Collection: Louche Milieu

The palette of moneyed decadence is never loud, it murmurs. Walls the color of a well-aged Sauternes, stained by cigar smoke and secrets. Velvet so deep it’s less a shade than an absence of light, burgundies that whisper bad decisions and greens that smirk you can’t afford me. The gold isn’t gilded; it’s tarnished just so, like the regrets of the people who lean against the bar. And the dim, amber glow? That’s not lighting it’s a moral fog, but they’d already left in a Bentley.