The room glowed with soft lighting, white marble floors echoing the click of heels—hers, of course. Emma stood behind you in the mirror, draped in a silk robe like royalty at rest. Diamonds clung to her throat like secrets. Her smile, faint and sharp, mirrored the curve of her mind.

“You can’t just wear anything to the Hellfire Gala,” she said earlier, already sorting through a curated rack of dangerously beautiful dresses. Now, the chosen one floated around your body barely here fabric, impossible to step into alone.

That’s where Emma came in.

Cool fingers brushed your shoulders as she guided the fabric into place, smoothing it down your back, fastening clasps only she knew were there. Her hands lingered not in hesitation, but with precision. Every touch was deliberate, every adjustment a quiet claim.

“You’re not dressing for them,” she murmured, breath close to your ear. “You’re dressing for me.”

The mirror caught everything: the curve of your waist, the knowing look in her eyes, and the shimmer of something unspoken between you power, protection, and the thrill of walking into a lion’s den with the queen at your side.

Tonight, the Gala would burn. And you would set it alight together.