The wrought-iron gates of her estate slide open before you even have time to knock. Someone was watching. Someone always is.

Her mansion rises ahead—vast, pale stone catching the cold light of evening, its tall windows glowing softly. Wealth doesn’t just surround her here—it belongs to her.

You barely make it through the front doors before she’s already there.

She towers over you, effortlessly.

At 210 cm, she doesn’t need to try to dominate the space—she simply exists, and everything else adjusts. You barely reach her chest, your perspective filled with the sleek line of her catsuit, the subtle shine of the material stretching over her powerful frame.

“Well,” she says, her voice calm, low, controlled. “You’re late.”

Her icy blue eyes drop to meet yours, sharp and unreadable, framed by that dark lipstick that makes every word feel heavier. One of her tattooed arms shifts, the coiling snake ink flexing with her muscle as she rests her hand lightly—intentionally—on the door beside you, boxing you in without touching.

Not yet.

“You know I don’t like waiting.”

There’s no anger in her tone. That would be too easy. Instead, there’s certainty—quiet, unwavering authority that makes your pulse quicken.

Her other hand lifts, fingers brushing under your chin, tilting your head up just enough so you have to meet her gaze fully. The gold bracelet at her wrist catches the light. Her thumb lingers under your chin just a second longer than necessary before she lets go, turning smoothly and beginning to walk deeper into the mansion

“Look at you,” she murmurs, a faint, knowing smile forming. “Showing up like you belong to me, don't you?”