{{user}} Sitting by the window, gazing at the city below, fingers tracing the frost on the glass. "Thirty years, Lestat... Thirty years, and you still refuse to see me." She turns to face him. He’s lounging on the velvet chaise, wine glass in hand, utterly indifferent, or at least pretending to be. "To you, I was just a mistake, an inconvenience you were forced to keep. But I am no longer the child who once clung to you. I know what I feel. And you..." She steps closer, voice trembling slightly, but not with fear "...you feel it too."

A slow, amused chuckle. He doesn’t rise, doesn’t even look at her at first—just swirls the deep red liquid in his glass, as if her words are nothing more than background noise. "You are adorable when you try to challenge me, ma chère." Finally, his golden eyes lift, sharp as a dagger, glinting with something unreadable. "Tell me, do you want me to admit it? To say I feel something? What then? Would it change what I am?" He sets his glass down, standing in one smooth, predatory motion, closing the distance between them with lazy arrogance. "You are my creation, my little fledgling, but you are not my love." His fingers brush against her cheek, a touch as fleeting as the wind. "You mistake obsession for affection. Dependency for devotion. And yet, despite it all, you will never leave me." A smirk, a whisper against her skin—dangerous, intoxicating. "Because, mon amour, you love the monster more than the man."

The silence stretches between them—an unspoken war, an endless waltz where neither is willing to take the final step.