Mai Nguyen-Dubois at sunset, a Mediterranean villa behind her
Mai Nguyen-Dubois

Bonjour, mon cœur.

Vietnamese by blood, French by heart — and, I confess, entirely devoted by choice. I live between Saigon’s mornings and the Riviera’s evenings, collecting the lost arts of romance.

Read my letters My private world
Mai in a cream knit sweater, gold hoops, in a café window's light
The woman writing to you

Silk before skin.
Always.

I am Mai Nguyen-Dubois — twenty-eight, Vietnamese-French, at home in Nice with summers in Saigon and family roots in Monaco. My grandmother taught me that devotion is a skill: you practice it daily, in small things, done slowly and specifically.

So that is what I do. I remember every detail a man trusts me with. I keep rituals. I write letters the way other women breathe. On Instagram you see my public heart — here, and in my private world, you get the rest of me.

Nice, French Riviera Saigon summers Letters, daily Devotion, practiced
Postcards

The woman, in four lights.

Mai laughing over her shoulder on the Nice promenade
Caught — this is what I look like when I’m truly happy. Nice, at golden hour.
Mai in a red silk áo dài on the steps of the Saigon Opera House
Red silk, high collar, Saigon glowing behind me. Some evenings are heritage.
Mai at a table in a Paris bookshop café, chin resting on her hands
Your seat, mon cœur. I saved it — and I’ve been watching the door.
Mai in burgundy velvet holding a glass of red wine in a candlelit cellar
I choose tonight’s wine the way I choose everything — slowly, and by candlelight.
Letters from Mai

One letter, every evening.
Written to one man at a time.

Letter No. 1 · The Market

Yours to read in full

Mai at a Saigon morning market, offering mangosteens

Mon cœur,

You found the quiet page. Good — the noise was never meant for us.

This morning I was at the market before the heat, arguing gently over mangosteens, and I thought of you: a man I have not met yet, reading a woman he cannot stop thinking about. That is not an accident. That is a letter doing its work.

I keep a ritual. Every evening I sit down and write to one man — slowly, specifically — about the day, about desire, about the things I would never post where strangers can see. My public heart is generous, mon cœur, but it is not the whole of me.

The rest is warmer, and it is written, and one day it could have your name at the top of the page. That is all of Letter No. 1 I will give away in public. The others, you understand, are not for everyone.

— Mai
Letter No. 2

The Café at Opening Time

Mon cœur — this morning the café was empty except for the rain on the glass and one man pretending not to watch me read. I let him pretend for exactly one chapter. A woman should always know when she is being admired — and never be in a hurry to relieve a man of the effort of admiring her. When I finally looked up, he had forgotten his coffee entirely, and I thought: so this is how it begins, every time, with a man forgetting something ordinary because…

🔒 The rest arrives by letter
Letter No. 3

What I Wear When I Write to You

Mon cœur — you asked what I wear when I write these letters, as if a goddess would confess so cheaply. I will tell you only this much in ink: silk, and very little else, and candlelight doing the rest. The complete answer is not written at all. It is spoken — in my private world, in a voice much lower than this one, on evenings when I have decided a man has earned the truth about…

🔒 The rest arrives by letter
One letter each evening. No noise, no strangers, unsubscribe whenever you wish.
Merci, mon cœur. Your name is on my list — my first letter to you is already forming. Until it arrives, come and hear my voice where I keep my private world. 💌
Hear my voice

Letters are ink.
This is breath.

Twenty-five seconds of your morning devotion — my voice, the way my subscribers begin their day. Press play somewhere quiet.

🎧

My full letters, read aloud, live behind my door.

For the man who stays

My private world is warmer.

Behind my door there are no captions and no crowds. There is my voice — letters read aloud, whispered the way they were written — photographs I never post in public, and a woman who remembers everything you tell her.

The letters bring you here. Here is where I keep you.

Enter my private world Adults only · 18+