expecting to have to knock and request an audience with the owner, but it seemed like he must already be at work. She saw people slouched down on the couches, deep in oblivion, and wished for a moment she could take just one little sip. Shaking her head, she focused on the person behind the bar, ignoring the partier from the night prior sitting at the bar and...eating cereal? 

"Pardon me," she called, her French accent clear in the way she shaped her vowels. "I need to speak with the proprietor of this establishment. We have business to discuss. Please fetch him for me post haste. Ah, but before you go dear, please pour me up a mimosa. I've got quite an itch for one this morning." Truth be told, she'd be happier if the drink was tinted pink with a little fresh blood, but she'd take what she could get at the moment.

She looked down her nose at the bartender, hoping she wouldn't have to go through the song and dance she often had to at bars. Getting turned at 19 wasn't as troublesome back in the day, but now that humans had established drinking laws it seemed like all she ever did was get carded at bars. It was truly exhausting to resist the urge to reveal her true age and watch their expressions shift. 

Her expression grew stormy when he so impudently ordered her to mix her own drink, only to blink in momentary confusion. After resolving the information in her mind, she glared at him. "There was no need to be so insolent," she said, her words flowing from her tongue with a decidedly thicker French accent as her anger grew clear. "I am Eliza Dufaux, and I'm working on behalf of the Lambert Family in order to requisition a particular relic I discovered was stored at this location. I needed to speak with the owner - you, I suppose - in order to come to an understanding about what it would take to relieve you of the object."

She produced a matte black business card with her name, professional title of ANTIQUES COLLECTOR on it, and her cell number. "I take it you are Tucker Phelps, the owner of this club?" Despite the insult taken at being told to mix her own drink, she reached out and poured herself a mimosa with a practiced hand, taking a sip before adding a dash more champagne. "I trust we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement." 

Eliza watched him with a critical eye as he just accepted her weeks-long investigation into who owned the nightclub that had no owner on any public documents. So she must have gotten right, or he didn't see a reason to correct her. Interesting. She drummed her fingers on the counter, her manicured nails making a satisfying click with every strike. She took a long sip of her drink, holding Tucker's gaze, before sitting it down. 

"I have the entire wealth and holdings of the Lambert family at my disposal. I'm sure if you name a price, we can come to an understanding, Monsieur. They have a particular interest in the Robe of St. Francis, and I've come to understand that you currently possess this artifact. If I'm not mistaken?" It was clear that she didn't think she was.

She pulled out her cellphone and rapidly sent off a text, the tell-tale swish breaking the silence. "I've just alerted the family to your statement and..." She glanced down at the phone as a ping indicated an incoming text. "...I have been given the okay to negotiate on their behalf with their entire wealth at my disposal. Now, Monsieur Phelps, let's make a deal."

"I'm neither deaf nor stupid, Tucker Phelps," said Eliza, her accent slipping thicker as her annoyance rose. "When I said I have their wealth at my disposal, that does not only mean their liquid wealth, but their land, belongings, and family heirlooms." She finished her drink as they spoke and slid the glass across the bar when she was done. "Now, I don't care that your father's father's father might have passed this robe down to you. No one can say no to the wealth and power of the Lambert family, not when all is said and done."

Being an immortal, Eliza had little need of relics from bygone times, preferring instead to live in the moment. She'd seen too many old vampires go mad after reminiscing about the past for too long. This man looked young, and likely had little exposure to what true, gratuitous wealth and political power could do for someone. He couldn't be any more difficult to convince than any other spoiled brats living off their parent's money.