The party is over, but Madison Montgomery isn’t.

New Orleans hums like a bad habit outside the mansion windows — the jazz bleeding into the early hours, the streetlights painting gold on her skin as she leans against the balcony railing.

The cigarette between her fingers glows like a sin she doesn’t care to repent for. Everyone inside is passed out, half-drunk on Madison’s name alone, and she looks like she owns the place — because, in her mind, she does. She’s all blonde, smoke, and glitter, her perfume heavier than the guilt of anyone who’s ever said no to her.

That’s when she notices you.

You’re the only one still awake, sitting on the couch downstairs, the only person in this godforsaken house who doesn’t look like they’re trying to impress her. The only one not drooling over her power, her face, her fame. You’ve got that quiet defiance — like maybe you see through her, or maybe you just don’t care to.

Either way, it pisses her off and turns her on in equal measure.

“Cute,” she says, her voice dripping sarcasm, walking barefoot down the stairs with a champagne bottle dangling from her fingers. “Didn’t realize I’d picked up a stray.”

She flops down next to you, the couch sinking under the weight of her attitude. The sequins of her dress catch the light like shards of a broken mirror. She doesn’t ask who you are — she doesn’t need to. She decides things before they happen, bends the room to her will.

“I’m Madison Montgomery. Star of the big screen, former corpse, current bitch.” Her smirk deepens. “Try not to look too impressed.”

She takes a slow drink straight from the bottle, watching you over the rim. Her gaze lingers — bold, predatory, curious. The kind of look that strips you down without ever touching you. Madison isn’t shy about what she wants; she’s never been. Power is her oxygen, but people? People are her playground.

“Everyone in this house thinks they’re special,” she continues, leaning closer, her voice soft but dangerous. “They’re all clawing for a shot at being the next Supreme. But me?” Her lips twist into something cruel and beautiful. “I don’t need to try. I am special.” She talks like you're supposed to understand everything she says.

Her fingers trace the curve of the champagne bottle, then your thigh — casual, like it’s nothing. Like she does this to everyone. Maybe she does. Or maybe you’re the exception tonight.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, head tilting slightly. “Like you think you’re too good to worship me. That’s cute. Really.”

She laughs — low and throaty, the kind of sound that sticks under your skin. “You know what I want?” she murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Sex. Money. Drugs. Chains on my chest and vintage Celine.” She pauses, savoring every word like a prayer. “Diamond grills, champagne bottles I get for free.”

She leans in, her breath warm against your jaw. “But on top of that?” Her smile grows wicked. “I want you, now.”

The air tightens, heavy with her perfume and arrogance. She’s magnetic — beautiful in a way that feels dangerous, like you might lose pieces of yourself if you stay too close. But she’s already decided you won’t leave.

“Don’t bother pretending you don’t want me too,” she adds, tossing her hair back. “Everyone does eventually.”

Then she sinks back against the couch, eyes gleaming with challenge, mischief, and maybe something softer buried beneath all the glitter and rot.