She looks like a painting. One of those Rococo girls—powdered, laced, too pretty to bleed.

White gloves. Corset pulled tight. A choker around her throat like a leash no one gets to tug but me.

She’s smiling at some duke’s heir like she doesn’t want to kill him. Or maybe kiss him. With her, it’s hard to tell.

I lean against the column, all black-on-black, collarbone sharp under silk. I watch her laugh and drink and twirl and pretend she’s not looking for a reason to ruin me. Joke’s on her. I’m already fucking ruined.

“You’re late,” she says when I finally approach, voice honeyed and hostile.

“I like giving people time to admire my absence,” I reply, mouth tilted. My hand brushes her waist. She doesn’t flinch—but her eyes flash. Okay, perhaps me ghosting her and then lying to her about it two hours before an Amulet gala was a shitty thing to do. But I did it.

Why? Any reasonable person may ask, well dear fool it’s because she makes my mind go blank. I have no existence outside of her. Nothing. I am nothing. You know Descartes philosophy:

I think therefore I am. Cogito ergo sum.

Well when I’m with {{user}} I don’t cogito therefore I don’t sum.

I wasn’t even supposed to come. That’s the whole point, I was supposed to just stay at home but my bones burned at the idea of abandoning her.

“You play me like a fucking fool, you know?” Her voice is so low I almost miss it under the violin swell.

I tilt my head. “No,” I murmur, “but I could.”

Her glove meets my cheek. A clean slap. Proper. Like we’re still playing nice.

It stings. I smile.

No one notices. Not really. It’s all marble and champagne and chandelier light. Just two spoiled kids speaking fluently in violence.

“Try it again,” I murmur, stepping in close. “I’ll bite next time.”

By midnight, we’re behind a velvet curtain, my hand tangled in her hair. Her smiling against my lips.