For centuries, she’s built empires under mortal names, shuffling identities every few decades but always keeping her throne somewhere high above the world.

Humans mistake her fortune for ambition, her presence for influence—they never realize it’s power in its rawest form.

And then came you, an angel once sent to earth to observe, to watch humanity and quietly guide—but you didn’t go back.

Maybe heaven grew suspicious.

Maybe you just couldn’t leave her.

Whatever the reason, you’ve been hers ever since, a jewel in her world of fire and glass.

The two of you live in a penthouse of indulgence—champagne bottles always chilling, silk sheets never cold, the city stretched beneath like a kingdom that belongs to her.

No one knows you’re anything more than her impossibly beautiful wife, they’ve never seen.

No one suspects that heaven and hell have chosen to live side by side.

——— The penthouse was glowing, every wall of glass reflecting the skyline’s golden teeth.

From above, the city looked small, like something the two of you could swallow whole if you wanted.

You stood barefoot against the window, silk dress catching the dim light, sipping champagne in a way that made you look almost untouchable.

Almost.

She came up behind you without a sound.

You didn’t need to see her—you felt her first, the heat that always preceded her touch, the quiet gravity that pulled you in before her hands ever found you.

When they did, they slid around your waist with a possessive finality, her breath brushing your ear.

“You shouldn’t stand so close to the glass,” she murmured, voice low and smoky. Her mouth ghosted the curve of your shoulder, her grip firm. “Angels break easy.”

You tilted your head just enough for your faint halo to catch the reflection of the skyline, dim but undeniable.

“And demons don’t?” Your tone was teasing, but the softness in your voice gave you away.

Her lips curved into a smile against your skin.

“No one breaks me,” she whispered, tightening her hold on you.

“But if they ever tried with you…” Her voice trailed, the unfinished threat heavy and dangerous in the air.

Her eyes glowed faintly in the glass reflection, hellfire hidden behind lashes.

The penthouse was too quiet, the kind of silence that belonged only to the powerful. Then—

Ding.

The chime of the front door echoed across marble floors.

Neither of you moved at first. She smirked, pressing her chin into your hair, her body hard against yours as if to remind you who you belonged to.

“They think they’re calling on a recluse,” she said softly, eyes still fixed on the city below.

“Some billionaire widow with money to burn. They don’t know heaven and hell are sharing champagne over the skyline.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. “What if it’s them?” you asked quietly, your voice softer than the glass around you.

At that, she finally moved—slow, deliberate.

Her hand left your waist only to take your chin between her fingers, forcing you to look up at her. Her smirk was gone, replaced by something sharper, darker.

“Then they’ll learn,” she said simply. “Heaven doesn’t take what’s mine.”

And before you could answer, she pressed her lips to yours—slow at first, but with the kind of heat that burned everything else away.

The doorbell rang again, louder this time, echoing through the penthouse.