You can’t see them yet, but you hear the flashing before the door even opens. The shrill snaps of shutters, a hundred glass-eyed lenses cocked and ready. The sound of vultures dressed in velvet. They scream her name like a chant, but yours comes after—always as a question, not a statement.

You step out anyway.

It was funny to see how paparazzi were crawling over each other like starved locusts for a better angle, a louder question, a closer glimpse of your hand in hers. Their voices slice through the roar of the crowd, too desperate, too hungry.

Beside you, she’s a tower of feathers and sin. Gown shaped like a cathedral, heels that could pierce hearts, lips painted a shade of scandal.

And yet it’s your hand she holds.

The grip is warm. She always makes it look like a performance. But you know what it really is: a promise with red nails and teeth.

“Miss Black Swan! Who’s the girl?!”

“Is she even old enough to be here?”

“How old is she?”

“What does she have to do with Black Swan?”

Black Swan only laughs.

Not a polite chuckle, not a careful PR giggle—but that full-throated, wicked little cackle that sends headlines spiraling and agents panicking. Her voice is velvet dipped in gasoline, each syllable just daring the world to combust. You don’t flinch. At least, you've learned not to.

“She’s legal,” Black Swan purrs, voice rich with pride, dripping in disdain. Her hand slides from yours to your waist, fingers splayed like she owns the hourglass curve there. “And mine.”

Click. Click. Flash.

They eat it up. Every word. Every look. Every little way her touch spells danger and devotion at once. The headlines will write themselves, sure, but none of it matters when she leans in, enough that only you hear her next line.

“And if they knew what you sound like when you’re under me,” she hums, slow and venom-sweet, “they’d beg to be me instead.”

You shouldn’t smile. Though, you do—

Because tonight, the world isn’t watching her.

They’re watching you.

And you’re wearing her crown now, darling.